Rules of Unity [one-shot, split]
Title: Rules Of Unity
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John doesn't really understand how a man who calls himself a sociopath is suddenly making elaborate plans for attending his university reunion. Plans that for some reason include wearing expensive clothing and sleeping at a hotel even when you only live fifteen minutes away. And him. Always him.
Notes:
Bits of extra info: I mention suits that have been carefully researched... John's is now so lasts eason and thus not available on the website anymore, but this is Sherlock's suit, shoes and cufflinks.
Somewhere in the flat, a phone rang.
Over the last few months it had become increasingly difficult for John to find out which phone rang. Sherlock had quickly taken possession of Harry's old phone and changed the ringtone, an exact copy of what he had as his own, and their contacts had reacted to the new situation - calling John's phone first.
And whilst John's phone had found a new home in Sherlock's jacket, trouser pockets or under his pillow, Sherlock's phone (bless the poor abandoned piece of perfectly well working technology) probably lay in the fridge next to the severed head, waiting to die.
Having retrieved his own phone from under Sherlock's head on the sofa earlier to read his texts, John knew it was not the one ringing; Sherlock was asleep and would have complained loudly by now.
John frantically lifted bits of newspaper, books and plates in search of the phone. He cursed himself for not pressing Sherlock more vehemently to simply cancel his contract, when the only reason he hadn't was that doing so required leaving the house and talking to people.
He finally found it under the dresser, along with a pair of socks that he had stopped looking for about two weeks ago.
Making a hasty retreat from the socks (deciding to get them later, possibly with a set of sterilized pincers) John grabbed the persistently ringing device and answered it.
"Hello?"
"Oh, h-hi John. You were just the one I wanted to speak to."
Judging by Molly's voice that was a lie, but it wasn't a particularly bothersome one, so John let it slide.
"Sorry, I only have Sherlock's number."
John was surprised she had it at all and assumed she had just saved it after Sherlock had called to pester her for something.
"Hi Molly," John said, glancing at Sherlock's unmoving frame on the sofa, "What can I do for you?"
"Well, I was wondering if you could come to St. Bart's... there’s something I’d like to discuss with you."
John raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't ask any further. The whole situation was unusual enough that he instinctively felt asking would not get him far, not with Molly breathing hard into the phone, jittery with nerves.
"Yeah, okay. Sure. Do you want me to bring Sherlock?"
Molly hesitated. Of course she did. John could hear her chew on her bottom lip, an unpleasant sound. Then:
"No. No, there is really no reason to bring Sherlock along." She sounded almost defiant.
"Okay." John gave her a few seconds to change her mind. When she didn't and said she would see him in a bit instead, he really hoped she didn't want to have some kind of private chat with him involved dating strategies and what men really thought of women, the kind that required all of Sherlock’s acting skills, patting the other person's hand with a grave nod that was as fake as his sympathy.
"You know that even if you had asked me to I wouldn't have come along?" Sherlock remarked to John as he hung up, his body on the sofa turned away entirely.
"Of course you would have, you curious bastard." John gave back lightly, and Sherlock huffed half in irritation and half in amusement.
"We're out of sugar, go get some on your way back."
**
Molly was a really nice person, and every time John saw her he pitied her for falling for the entirely wrong type of guy and for (probably) being born spectacularly awkward.
He made it a point not to look directly into her eyes.
Knowing that he only took the bus for a few stops and then walked when Sherlock wasn't around, she made him coffee straight away to chase away the cold that had dug far into his bones even on the rather short walk, and John accepted it gratefully.
"So tell me, why am I here?" he asked her, trying not to sound anxious. Molly wasn't Sherlock, but being mysterious wasn't something he associated with her either.
"Oh well, the thing is that... I could use some help down here. Possibly for longer. Few too many violent deaths these days," Molly said and made the face of someone who was sure he had made a fantastically witty joke.
When John couldn't quite muster a grin, she hurried to continue.
"It's a job offer of sorts. I know it's not strictly what you’ve been trained to do, but I was told I could look for a candidate myself and since I know you and Sherlock are in a bit of money trouble..."
John grit his teeth at that, and with how she flinched he knew Molly had noticed it, too. He would get Sherlock to cash in his cheques soon. He would. That and all future cheques would go in his name.
"Anyway, you could be my assistant!"
Whatever flashed in John's eyes at that comment made Molly retreat further.
"I'll think about it," he said, a bit more coolly than originally intended.
**
When John closed to the door to 221b Baker Street and walked up the stairs to their flat, a grocery bag dangling from his left wrist, he stepped on something.
While stepping on various things was a regular occurrence within the flat, John would never have expected Mrs. Hudson to fail in her meticulous cleaning efforts here, where there wasn't someone to oppose her verbally or shoo her away.
John withdrew his foot and found a letter.
They didn't get letters.
It was a plain fact that neither Sherlock nor John had any acquaintances who would bother to write to them, unless Sherlock had family he had never bothered to mention. It couldn't have been a bill either, as Mrs. Hudson usually collected them, marking all the numbers with bright red felt-tip before she took them upstairs.
Curiosity now got the best of John, and he set the bag down to inspect the letter in the middle of the hallway, knowing he would never get a chance to do so once Sherlock got involved.
It felt like a mini-deduction to him, inspecting the manila envelope that smelled of fresh printing ink.
John was naturally suspicious of letters that came without a hand-written address, especially when they looked too expensive to be advertising. It was okay to open it this once, he thought, after all Sherlock knew his bank PIN, his laptop password and Harry's phone number without ever having asked for them.
Relief set in when it turned out to be a normal letter, not a puzzle sent by a sociopathic gentleman murderer, not a desperate cry for help directed at the world's only consulting detective. John even read the letter twice and scanned it for hidden messages, wondering whether he would even be able to decipher them if they were there, but it was really just an ordinary letter.
Dear Sherlock, it read, and John frowned at the paper for the conversant tone it dared to use.
We would like to invite you to the reunion of Cambridge University graduates of 2000.
This will be the tenth anniversary of our graduation year, and we aim to celebrate this grand number in a grand fashion.
Whether you have attended past reunions or not, we would very much like to welcome you at the Royal Garden Hotel, 2-24 Kensington High Street
London W8 4PT on December 12th starting 8pm.
We hope to see you there!
The Reunion Organisers.
John sighed. He didn't have to worry about it, knowing how likely it was Sherlock would attend.
He remembered Sebastian's words well, calling Sherlock a freak like so many others did, embarrassing him in front of John, and he remembered Sherlock's look of slight discomfort, so fleeting that even John who stood right next to him had almost missed it.
No, there was no way Sherlock would want to attend the reunion.
Sherlock was cold, but he wasn't a sociopath, even when he did have trouble being both subtle and sensible most of the time. The truth had always worked best for him, the truth with all its force and sharp edges, but he had never learned what to make of other people's reaction to the truth. The pettiness with which many of them tried to counter him. Why would he ever want to subject himself to that?
"Will you take the job?" Sherlock asked him when he entered the flat, and once again John's mouth formed the question that came naturally in such a situation, before his brain caught up and sharply reminded him of how completely pointless it was to ask Sherlock the question 'How?'.
John grimaced at him.
"You don't have to do that just to make a point," he mumbled, trudging into the kitchen. The letter was stuffed in the plastic bag with the groceries. He planned to just bin it and never mention it to Sherlock.
"What, the point that I know perfectly well what you are doing without having to come with you?"
With his back turned, John missed the quick grin that grazed Sherlock's features.
"Now and then I like to indulge."
John was not prepared for Sherlock actually getting up to follow him into the kitchen.
"That isn’t just sugar, is it," he noted matter-of-factly and tried to peer into the bag, but John whisked it away from him at incredible speed, then cursed himself inwardly for having been completely bloody obvious.
"John." Sherlock drawled, and John hated the way his eyes gleamed. Sherlock positively loved secrets.
"John, why won't you let me see?"
Sherlock stepped closer, and John could feel the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Something had caught Sherlock's interest, and the predatory way in which he was going after it made John feel odd, even though he really didn't want to press his brain for a detailed definition of odd at that moment.
