Fic for jazzy_fay: Explosive Encounters Part 1/2
Title: Explosive Encounters
Recipient: jazzy_fay
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Author: frozen_delight
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta: Many, many thanks to my fantastic beta dioscureantwins for all her help, advice and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine of course. Extra thanks to the lovely canonisrelative and stardust_made for their sound advice and patient hand-holding.
Summary: A minor commotion in a launderette on Balcombe Street leads to a major alteration in John Watson’s life.
Additional Notes: Incorporates elements of the film “My Beautiful Launderette”. My apologies to Hanif Kureishi for making such irreverent use of his dazzlingly brilliant script.
Dear jazzy_fay, I wasn’t able to work in all the things you requested, but here’s a fluffy, relationshippy casefic which you’ll hopefully enjoy all the same.
It’s official - John’s a prize idiot. How else is it to be explained that he’s the one currently stuffing his and Sherlock’s dirty laundry (okay, mostly his, since Sherlock’s wardrobe apparently consists almost entirely of delicate materials that either need to be hand-washed or taken straight to the dry cleaner’s) into one of the washing machines of a launderette on Balcombe Street - when it was Sherlock who broke their washer at 221B with some strange and probably highly unhygienic experiment that John really doesn’t want to know the details of?
Of course it never entered Sherlock’s head that after apologising - which he still seems to consider as the height of flat-sharing consideration - the only decent thing would have been for him to take the washing to the launderette. Curiously enough, it didn’t occur to John, either. Sherlock looked rather adorable when he interrupted John’s rant with a perfect little pout and the reminder that he had already apologised - and before he knew it, John was already on his way to the launderette.
Shaking his head and cursing Sherlock’s cute face, John continues to load the washing machine. This incident, he thinks, is the bizarre highlight of the thoroughly bizarre week that began last Saturday after a night out with Greg Lestrade.
Of course Lestrade himself is completely innocent of what ensued when he and John parted ways outside the pub. As always, their friendly get-together came down to a couple of drinks at their local, plus football and the usual half-humorous, half-stunned chit-chat about Sherlock’s many - exasperating - quirks and talents. Vividly, John remembers the buoyant walk back to the flat. In even greater detail and colour, he can picture himself standing on the doorstep of 221B, where, for a moment, he’s struggling to insert his key into the lock. Not long, mind you, he’s not that drunk! It’s only the briefest of moments. Then he’s inside and slowly starts climbing the stairs, feeling just a tad tipsy and entirely in harmony with himself and the world.
Drinking always makes him a bit mawkish and prone to all kinds of unusual revelations. Such as how deeply rooted he is in this planet, how lucky to be alive in this time and age. That happened last autumn, when the smell of recent rain and the rustle of the leaves under his feet almost prompted him to throw himself to the ground in a vain attempt to hug the whole world. At least if Greg is to be believed. John’s own recollections of the night are rather hazy.
This time, apart from feeling a bit tipsy and sentimental, he’s still very much in his right mind and so it doesn’t escape his notice when he climbs into his bed that it isn’t quite as empty as it ought to be. Needless to say, Sherlock offers no apology for having spread himself out on John’s bed. Instead, he instantly starts berating John for being back twenty minutes later than he’d estimated. John is not only feeling tipsy and sentimental, but also rather tired, so he tells Sherlock to go bother the skull and let him sleep in peace.
As it turns out, the skull is decidedly useless in this particular case, for Sherlock is in desperate need of advice. Right this instant. It can’t possibly wait till morning. It being the following catastrophe: Molly is very cross at him. Reluctantly, the detective admits that this might partly be his fault. All right, completely. So what is he to do about it?
John immediately understands the gravity of the situation and sniggers - their constant supply of body parts is seriously threatened. And because John is a good friend and completely mad, he finds himself agreeing that a fridge without a severed head or at least a couple of toes is really depressing. He sniggers even more at that. He must have drunk more than he thought.
In the half-darkness of the room he can make out the outlines of Sherlock’s profile. Most prominently the drooping pout. After a while, he realises that there’s an expectant kind of silence pervading the room - Sherlock must have asked him something while John’s attention was fixed on his lips. He has no idea how long he’s been staring. Fortunately, the alcohol, warming him merrily from the inside, prevents him from feeling self-conscious or uneasy about it. He erupts into another short series of giggles, because, really, the situation is just too absurd. Then, drawing on his own colourful history of - not always successful - endeavours to smooth the ruffled feathers of all the girls he’d managed to upset, both pre and post meeting Sherlock, John attempts to offer solid advice - apologise as sincerely as possible, bring along a present, chocolates maybe, invite her for a coffee.