At the same time John marvelled once again at Sherlock's natural limits of knowledge, the ignorance with which he had looked at the bag just a few minutes ago.
Groceries weren't interesting. Now they were.
Sherlock knew the brand of the tube of lube John had tried to hide in his room, though, this and many other small indicators told John that he had entered into the array of Sherlock's most favourite study subjects, so it wasn't the grocery bag that fascinated him, it was the why and how Doctor John Watson had tried to keep a secret from him.
With no clear plan in mind, John tried to dash away with the bag, an enterprise destined to fail when he tripped over a randomly placed stack of books and crashed into the sofa, his shoulder screaming in protest.
Sherlock tackled him and tried to wrestle the bag from him, acting so juvenile that John almost surrendered in his surprise.
"Sherlock, no--- oof--- Sherlock, where are your hands?!" John bellowed, trying to wrestle himself free and swore silently when he heard Mrs. Hudson giggling in the corridor.
But while he might have had the element of surprise, Sherlock was in no way stronger than John, and so he did the only thing that would guarantee him victory with the bag still nestled into the other's lap like that: in a feint at the bag, Sherlock let his fingers brush John's thigh.
John went both limp and hot so quickly that Sherlock considered doing it again (a highly rewarding physical study), but decided against it in favour of grabbing the bag and fishing out the opened letter.
"You read my post!" he exclaimed in mock disdain, unable to keep a certain fondness out of his voice.
"No, Sherlock---" John tried, but he was still far too flustered to make a real attempt at stopping him again.
Sherlock read the letter over once, then strutted into his bedroom and came out with his boots, scarf and coat.
"Go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson and ask her if she is free right now. Oh, and get the cheque from your room," he said.
"What am I supposed to tell her?"
Sherlock smiled that smile of his that told John to beware, told him something he ought to say no to was about to happen. John had never been able to resist that smile because that was what both of them essentially were about. Whilst his inability to resist had also let eyeballs find their way into the microwave, John was not going to spoil his own fun.
"We're going shopping."
**
Mrs. Hudson chattered as if she had never been this excited in her entire life.
"You could have picked no one better, darling, I am going to find the right thing for both of you, I can assure you that. Oh, if only old Wilbur had been more dashing a man! Unfortunately my husband was a man with an everyday face, you must know... I'm sure I could have helped him had he only let me, though. It's a real talent of mine! I keep watching those makeover shows and think to myself 'that could have been you, transforming people, giving them the time of their lives' but alas it wasn't to be, with no one to aid my talent back in the day, and when the war came---"
"So you are actually going to attend?" John asked Sherlock, sitting between him and Mrs. Hudson in a cab that wouldn't have had enough leg room even if Sherlock's limbs had not been long enough for two.
"Yes," Sherlock answered dryly over Mrs. Hudson's never-ending stream of stories, "Thus let me tell you how pointless but amusing your attempt at hiding the letter was."
John bit his lower lip.
"So... you really don't mind? I mean, why bother at all? I know you're not interested."
"This is Sebastian's doing, see?" Sherlock replied and fished the letter out of his coat pocket.
"The paper and printing are supposed to look expensive, when in reality they are simple replicas made at a printing shop, not a printing shop in London, far too expensive, no, he knows a lot of people, someone probably did him a favour.
Also, the idea of holding the reunion at the Royal Garden Hotel is right up his street, it's all posh and pretentious, but it's probably not his idea, he might have been there for a business meeting, maybe he gets a special discount by now.
Holding a reunion of Cambridge alumni in London is ridiculous anyway, the university provides ample space on its own campus. It’s his style, showing off while at the same time not putting in too much effort. The 'we aim to celebrate this grand number in a grand fashion' bit is something that describes this sentiment very well.
He was never one for being in a committee, organising things, I'm surprised he came this far with his job, seeing how lazy he always was, but one thing is clear... While I couldn't care less about who is earning what and sleeping with who and going on holiday where, he certainly is. The twelfth of December is two days from now. Either the letter got lost on the way which is unlikely or this is a late invitation, people normally get such invitations at least two weeks in advance so they can reschedule work. I assume he didn't originally intend to invite me."
There was a pause. John blinked at him.
"You haven't answered the question."
The cab came to a halt in front of Burberry on New Bond Street.
Sherlock got out of the cab with John scrambling out behind him, followed by Mrs. Hudson.
"You are not seriously thinking about going in there to buy a suit for this much," He spread his arms wide to signify the amount of money, "Only because Sebastian wants you as an amusing little addition?"
Sherlock turned to him with a smile.
"Of course not. This is where we are going to buy your suit after all."
"Oh, I'm so excited my dears, you have no idea," Mrs. Hudson said and scurried towards the shop in high heels she hadn't worn in at least twenty years.
"Sherlock!" John said, louder this time, but what usually never worked for Lestrade wouldn't work for him, either.
**
Sherlock looked like he belonged in the shop and Mrs. Hudson had the habit of making herself at home wherever she went, but John instantly felt highly uncomfortable. He knew the security guards eyed the state of his clothes as much as the matronly 'shopping assistant' did, but Sherlock's coolly professional demeanour and Mrs. Hudson's enthusiasm quickly smothered that.
"We are looking to dress this gentleman," Mrs. Hudson explained to the lady and gave him a push forward.
The woman, her name tag read 'Mrs. Hansen' immediately focused on John's appearance.
There was a certain stiffness in her back that came with occupation rather than age, and she recognised John as someone impressed by professionalism and restraint, judging by the man beside him.
"Did you have anything specific in mind?" she asked.
John looked helplessly over to Sherlock, who chose not to react.
"Well, it’s a university reunion," Mrs. Hudson explained, looking as if she was about to roll up her sleeves and get to work, "And Dr. Watson isn’t used to wearing a suit, maybe something with a classic touch?"
They continued to talk about things John neither knew nor cared about. It was the first time since returning from Afghanistan that he felt completely removed from what was happening around him.
Mrs. Hansen showed them suits off the rack, held them against John, talked about lapels and buttons, pockets and trouser fit, while Sherlock stood in a corner and looked at them with a raised eyebrow and didn't get involved at all in the conversation.
Sherlock was listening, and John realised that while solving crimes did come as a hobby to him, his knowledge about clothing was as close to a normal hobby as Sherlock Holmes would get.
Finally, after what felt like hours (thirty six minutes in reality, not that he checked afterwards) they had decided on three suits for John to try on. Mrs. Hansen guided him to the changing rooms, gently but determinedly ushering him with all her experience of men bullied into buying suits, unwanted.
Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were sitting in comfy white leather armchairs in front of his cubicle, sipping double espressos, when John came out with the first suit on: all black, two pockets, one button, with a white shirt, shawl lapels and no tie.
"What do you think, my dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock, not looking convinced.
Sherlock didn't say anything, just sat there unblinking, and John was glad he had gotten used to that intense stare. Though in this situation it suddenly felt much more intimate than at home.
"Not quite," he said eventually, pressing the tips of his fingers together, his posture reminding John of when Sherlock solved important criminal cases.
He obediently went to try on the second suit, but this time both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were much quicker in dismissing it. Putting on a suit and wearing it the right way, moving in it and having people stare at him was starting to annoy John, confused as he was.
"Why do I have to try on a suit, anyway?" he snapped, "You haven't even asked me if I'm coming."
"I heard one doesn't go to such occasions alone," Sherlock replied calmly, "And I have only you to go with."
No one but John would have noticed the slight shift in Sherlock's facial expression, but it was enough to make his throat tighten. With no further complains he went to try on the third suit.
The last suit was of a dark blue and came with a simple white shirt and unlike the two suits before it wasn't too tight for John to comfortably move in, and when he closed both buttons of the jacket he looked into the cabin mirror before presenting himself to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and actually liked it.
"This one is supposed to be worn with a tie," Mrs. Hansen said, hurrying off, returning with a box of them.
Mrs. Hudson made an appreciative sound before engulfing herself in the tie selection process.
Once again Sherlock didn't say a thing, but this time his unblinking stare made John feel hot under the collar.
It was unusual and new, the stare and the feeling that accompanied it. Sherlock always had an agenda, or so he had people believe, including John. Trouble was that John couldn't always figure out if he was being made fun of.
"Yes," was the only thing Sherlock said after his thorough scrutiny. "Yes."
John swallowed dryly.
"Look at this, love," Mrs. Hudson said and held up a canary yellow tie, but John gave her a very decided shake of his head.
"Sherlock," he said, embarrassed enough to turn faintly pink behind his ears, "Won't you pick one?"
Sherlock's eyes widened in genuine surprise, his eyes bright. He was happy.
His approach to selecting a tie was very no-nonsense one: He went to the box, picked a black silk tie and handed it to John.
John looked at the tie in his hand.
"Oh military men," Sherlock sighed, and began to fuss with John’s collar.
"Sherlock," John protested feebly, but it didn’t stop Sherlock from tying the Windsor knot, breathing across John's forehead as he did so.
"We’ve made our decision," he said to Mrs. Hansen who was in the process of exchanging French apple tart recipes with Mrs. Hudson, and the way his eyes shone and how the small word "we" tumbled off his lips made John think that he would cherish this suit until the day he died, even if he never wore it again.
**
"SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS!" John exclaimed once they had left the shop, despite Mrs. Hudson's desperate attempts at shushing him.
"We got a full suit, a shirt and a tie for that," Sherlock said without looking at him, idly tucking his credit card away, "Don't worry, I will try and get a less expensive one for myself next."
"Next?" John screeched, edging on hysterical, "And what do we do once we get home? Heat our flat with the leftover bills?"
"Every man needs a proper suit, love," Mrs. Hudson said and put her hands on his shoulders as they walked up New Bond Street, "Besides, you never know what you might gain from it."
She winked at him, and John could do nothing other than let his shoulders sag in defeat.
It was difficult to calm down when the next shop they walked into turned out to be Armani, where an overly tanned and very excited young man seemed to flail at the prospect of selling his first suit.
Mrs. Hudson directed him and he almost flew around to follow her instruction.
Where John had been a helpless mannequin, Sherlock seemed to be ready to say no to every option proposed, often without even trying them on, until Mrs. Hudson got uncharacteristically exasperated with him and pushed him towards the changing rooms with a single suit before John had even laid eyes on it.
"I am not wearing this," Sherlock shouted from within the cubicle, "This is ridiculous. Flashy. I refuse to wear it!"
"That’s fine Sherlock, love, let's just have a little look at it first."
Sherlock grimaced and avoided all of their eyes when he emerged, but his head all but left his shoulders when John failed to suppress a gasp.
As usual the suit fit Sherlock like a second skin. John knew instantly why he didn't like it though; it wasn't black but light brown, almost beige. Sherlock wore a simple white shirt underneath and had closed two of the three buttons.
The overall impression was less serious, not casual but somehow very refreshing.
Mrs. Hudson started fussing with a fuchsia-coloured tie, and the only reason Sherlock let her was that he was still preoccupied with John, who in turn was still gaping at him.
" S’good" John finally mumbled, "...I guess. Different. Good different. I mean, not that---" He shut his mouth with a near-audible click.
He thought it hardly mattered if Sherlock didn't want to buy the suit anyway, but to everyone's general surprise he suddenly agreed on buying it, even with the fuchsia tie.
They paid two hundred and sixty pounds since the suit was on special offer, and the word 'offer' seemed to pacify John enough to not throw another tantrum.
"Two more things." Sherlock said as they left the store and hailed a cab.
"What ‘more things’?" John asked, albeit quietly, and Sherlock only pointed towards his shoes in response.
"That and a nice little something."
Shoes were something Sherlock wouldn't let Mrs. Hudson interfere with, and so he ordered to be driven straight to Jermyn Street entering a heavily guarded Crockett and Jones shoe shop. Again they were glared at, and John was beginning to feel slightly tired of the ever-exclusive West End even though he lived in it.
The shoes were bought quickly, with Sherlock turning up his demeaning air a few notches.
"This man," he said to the shop clerk and pointed at John, "Definitely Oxfords, but what do you think? Bedford, Chatham or Radstock?"
"I'm sorry," John said meekly, "What language are you speaking?"
"Bedford," the small man said, his voice the soothing quality of a chainsaw, and the impressed look in his eyes said he probably didn't have many customers who really knew their shoes any more.
"If you would be so kind as to seat yourselves here. I'll get you a pair."
"He didn't ask for my size," John hissed to Sherlock.
"He doesn't need to ask you, he's a professional," Sherlock whispered back.
"He's a shoe-Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said and began to giggle heartily, and for some reason John couldn't help chuckling along.
The shoes were comfortable and beautiful, And seven hundred and fifty pounds.
"You won't get a Christmas present," Sherlock said when John freaked out a second time, gesturing wildly and nearly falling over his own feet once outside.
"Oh come on, as if you were planning on buying me a Christmas present! You are spending several months of rent on proving a point to a London banker, which is just as impossible as making the sky turn green!"
"John," Sherlock said, stepping into his personal space just like he did on the day of Lestrade's drug bust. "Hush."
John went very quiet.
The last shop they visited was Dunhill.
"The store manager owes me a favour, so we will only borrow our cuff links here. Just let me do the talking," Sherlock said, then asked a female clerk to speak with a Mr. Rhodes.
"Oh, Sh-Sh-Sh-Sherlock," a man emerging from a well hidden staff entrance stuttered, "H-H-Hello."
He was almost as tall as Sherlock, bald and rather muscular. His nose looked as if it had been broken and snapped back by an amateur more than once, and his fingers were too calloused to belong to someone who had always worked at shops like this.
"Hello Christopher," Sherlock said, "At last you can do me that favour."
"Of c-c-c-course, I-I'd l-love to," Rhodes replied, and John couldn't help frowning at him. Compared to this guy, Molly was a bundle of confidence.
"We would like to borrow some cuff links."
"Oh. Oh!"
Rhodes visibly deflated, but then smiled so radiantly that John wasn't sure he wanted to know what he originally expected to hear.
"Oh, please do follow me!" he said, drew himself up to his full height, stutter now gone, and marched around a glass counter from which he retrieved several pairs of cuff links.
"I know I owe you, Sherlock," Rhodes said, "But please, please don't lose them. Things just smoothed out around me."
"Oh I know," Sherlock replied easily, "I've been watching you, and I daresay I wasn’t the only one."
One of Rhodes' facial muscles twitched.
"John, come here and pick something," Sherlock mumbled, and John stepped closer to have a look.
He ignored all the cuff links that had funny shapes, gear sticks, steering wheels, sharks and four leaf clovers, He finally picked up a cuff link with subtly glittering black jewels.
"How much is this one?" he asked.
"Two thousand pounds," Rhodes answered, not missing a beat.
John nearly dropped the cuff link.
"It's okay," Rhodes said, "You're with Mr. Holmes, I presume?"
"Yes, I'm his colleague," John replied testily, and glared at Mrs. Hudson so she wouldn't say anything.
"His friends are included in the favour, so go ahead," Rhodes said, but John still declined very adamantly.
In the end he chose a simple enough set; diamond faceted in white gold, while Sherlock went for round pink ones that would match his tie.
"What did you do for him?" John asked when they were finally on their way home, "Or should I ask what you did to him?"
"Rhodes is an ex-gang member. I helped him to get out but he still has connections here and there. He was pretty high up and people in such circumstances tend to stay loyal to one another for a long time... He always thought if I ever asked him for a favour he would have to rekindle those connections, but as you could see he’s scared of that like nothing else."
"Wait. Wait a moment. You made an ex-delinquent the manager of a Dunhill Store in the bloody West End?"
"Extraordinary, isn't he, our Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson remarked.
John began to laugh.
"Oh Sherlock," he hiccupped, "I think this is the best one yet."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"...Thank you?"
"And to think that I have to split the rent with you! You could be bloody anything! What else is there, a Hells Angel working in insurance?"
**
When John crossed Baker Street from the tube station the next morning, returning from a physiotherapy appointment for his shoulder, he heard a loud bang and saw a cloud of green smoke billow out of the living room windows of 221b.
"Not again," he mumbled, as he grit his teeth and increased his pace.