Sherlock listens with the intense concentration that’s usually reserved for particularly gruesome crime scenes and geeky pieces of information like the characteristics of 243 types of tobacco ash. Possibly, he’s even storing John’s advice away in the pompous depths of his mind palace for future reference. John rather hopes his words of common good sense won’t end up straight next to the data on tobacco ash.
Once John has exhausted all his well-meant suggestions, the detective leverages himself up in a whirl of exuberant force that John rightfully feels should be forbidden after police curfew. As quickly as his fuzzy, fatigued mind allows him to, John extends a hand to his friend’s shoulder to keep him from escaping. Yawning, he does his best to impress on his flatmate that Molly won’t be likely to forgive him, despite all his spectacular efforts, if he now dashes off to wake her at this ungodly hour.
Grumbling about pointless sensibilities, Sherlock slumps back onto the bed with the awkward grace of a new-born foal, his head hitting John’s shoulder and his elbow jabbing sharply into John’s sensitive stomach. It’s rather painful, since Sherlock’s all angles and bones. But it’s also curiously nice, because Sherlock is so warm and heavy, like a cup of soothing herbal tea that envelopes the body in a blissful state of sleepy relaxation.
Sighing contently, John burrows himself more deeply into his blankets. He’s beginning to feel exceptionally comfortable. The whole situation no longer seems all that absurd. Once again, he finds himself glancing at Sherlock’s mouth. Up this close, in the muzzy half-darkness, Sherlock looks even more like a twelve-year-old. Only his mouth, smooth, plush, relaxed, raises associations in John that are of a decidedly adult nature. Not for the first time, he wonders if Sherlock has ever been kissed. He’ll have to ask him one day. One day soon.
John’s eyes flutter shut, and before his sleep-addled brain registers it, he’s turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. Then, with another sigh, he buries his head deeper into his pillow. It all happens so very quickly that he hardly knows if it really happened or if he merely imagined it all, on the brink of a dream. Sherlock says nothing. Neither does John. And then he’s already drifted off.
The next morning he wakes up alone, feeling well-rested but distinctly embarrassed. When he comes downstairs, he notes that Sherlock’s coat isn’t hanging on their rack. Right, so he’s already out and about. John decides that they’ll probably just ignore what happened. But then he notices that Sherlock has left him tea. It’s gone cold and is therefore completely undrinkable, but a warmth spreads through John at the sight of it, all the same.
The week that follows has a decidedly surreal character. John feels as though he’s walking down an infinitely long corridor, passing many doors on both sides, never knowing which to open, which to leave shut. And the ones he does open merely lead on to other mysterious corridors and twisted staircases he's not sure he wants to climb, not with Sherlock always turning up around odd corners. Mostly, John just tries to walk on with their life as normal, undistracted, undeterred. That proves difficult enough as it is. At one point John actually finds himself standing in their kitchen, smiling at the new bag of thumbs in the fridge - a clear indicator that Sherlock did indeed manage to reconcile with Molly.
Even though he’s probably secured his 24/7 access to fresh body parts and the morgue for the rest of his life, Sherlock’s behaviour continues to be slightly off, a fizzy amalgamation of shy smiles and crazy experiments that leaves John puzzled, dazzled and fond, incredibly fond. He rather suspects that in his own way, Sherlock feels just as out of his depth as John does. Maybe he’s equally baffled by John’s recent actions as John is by Sherlock’s, who knows? Not that John thinks his behaviour could possibly compete with Sherlock’s when it comes to the mad and bewildering. It’s like Sherlock’s following the dating tips in My Weekly and giving them a highly individualised interpretation.
For instance: Do something special. Sherlock certainly does, just not for John. He conducts an experiment that he claims to have always wanted to do, completely body-part free, but leaving a disgusting smell in the flat nonetheless. And because he is in an exceptionally bright and patient mood, he explains it all to John in great detail. Knowing what it is that he’s smelling only worsens John’s nausea, though. A disheartened, slightly hurt expression appears upon Sherlock’s face at John’s lack of passionate interest in the subject, but it’s soon chased away by a look of genuine puzzlement when John suggests that they go for a walk in the park.
The baffled stare doesn’t vanish once they actually are at the park and Sherlock discovers that all John wants to do is walk about a bit and sit some time on one of the benches near the pond. Why one would bother to go to the park and stroll around without any concrete purpose seems utterly beyond the detective. Still, being the extraordinary personality that he is, he manages to be impatient and moody on top of mystified. Like a little child bored to tears in the back of the car on the family’s annual holiday trip, driving the parents to distraction with his repeated questions of ‘Are we there yet?’, Sherlock asks every two minutes, ‘Can we go now?’