Inside, John found yellow acid eating through their kitchen table and a trail of blood leading to the bathroom.
"Sherlock?" John called and knocked on the bathroom door, but when Sherlock only hissed very loudly in response he wrenched the door open.
Sherlock was bent over the sink, fumbling with something in his right hand while holding his left away in a very strange manner, clearly something wrong with it, and his quiet hissing indicated some quite intense pain.
The next thing John noticed was a circular flesh wound in the middle of Sherlock's right palm, far too big and bloody to be covered with a single plaster, as Sherlock was attempting.
"What in God's name---"
"Alpha-hydroxyl acid is more potent than I thought it would be," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, wincing.
There was a short moment in which John felt asking "Alpha-what?!" and the usual "why?" but the situation forbade it.
"Okay," John breathed, feeling his adrenaline rise as he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and steered him from the room.
"Hospital, now. Is it okay to take a cab or should I call an ambulance?"
"Oh, not the bloody---" Sherlock tried to protest but John was adamant about it.
"If you won't get into the taxi I will call an ambulance to collect you, Sherlock. If you don't want to go to the hospital next time, better not mention any type of acid."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance, the special kind of annoyed huff normally reserved for Sergeant Donovan and Anderson, and John suspected he did so because the nearby hospital that wasn't St. Bart's was another place where they weren't particularly fond of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"Come on now," he said, "The skin is starting to turn yellow."
**
"The skin discolouration might well be permanent," the doctor said as he dressed the wound, giving it the most disapproving look he could muster.
John sat in a corner of the room with one of the books he remembered using at medical school.
He was good with all sorts of flesh wounds, violent attacks, bullet wounds, but since it hadn't been a common subject of treatment in Afghanistan, holes started to appear in his knowledge of certain chemicals.
"Really, Sherlock?" he said and cleared his throat the way he always did when he was secretly angry but didn't feel like making a fuss, "Poison?"
"Oh shut up, both of you," Sherlock muttered and rolled his eyes.
"Especially you." he nodded his head towards John. "You should know better by now."
"Yes, I guess I should know better than to trust in your sense of self-preservation!" John snapped, and just when Sherlock opened his mouth for another retort the doctor held up his hand.
"This argument belongs at home." After a pause he added: "Please don't make it the bedroom, though, this hand really isn't in a fit state for that yet."
**
"I really can't believe you made us buy thousands of pounds of suits and shoes to look good and then went and ruined your hand!" John moved swiftly on with the argument once they were back at Baker Street.
"Will you order me around even more now that you've got a dressing? Not to mention that I will be the one checking it every four hours! There's the table, too! On a scale from one to ten, how much do you think Mrs. Hudson is going to like the mess you've made? Oh wait, she is probably going to be glad because you didn't blow up the entire house---"
"I'm sorry I worried you," Sherlock said quietly. Sincerely.
John stopped dead in his tracks.
"What gives you the idea---"
"I really am sorry."
Their eyes met, Sherlock didn't blink and neither did John, who looked away first and sighed loudly, falling in on himself a bit.
"You got me. You got me, you... you even said it twice."
Sherlock smiled, a slow-blooming, genuine smile that John couldn't help mirroring even when he tried his best to remain angry.
"Well then," Sherlock said cheerfully, "Actually I would really love a cup of tea right now."
John nodded without a complaint and went into the kitchen.
"Just this once, darling, I'm not your housekeeper!" he chirped and made Sherlock laugh, and even though it was probably a lie that sound alone justified anything.
**
John had only watched a simple science show on the telly for a couple of minutes when he saw Sherlock visibly tense in anger.
He liked that type of program, the ones that attempted explanations for human thought processes and urban myths, but of course this would be an entirely different matter for Sherlock.
"So... do you remember much from your time at Uni?" he asked between sips of tea in an attempt to distract Sherlock, "Or did you delete most of it?"
"You may well have observed that my knowledge of chemicals and physics is still intact," Sherlock mumbled off-handedly, unable to tear his eyes from the TV screen.
John snorted.
"Well, after what you did this afternoon I'm not quite so sure. Anyway, you don't forget about people, do you? Even if you would like to pretend they're only uninteresting, oxygen-stealing hindrances to you, you remember them all. You never forgot about Carl Powers."
"Carl Powers' case was interesting," Sherlock answered irritably.
"Then what about Sebastian? You ignore so many requests for help, why did you go and listen to him?"
Sherlock did neither answer nor look at John, but he shifted in his chair in a way that signalled discomfort. Since he very well knew John would be aware of that it was a wholly involuntary gesture, and John allowed himself a tiny smile at how simple, vulnerable and downright human it made him appear.
"Oh, I see," John continued smugly, "You wanted to help him because it was him who asked. Did you want to have a glimpse at what became of him? Come on, you can be honest."
Sherlock's lips formed a very thin line, which in retrospect was probably a harbinger of the outburst that followed, but John, too amused at the time, missed the signs.
"That is not the reason!" he shouted at John, "And if there was really a brain hidden somewhere in that thick skull of yours you would have noticed by now that I couldn't care less about any of the dumb apes attending the event only to brag about the size of their cars or bank accounts, and I declare all of it a completely pointless venture!"
"If that's how you see it..." John got up and went to the bedroom to get his jacket without as much as looking at Sherlock, threw it on and snatched his wallet from the coffee table,
"...Then I don't know why we should bother going at all."
"Where are you going?"
"It's none of your damn business where I'm going."
**
"I'm sorry, I really am."
Sarah looked and sounded as if she was genuinely sorry, too, but it didn't help John in the slightest.
Emptying his cup of coffee in one last rather large gulp, he set the cup down with a clack he hoped wouldn't come across as too angry and focussed on her once more.
"What did I do wrong? If it's about our first date, I am still sorry about that, but you seemed to recover well. Okay, what I said afterwards may not have been very tactful, but... Or is it about me being unemployed? I'm not going to scam you, Sarah. Me and Holmes do manage just fine even if it doesn't look like it. Or---"
"John," she interrupted him hastily, "It really doesn't have anything to do with you."
He looked at her helplessly, and began to play with the hem of his fuzzy khaki sweater.
"See, I know I haven't dated anyone in a long while, but back in the day 'it's got nothing to do with you' was always just another way of saying 'let's please not talk about this anymore'. I can see you're not going to change your mind, but there is something that triggered this and even if I'm not going to like it I deserve to know what it was."
Sarah sighed and ran a hand through her hair warily.
"Quite frankly it's your face."
John gaped at her.
"Pardon?"
Another sigh.
"You came here angry, didn't you? You had an argument with Sherlock and decided to come here. You were making a face when I opened the door."
When John didn't answer, Sarah nodded to herself.
"You are a really nice man, John, you really are, but I am tired of always being on the receiving end of one of your fights. Go home and make up with him, come on."
"If I promise not to come here after a fight, will you give me another chance?" John tried, but he could guess the answer.
"If you do that, I won't get to see you at all."
**
Both windows of 221b were open when John returned home that evening, but no hazardous smoke came billowing out this time. Instead John could hear Sherlock play the violin.
Sherlock had always played one of John's favourite pieces on the violin as a compensation for any aggravating thing he'd done.
It had taken John a while to figure it out, but it was Sherlock's most honest way of saying that he was sorry.
"How do you even know I like Holst?" John asked when he entered the flat.
"No one said I was playing for you."
"Yes, no one said that, not even me. Doesn't mean you can't answer the question, though."
"Your laptop," Sherlock said simply, then abruptly stopped playing.
"Now you've killed the mood."
He turned to look at John.
"I haven't played this piece in a while, you see, and my bowing is still not perfect."
"It will never be if you don't give your hand time to heal first," John said and stepped closer to examine it.
"Let me check the dressing."
He gently took Sherlock's hand, who quickly withdrew it with a hiss.
"I'll do it myself," he muttered.
"Let a doctor look at it," John said, indicating himself.
"My doctor has trembling hands, he is not to be trusted!" Sherlock shot back. It wasn't a very nice jab, but it did distract John. Sure enough, his left hand was trembling.
He looked at it for a moment, then back at Sherlock and said: "Sarah dumped me."
The trembling stopped.
Part 2
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John doesn't really understand how a man who calls himself a sociopath is suddenly making elaborate plans for attending his university reunion. Plans that for some reason include wearing expensive clothing and sleeping at a hotel even when you only live fifteen minutes away. And him. Always him.
Notes:
Bits of extra info: I mention suits that have been carefully researched... John's is now so lasts eason and thus not available on the website anymore, but this is Sherlock's suit, shoes and cufflinks.
Somewhere in the flat, a phone rang.
Over the last few months it had become increasingly difficult for John to find out which phone rang. Sherlock had quickly taken possession of Harry's old phone and changed the ringtone, an exact copy of what he had as his own, and their contacts had reacted to the new situation - calling John's phone first.
And whilst John's phone had found a new home in Sherlock's jacket, trouser pockets or under his pillow, Sherlock's phone (bless the poor abandoned piece of perfectly well working technology) probably lay in the fridge next to the severed head, waiting to die.
Having retrieved his own phone from under Sherlock's head on the sofa earlier to read his texts, John knew it was not the one ringing; Sherlock was asleep and would have complained loudly by now.
John frantically lifted bits of newspaper, books and plates in search of the phone. He cursed himself for not pressing Sherlock more vehemently to simply cancel his contract, when the only reason he hadn't was that doing so required leaving the house and talking to people.
He finally found it under the dresser, along with a pair of socks that he had stopped looking for about two weeks ago.
Making a hasty retreat from the socks (deciding to get them later, possibly with a set of sterilized pincers) John grabbed the persistently ringing device and answered it.
"Hello?"
"Oh, h-hi John. You were just the one I wanted to speak to."
Judging by Molly's voice that was a lie, but it wasn't a particularly bothersome one, so John let it slide.
"Sorry, I only have Sherlock's number."
John was surprised she had it at all and assumed she had just saved it after Sherlock had called to pester her for something.
"Hi Molly," John said, glancing at Sherlock's unmoving frame on the sofa, "What can I do for you?"
"Well, I was wondering if you could come to St. Bart's... there’s something I’d like to discuss with you."
John raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't ask any further. The whole situation was unusual enough that he instinctively felt asking would not get him far, not with Molly breathing hard into the phone, jittery with nerves.
"Yeah, okay. Sure. Do you want me to bring Sherlock?"
Molly hesitated. Of course she did. John could hear her chew on her bottom lip, an unpleasant sound. Then:
"No. No, there is really no reason to bring Sherlock along." She sounded almost defiant.
"Okay." John gave her a few seconds to change her mind. When she didn't and said she would see him in a bit instead, he really hoped she didn't want to have some kind of private chat with him involved dating strategies and what men really thought of women, the kind that required all of Sherlock’s acting skills, patting the other person's hand with a grave nod that was as fake as his sympathy.
"You know that even if you had asked me to I wouldn't have come along?" Sherlock remarked to John as he hung up, his body on the sofa turned away entirely.
"Of course you would have, you curious bastard." John gave back lightly, and Sherlock huffed half in irritation and half in amusement.
"We're out of sugar, go get some on your way back."
**
Molly was a really nice person, and every time John saw her he pitied her for falling for the entirely wrong type of guy and for (probably) being born spectacularly awkward.
He made it a point not to look directly into her eyes.
Knowing that he only took the bus for a few stops and then walked when Sherlock wasn't around, she made him coffee straight away to chase away the cold that had dug far into his bones even on the rather short walk, and John accepted it gratefully.
"So tell me, why am I here?" he asked her, trying not to sound anxious. Molly wasn't Sherlock, but being mysterious wasn't something he associated with her either.
"Oh well, the thing is that... I could use some help down here. Possibly for longer. Few too many violent deaths these days," Molly said and made the face of someone who was sure he had made a fantastically witty joke.
When John couldn't quite muster a grin, she hurried to continue.
"It's a job offer of sorts. I know it's not strictly what you’ve been trained to do, but I was told I could look for a candidate myself and since I know you and Sherlock are in a bit of money trouble..."
John grit his teeth at that, and with how she flinched he knew Molly had noticed it, too. He would get Sherlock to cash in his cheques soon. He would. That and all future cheques would go in his name.
"Anyway, you could be my assistant!"
Whatever flashed in John's eyes at that comment made Molly retreat further.
"I'll think about it," he said, a bit more coolly than originally intended.
**
When John closed to the door to 221b Baker Street and walked up the stairs to their flat, a grocery bag dangling from his left wrist, he stepped on something.
While stepping on various things was a regular occurrence within the flat, John would never have expected Mrs. Hudson to fail in her meticulous cleaning efforts here, where there wasn't someone to oppose her verbally or shoo her away.
John withdrew his foot and found a letter.
They didn't get letters.
It was a plain fact that neither Sherlock nor John had any acquaintances who would bother to write to them, unless Sherlock had family he had never bothered to mention. It couldn't have been a bill either, as Mrs. Hudson usually collected them, marking all the numbers with bright red felt-tip before she took them upstairs.
Curiosity now got the best of John, and he set the bag down to inspect the letter in the middle of the hallway, knowing he would never get a chance to do so once Sherlock got involved.
It felt like a mini-deduction to him, inspecting the manila envelope that smelled of fresh printing ink.
John was naturally suspicious of letters that came without a hand-written address, especially when they looked too expensive to be advertising. It was okay to open it this once, he thought, after all Sherlock knew his bank PIN, his laptop password and Harry's phone number without ever having asked for them.
Relief set in when it turned out to be a normal letter, not a puzzle sent by a sociopathic gentleman murderer, not a desperate cry for help directed at the world's only consulting detective. John even read the letter twice and scanned it for hidden messages, wondering whether he would even be able to decipher them if they were there, but it was really just an ordinary letter.
Dear Sherlock, it read, and John frowned at the paper for the conversant tone it dared to use.
We would like to invite you to the reunion of Cambridge University graduates of 2000.
This will be the tenth anniversary of our graduation year, and we aim to celebrate this grand number in a grand fashion.
Whether you have attended past reunions or not, we would very much like to welcome you at the Royal Garden Hotel, 2-24 Kensington High Street
London W8 4PT on December 12th starting 8pm.
We hope to see you there!
The Reunion Organisers.
John sighed. He didn't have to worry about it, knowing how likely it was Sherlock would attend.
He remembered Sebastian's words well, calling Sherlock a freak like so many others did, embarrassing him in front of John, and he remembered Sherlock's look of slight discomfort, so fleeting that even John who stood right next to him had almost missed it.
No, there was no way Sherlock would want to attend the reunion.
Sherlock was cold, but he wasn't a sociopath, even when he did have trouble being both subtle and sensible most of the time. The truth had always worked best for him, the truth with all its force and sharp edges, but he had never learned what to make of other people's reaction to the truth. The pettiness with which many of them tried to counter him. Why would he ever want to subject himself to that?
"Will you take the job?" Sherlock asked him when he entered the flat, and once again John's mouth formed the question that came naturally in such a situation, before his brain caught up and sharply reminded him of how completely pointless it was to ask Sherlock the question 'How?'.
John grimaced at him.
"You don't have to do that just to make a point," he mumbled, trudging into the kitchen. The letter was stuffed in the plastic bag with the groceries. He planned to just bin it and never mention it to Sherlock.
"What, the point that I know perfectly well what you are doing without having to come with you?"
With his back turned, John missed the quick grin that grazed Sherlock's features.
"Now and then I like to indulge."
John was not prepared for Sherlock actually getting up to follow him into the kitchen.
"That isn’t just sugar, is it," he noted matter-of-factly and tried to peer into the bag, but John whisked it away from him at incredible speed, then cursed himself inwardly for having been completely bloody obvious.
"John." Sherlock drawled, and John hated the way his eyes gleamed. Sherlock positively loved secrets.
"John, why won't you let me see?"
Sherlock stepped closer, and John could feel the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Something had caught Sherlock's interest, and the predatory way in which he was going after it made John feel odd, even though he really didn't want to press his brain for a detailed definition of odd at that moment.
At the same time John marvelled once again at Sherlock's natural limits of knowledge, the ignorance with which he had looked at the bag just a few minutes ago.
Groceries weren't interesting. Now they were.
Sherlock knew the brand of the tube of lube John had tried to hide in his room, though, this and many other small indicators told John that he had entered into the array of Sherlock's most favourite study subjects, so it wasn't the grocery bag that fascinated him, it was the why and how Doctor John Watson had tried to keep a secret from him.
With no clear plan in mind, John tried to dash away with the bag, an enterprise destined to fail when he tripped over a randomly placed stack of books and crashed into the sofa, his shoulder screaming in protest.
Sherlock tackled him and tried to wrestle the bag from him, acting so juvenile that John almost surrendered in his surprise.
"Sherlock, no--- oof--- Sherlock, where are your hands?!" John bellowed, trying to wrestle himself free and swore silently when he heard Mrs. Hudson giggling in the corridor.
But while he might have had the element of surprise, Sherlock was in no way stronger than John, and so he did the only thing that would guarantee him victory with the bag still nestled into the other's lap like that: in a feint at the bag, Sherlock let his fingers brush John's thigh.
John went both limp and hot so quickly that Sherlock considered doing it again (a highly rewarding physical study), but decided against it in favour of grabbing the bag and fishing out the opened letter.
"You read my post!" he exclaimed in mock disdain, unable to keep a certain fondness out of his voice.
"No, Sherlock---" John tried, but he was still far too flustered to make a real attempt at stopping him again.
Sherlock read the letter over once, then strutted into his bedroom and came out with his boots, scarf and coat.
"Go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson and ask her if she is free right now. Oh, and get the cheque from your room," he said.
"What am I supposed to tell her?"
Sherlock smiled that smile of his that told John to beware, told him something he ought to say no to was about to happen. John had never been able to resist that smile because that was what both of them essentially were about. Whilst his inability to resist had also let eyeballs find their way into the microwave, John was not going to spoil his own fun.
"We're going shopping."
**
Mrs. Hudson chattered as if she had never been this excited in her entire life.
"You could have picked no one better, darling, I am going to find the right thing for both of you, I can assure you that. Oh, if only old Wilbur had been more dashing a man! Unfortunately my husband was a man with an everyday face, you must know... I'm sure I could have helped him had he only let me, though. It's a real talent of mine! I keep watching those makeover shows and think to myself 'that could have been you, transforming people, giving them the time of their lives' but alas it wasn't to be, with no one to aid my talent back in the day, and when the war came---"
"So you are actually going to attend?" John asked Sherlock, sitting between him and Mrs. Hudson in a cab that wouldn't have had enough leg room even if Sherlock's limbs had not been long enough for two.
"Yes," Sherlock answered dryly over Mrs. Hudson's never-ending stream of stories, "Thus let me tell you how pointless but amusing your attempt at hiding the letter was."
John bit his lower lip.
"So... you really don't mind? I mean, why bother at all? I know you're not interested."
"This is Sebastian's doing, see?" Sherlock replied and fished the letter out of his coat pocket.
"The paper and printing are supposed to look expensive, when in reality they are simple replicas made at a printing shop, not a printing shop in London, far too expensive, no, he knows a lot of people, someone probably did him a favour.
Also, the idea of holding the reunion at the Royal Garden Hotel is right up his street, it's all posh and pretentious, but it's probably not his idea, he might have been there for a business meeting, maybe he gets a special discount by now.
Holding a reunion of Cambridge alumni in London is ridiculous anyway, the university provides ample space on its own campus. It’s his style, showing off while at the same time not putting in too much effort. The 'we aim to celebrate this grand number in a grand fashion' bit is something that describes this sentiment very well.
He was never one for being in a committee, organising things, I'm surprised he came this far with his job, seeing how lazy he always was, but one thing is clear... While I couldn't care less about who is earning what and sleeping with who and going on holiday where, he certainly is. The twelfth of December is two days from now. Either the letter got lost on the way which is unlikely or this is a late invitation, people normally get such invitations at least two weeks in advance so they can reschedule work. I assume he didn't originally intend to invite me."
There was a pause. John blinked at him.
"You haven't answered the question."
The cab came to a halt in front of Burberry on New Bond Street.
Sherlock got out of the cab with John scrambling out behind him, followed by Mrs. Hudson.
"You are not seriously thinking about going in there to buy a suit for this much," He spread his arms wide to signify the amount of money, "Only because Sebastian wants you as an amusing little addition?"
Sherlock turned to him with a smile.
"Of course not. This is where we are going to buy your suit after all."
"Oh, I'm so excited my dears, you have no idea," Mrs. Hudson said and scurried towards the shop in high heels she hadn't worn in at least twenty years.
"Sherlock!" John said, louder this time, but what usually never worked for Lestrade wouldn't work for him, either.
**
Sherlock looked like he belonged in the shop and Mrs. Hudson had the habit of making herself at home wherever she went, but John instantly felt highly uncomfortable. He knew the security guards eyed the state of his clothes as much as the matronly 'shopping assistant' did, but Sherlock's coolly professional demeanour and Mrs. Hudson's enthusiasm quickly smothered that.
"We are looking to dress this gentleman," Mrs. Hudson explained to the lady and gave him a push forward.
The woman, her name tag read 'Mrs. Hansen' immediately focused on John's appearance.
There was a certain stiffness in her back that came with occupation rather than age, and she recognised John as someone impressed by professionalism and restraint, judging by the man beside him.
"Did you have anything specific in mind?" she asked.
John looked helplessly over to Sherlock, who chose not to react.
"Well, it’s a university reunion," Mrs. Hudson explained, looking as if she was about to roll up her sleeves and get to work, "And Dr. Watson isn’t used to wearing a suit, maybe something with a classic touch?"
They continued to talk about things John neither knew nor cared about. It was the first time since returning from Afghanistan that he felt completely removed from what was happening around him.
Mrs. Hansen showed them suits off the rack, held them against John, talked about lapels and buttons, pockets and trouser fit, while Sherlock stood in a corner and looked at them with a raised eyebrow and didn't get involved at all in the conversation.
Sherlock was listening, and John realised that while solving crimes did come as a hobby to him, his knowledge about clothing was as close to a normal hobby as Sherlock Holmes would get.
Finally, after what felt like hours (thirty six minutes in reality, not that he checked afterwards) they had decided on three suits for John to try on. Mrs. Hansen guided him to the changing rooms, gently but determinedly ushering him with all her experience of men bullied into buying suits, unwanted.
Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were sitting in comfy white leather armchairs in front of his cubicle, sipping double espressos, when John came out with the first suit on: all black, two pockets, one button, with a white shirt, shawl lapels and no tie.
"What do you think, my dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock, not looking convinced.
Sherlock didn't say anything, just sat there unblinking, and John was glad he had gotten used to that intense stare. Though in this situation it suddenly felt much more intimate than at home.
"Not quite," he said eventually, pressing the tips of his fingers together, his posture reminding John of when Sherlock solved important criminal cases.
He obediently went to try on the second suit, but this time both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were much quicker in dismissing it. Putting on a suit and wearing it the right way, moving in it and having people stare at him was starting to annoy John, confused as he was.
"Why do I have to try on a suit, anyway?" he snapped, "You haven't even asked me if I'm coming."
"I heard one doesn't go to such occasions alone," Sherlock replied calmly, "And I have only you to go with."
No one but John would have noticed the slight shift in Sherlock's facial expression, but it was enough to make his throat tighten. With no further complains he went to try on the third suit.
The last suit was of a dark blue and came with a simple white shirt and unlike the two suits before it wasn't too tight for John to comfortably move in, and when he closed both buttons of the jacket he looked into the cabin mirror before presenting himself to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and actually liked it.
"This one is supposed to be worn with a tie," Mrs. Hansen said, hurrying off, returning with a box of them.
Mrs. Hudson made an appreciative sound before engulfing herself in the tie selection process.
Once again Sherlock didn't say a thing, but this time his unblinking stare made John feel hot under the collar.
It was unusual and new, the stare and the feeling that accompanied it. Sherlock always had an agenda, or so he had people believe, including John. Trouble was that John couldn't always figure out if he was being made fun of.
"Yes," was the only thing Sherlock said after his thorough scrutiny. "Yes."
John swallowed dryly.
"Look at this, love," Mrs. Hudson said and held up a canary yellow tie, but John gave her a very decided shake of his head.
"Sherlock," he said, embarrassed enough to turn faintly pink behind his ears, "Won't you pick one?"
Sherlock's eyes widened in genuine surprise, his eyes bright. He was happy.
His approach to selecting a tie was very no-nonsense one: He went to the box, picked a black silk tie and handed it to John.
John looked at the tie in his hand.
"Oh military men," Sherlock sighed, and began to fuss with John’s collar.
"Sherlock," John protested feebly, but it didn’t stop Sherlock from tying the Windsor knot, breathing across John's forehead as he did so.
"We’ve made our decision," he said to Mrs. Hansen who was in the process of exchanging French apple tart recipes with Mrs. Hudson, and the way his eyes shone and how the small word "we" tumbled off his lips made John think that he would cherish this suit until the day he died, even if he never wore it again.
**
"SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS!" John exclaimed once they had left the shop, despite Mrs. Hudson's desperate attempts at shushing him.
"We got a full suit, a shirt and a tie for that," Sherlock said without looking at him, idly tucking his credit card away, "Don't worry, I will try and get a less expensive one for myself next."
"Next?" John screeched, edging on hysterical, "And what do we do once we get home? Heat our flat with the leftover bills?"
"Every man needs a proper suit, love," Mrs. Hudson said and put her hands on his shoulders as they walked up New Bond Street, "Besides, you never know what you might gain from it."
She winked at him, and John could do nothing other than let his shoulders sag in defeat.
It was difficult to calm down when the next shop they walked into turned out to be Armani, where an overly tanned and very excited young man seemed to flail at the prospect of selling his first suit.
Mrs. Hudson directed him and he almost flew around to follow her instruction.
Where John had been a helpless mannequin, Sherlock seemed to be ready to say no to every option proposed, often without even trying them on, until Mrs. Hudson got uncharacteristically exasperated with him and pushed him towards the changing rooms with a single suit before John had even laid eyes on it.
"I am not wearing this," Sherlock shouted from within the cubicle, "This is ridiculous. Flashy. I refuse to wear it!"
"That’s fine Sherlock, love, let's just have a little look at it first."
Sherlock grimaced and avoided all of their eyes when he emerged, but his head all but left his shoulders when John failed to suppress a gasp.
As usual the suit fit Sherlock like a second skin. John knew instantly why he didn't like it though; it wasn't black but light brown, almost beige. Sherlock wore a simple white shirt underneath and had closed two of the three buttons.
The overall impression was less serious, not casual but somehow very refreshing.
Mrs. Hudson started fussing with a fuchsia-coloured tie, and the only reason Sherlock let her was that he was still preoccupied with John, who in turn was still gaping at him.
" S’good" John finally mumbled, "...I guess. Different. Good different. I mean, not that---" He shut his mouth with a near-audible click.
He thought it hardly mattered if Sherlock didn't want to buy the suit anyway, but to everyone's general surprise he suddenly agreed on buying it, even with the fuchsia tie.
They paid two hundred and sixty pounds since the suit was on special offer, and the word 'offer' seemed to pacify John enough to not throw another tantrum.
"Two more things." Sherlock said as they left the store and hailed a cab.
"What ‘more things’?" John asked, albeit quietly, and Sherlock only pointed towards his shoes in response.
"That and a nice little something."
Shoes were something Sherlock wouldn't let Mrs. Hudson interfere with, and so he ordered to be driven straight to Jermyn Street entering a heavily guarded Crockett and Jones shoe shop. Again they were glared at, and John was beginning to feel slightly tired of the ever-exclusive West End even though he lived in it.
The shoes were bought quickly, with Sherlock turning up his demeaning air a few notches.
"This man," he said to the shop clerk and pointed at John, "Definitely Oxfords, but what do you think? Bedford, Chatham or Radstock?"
"I'm sorry," John said meekly, "What language are you speaking?"
"Bedford," the small man said, his voice the soothing quality of a chainsaw, and the impressed look in his eyes said he probably didn't have many customers who really knew their shoes any more.
"If you would be so kind as to seat yourselves here. I'll get you a pair."
"He didn't ask for my size," John hissed to Sherlock.
"He doesn't need to ask you, he's a professional," Sherlock whispered back.
"He's a shoe-Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said and began to giggle heartily, and for some reason John couldn't help chuckling along.
The shoes were comfortable and beautiful, And seven hundred and fifty pounds.
"You won't get a Christmas present," Sherlock said when John freaked out a second time, gesturing wildly and nearly falling over his own feet once outside.
"Oh come on, as if you were planning on buying me a Christmas present! You are spending several months of rent on proving a point to a London banker, which is just as impossible as making the sky turn green!"
"John," Sherlock said, stepping into his personal space just like he did on the day of Lestrade's drug bust. "Hush."
John went very quiet.
The last shop they visited was Dunhill.
"The store manager owes me a favour, so we will only borrow our cuff links here. Just let me do the talking," Sherlock said, then asked a female clerk to speak with a Mr. Rhodes.
"Oh, Sh-Sh-Sh-Sherlock," a man emerging from a well hidden staff entrance stuttered, "H-H-Hello."
He was almost as tall as Sherlock, bald and rather muscular. His nose looked as if it had been broken and snapped back by an amateur more than once, and his fingers were too calloused to belong to someone who had always worked at shops like this.
"Hello Christopher," Sherlock said, "At last you can do me that favour."
"Of c-c-c-course, I-I'd l-love to," Rhodes replied, and John couldn't help frowning at him. Compared to this guy, Molly was a bundle of confidence.
"We would like to borrow some cuff links."
"Oh. Oh!"
Rhodes visibly deflated, but then smiled so radiantly that John wasn't sure he wanted to know what he originally expected to hear.
"Oh, please do follow me!" he said, drew himself up to his full height, stutter now gone, and marched around a glass counter from which he retrieved several pairs of cuff links.
"I know I owe you, Sherlock," Rhodes said, "But please, please don't lose them. Things just smoothed out around me."
"Oh I know," Sherlock replied easily, "I've been watching you, and I daresay I wasn’t the only one."
One of Rhodes' facial muscles twitched.
"John, come here and pick something," Sherlock mumbled, and John stepped closer to have a look.
He ignored all the cuff links that had funny shapes, gear sticks, steering wheels, sharks and four leaf clovers, He finally picked up a cuff link with subtly glittering black jewels.
"How much is this one?" he asked.
"Two thousand pounds," Rhodes answered, not missing a beat.
John nearly dropped the cuff link.
"It's okay," Rhodes said, "You're with Mr. Holmes, I presume?"
"Yes, I'm his colleague," John replied testily, and glared at Mrs. Hudson so she wouldn't say anything.
"His friends are included in the favour, so go ahead," Rhodes said, but John still declined very adamantly.
In the end he chose a simple enough set; diamond faceted in white gold, while Sherlock went for round pink ones that would match his tie.
"What did you do for him?" John asked when they were finally on their way home, "Or should I ask what you did to him?"
"Rhodes is an ex-gang member. I helped him to get out but he still has connections here and there. He was pretty high up and people in such circumstances tend to stay loyal to one another for a long time... He always thought if I ever asked him for a favour he would have to rekindle those connections, but as you could see he’s scared of that like nothing else."
"Wait. Wait a moment. You made an ex-delinquent the manager of a Dunhill Store in the bloody West End?"
"Extraordinary, isn't he, our Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson remarked.
John began to laugh.
"Oh Sherlock," he hiccupped, "I think this is the best one yet."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"...Thank you?"
"And to think that I have to split the rent with you! You could be bloody anything! What else is there, a Hells Angel working in insurance?"
**
When John crossed Baker Street from the tube station the next morning, returning from a physiotherapy appointment for his shoulder, he heard a loud bang and saw a cloud of green smoke billow out of the living room windows of 221b.
"Not again," he mumbled, as he grit his teeth and increased his pace.
Inside, John found yellow acid eating through their kitchen table and a trail of blood leading to the bathroom.
"Sherlock?" John called and knocked on the bathroom door, but when Sherlock only hissed very loudly in response he wrenched the door open.
Sherlock was bent over the sink, fumbling with something in his right hand while holding his left away in a very strange manner, clearly something wrong with it, and his quiet hissing indicated some quite intense pain.
The next thing John noticed was a circular flesh wound in the middle of Sherlock's right palm, far too big and bloody to be covered with a single plaster, as Sherlock was attempting.
"What in God's name---"
"Alpha-hydroxyl acid is more potent than I thought it would be," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, wincing.
There was a short moment in which John felt asking "Alpha-what?!" and the usual "why?" but the situation forbade it.
"Okay," John breathed, feeling his adrenaline rise as he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and steered him from the room.
"Hospital, now. Is it okay to take a cab or should I call an ambulance?"
"Oh, not the bloody---" Sherlock tried to protest but John was adamant about it.
"If you won't get into the taxi I will call an ambulance to collect you, Sherlock. If you don't want to go to the hospital next time, better not mention any type of acid."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance, the special kind of annoyed huff normally reserved for Sergeant Donovan and Anderson, and John suspected he did so because the nearby hospital that wasn't St. Bart's was another place where they weren't particularly fond of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"Come on now," he said, "The skin is starting to turn yellow."
**
"The skin discolouration might well be permanent," the doctor said as he dressed the wound, giving it the most disapproving look he could muster.
John sat in a corner of the room with one of the books he remembered using at medical school.
He was good with all sorts of flesh wounds, violent attacks, bullet wounds, but since it hadn't been a common subject of treatment in Afghanistan, holes started to appear in his knowledge of certain chemicals.
"Really, Sherlock?" he said and cleared his throat the way he always did when he was secretly angry but didn't feel like making a fuss, "Poison?"
"Oh shut up, both of you," Sherlock muttered and rolled his eyes.
"Especially you." he nodded his head towards John. "You should know better by now."
"Yes, I guess I should know better than to trust in your sense of self-preservation!" John snapped, and just when Sherlock opened his mouth for another retort the doctor held up his hand.
"This argument belongs at home." After a pause he added: "Please don't make it the bedroom, though, this hand really isn't in a fit state for that yet."
**
"I really can't believe you made us buy thousands of pounds of suits and shoes to look good and then went and ruined your hand!" John moved swiftly on with the argument once they were back at Baker Street.
"Will you order me around even more now that you've got a dressing? Not to mention that I will be the one checking it every four hours! There's the table, too! On a scale from one to ten, how much do you think Mrs. Hudson is going to like the mess you've made? Oh wait, she is probably going to be glad because you didn't blow up the entire house---"
"I'm sorry I worried you," Sherlock said quietly. Sincerely.
John stopped dead in his tracks.
"What gives you the idea---"
"I really am sorry."
Their eyes met, Sherlock didn't blink and neither did John, who looked away first and sighed loudly, falling in on himself a bit.
"You got me. You got me, you... you even said it twice."
Sherlock smiled, a slow-blooming, genuine smile that John couldn't help mirroring even when he tried his best to remain angry.
"Well then," Sherlock said cheerfully, "Actually I would really love a cup of tea right now."
John nodded without a complaint and went into the kitchen.
"Just this once, darling, I'm not your housekeeper!" he chirped and made Sherlock laugh, and even though it was probably a lie that sound alone justified anything.
**
John had only watched a simple science show on the telly for a couple of minutes when he saw Sherlock visibly tense in anger.
He liked that type of program, the ones that attempted explanations for human thought processes and urban myths, but of course this would be an entirely different matter for Sherlock.
"So... do you remember much from your time at Uni?" he asked between sips of tea in an attempt to distract Sherlock, "Or did you delete most of it?"
"You may well have observed that my knowledge of chemicals and physics is still intact," Sherlock mumbled off-handedly, unable to tear his eyes from the TV screen.
John snorted.
"Well, after what you did this afternoon I'm not quite so sure. Anyway, you don't forget about people, do you? Even if you would like to pretend they're only uninteresting, oxygen-stealing hindrances to you, you remember them all. You never forgot about Carl Powers."
"Carl Powers' case was interesting," Sherlock answered irritably.
"Then what about Sebastian? You ignore so many requests for help, why did you go and listen to him?"
Sherlock did neither answer nor look at John, but he shifted in his chair in a way that signalled discomfort. Since he very well knew John would be aware of that it was a wholly involuntary gesture, and John allowed himself a tiny smile at how simple, vulnerable and downright human it made him appear.
"Oh, I see," John continued smugly, "You wanted to help him because it was him who asked. Did you want to have a glimpse at what became of him? Come on, you can be honest."
Sherlock's lips formed a very thin line, which in retrospect was probably a harbinger of the outburst that followed, but John, too amused at the time, missed the signs.
"That is not the reason!" he shouted at John, "And if there was really a brain hidden somewhere in that thick skull of yours you would have noticed by now that I couldn't care less about any of the dumb apes attending the event only to brag about the size of their cars or bank accounts, and I declare all of it a completely pointless venture!"
"If that's how you see it..." John got up and went to the bedroom to get his jacket without as much as looking at Sherlock, threw it on and snatched his wallet from the coffee table,
"...Then I don't know why we should bother going at all."
"Where are you going?"
"It's none of your damn business where I'm going."
**
"I'm sorry, I really am."
Sarah looked and sounded as if she was genuinely sorry, too, but it didn't help John in the slightest.
Emptying his cup of coffee in one last rather large gulp, he set the cup down with a clack he hoped wouldn't come across as too angry and focussed on her once more.
"What did I do wrong? If it's about our first date, I am still sorry about that, but you seemed to recover well. Okay, what I said afterwards may not have been very tactful, but... Or is it about me being unemployed? I'm not going to scam you, Sarah. Me and Holmes do manage just fine even if it doesn't look like it. Or---"
"John," she interrupted him hastily, "It really doesn't have anything to do with you."
He looked at her helplessly, and began to play with the hem of his fuzzy khaki sweater.
"See, I know I haven't dated anyone in a long while, but back in the day 'it's got nothing to do with you' was always just another way of saying 'let's please not talk about this anymore'. I can see you're not going to change your mind, but there is something that triggered this and even if I'm not going to like it I deserve to know what it was."
Sarah sighed and ran a hand through her hair warily.
"Quite frankly it's your face."
John gaped at her.
"Pardon?"
Another sigh.
"You came here angry, didn't you? You had an argument with Sherlock and decided to come here. You were making a face when I opened the door."
When John didn't answer, Sarah nodded to herself.
"You are a really nice man, John, you really are, but I am tired of always being on the receiving end of one of your fights. Go home and make up with him, come on."
"If I promise not to come here after a fight, will you give me another chance?" John tried, but he could guess the answer.
"If you do that, I won't get to see you at all."
**
Both windows of 221b were open when John returned home that evening, but no hazardous smoke came billowing out this time. Instead John could hear Sherlock play the violin.
Sherlock had always played one of John's favourite pieces on the violin as a compensation for any aggravating thing he'd done.
It had taken John a while to figure it out, but it was Sherlock's most honest way of saying that he was sorry.
"How do you even know I like Holst?" John asked when he entered the flat.
"No one said I was playing for you."
"Yes, no one said that, not even me. Doesn't mean you can't answer the question, though."
"Your laptop," Sherlock said simply, then abruptly stopped playing.
"Now you've killed the mood."
He turned to look at John.
"I haven't played this piece in a while, you see, and my bowing is still not perfect."
"It will never be if you don't give your hand time to heal first," John said and stepped closer to examine it.
"Let me check the dressing."
He gently took Sherlock's hand, who quickly withdrew it with a hiss.
"I'll do it myself," he muttered.
"Let a doctor look at it," John said, indicating himself.
"My doctor has trembling hands, he is not to be trusted!" Sherlock shot back. It wasn't a very nice jab, but it did distract John. Sure enough, his left hand was trembling.
He looked at it for a moment, then back at Sherlock and said: "Sarah dumped me."
The trembling stopped.
Part 2