Unfortunately, he’s a lot more eloquent and scathing than the little boy in the back of the car could ever be. When John wants to feed the ducks in the pond with some old bread that he brought along, Sherlock showers him with a long and patronising lecture on why it’s such a disaster to the ecosystem when the city population fattens pigeons or ducks with their leftovers. However, while he’s busy ranting away, he does break the rock-hard bread into feedable little pieces and hands them to John, so John is disinclined to write off their outing as a complete failure.
This jumbled emulsion of emotions lingers in their interactions for the rest of the week, rather like the inexpungible, easily inflammable types of gas that Sherlock sometimes uses for his more destructive experiments. In a way, it’s not dissimilar to the atmosphere of intense suspense that reigns in the flat when there’s a case. Though, this time, there isn’t one, as far as John can tell. There’s just them.
Somehow, John spends more time in Sherlock’s company than he normally would, not even retreating to his bedroom when his flatmate performs revolting experiments, and while he finds himself frustratingly tongue-tied and sheepish, he still manages to enjoy their quiet togetherness. In turn, Sherlock seems more aware of John’s presence. Sometimes, he looks up from whatever it is he’s doing and sends John an awkward smile. Or he spouts weird comments such as, ‘Really, John, I can’t believe you’re still wearing that eye-sore of a jumper. The oatmeal colour makes your otherwise nice eyes appear appallingly puffy and vacant.’
John's almost emptied his bag of washing when he comes across the jumper in question, illuminated somewhat unflatteringly by the harsh light of the launderette and the memory of Sherlock’s scorn. He stares at it for a long moment, wondering if he should even bother to wash it or chuck it straight into the bin. He settles for the first option, because although the jumper has been in his possession for years and he’s worn it on many occasions, it hasn’t hindered Sherlock from noticing that he has ‘nice eyes’. Besides, it’s warm. And comfy.
When he’s finished loading the drum, he goes to pay at the slot machine, which, as he realises with horror, doesn’t accept debit cards. He’s about to curse Sherlock a second time, when, mercifully, he finds a bit of spare cash in his wallet. He pays for his laundry load and for the washing powder. The latter is provided in a plastic cup at a dispenser right next to the slot machine. The washing powder is paste-like rather than coarse-grained, as though it had been stored somewhere damp or diluted with water. John eyes it with distaste. The whole place seems rather shiny and new. It’s sad that the owners have tried to economise on the detergent, of all things.
He fills the somewhat untrustworthy looking washing powder into the designated compartment and searches for the button to start the machine. Unfortunately, the washers in the launderette seem to be the latest model on the market and - like so many other devices that form a part of modern life - they refuse to bow down to his will. John presses several promising-looking buttons, swears a bit, curses at Sherlock a third time for having broken their reliable, friendly old machine at home - all to no avail. There are no other customers at the launderette, so there’s no one he can ask for help with the infernal compilation of metal and plastic designed specifically to annoy the hell out of Dr John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.
Just as John is about to embark on a loud and violent row with his maddeningly silent mechanical foe, a tiny little man with yellow, paperish skin and thin, uncombed white strands of hair on his over-proportionally large head steps into the room. The doctor in John immediately discerns that the stranger consumes large amounts of hard liquor at frighteningly regular intervals. Notwithstanding this observation, there’s something touching and childishly sweet in the man’s features and movements that reminds John of Sherlock and makes it impossible for him to reproach the man for his unhealthy lifestyle. Also, despite his unkempt appearance, an air of authority surrounds the stranger, so pronounced that it forbids judgement and invites respect.
The old man takes small, shuffling steps in John’s direction. Still, once he actually arrives in front of John, he looks up with surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed him before. ‘I was looking for Omar,’ he says with a slight accent. Most likely Indian or Pakistani, John thinks.
John has no idea who Omar is, of course, but at the information that the so-called guy is the owner of the laundrette, he asks the old man if he knows how to operate the washers. The man says that he’s never been here before, but he presses a couple of buttons, seemingly at random, and a second later, the machine finally whirrs to life.
Omar, it turns out, is the dotty man’s son. This is already the fourth laundrette that he’s opened, financially aided by his uncle, the old man’s brother. John’s new acquaintance is outspoken and a little sarcastic in his disapproval of the life his son has chosen - the sharp tongue another trait he seems to share with John’s endearingly frustrating flatmate.
‘I want don’t want Omar to be so involved with that old crook and his crooked money,’ he says with sincere regret. ‘I don’t want him to walk around looking like an undertaker on holiday. No son of mine should be an underpants cleaner, no matter how well it pays. I want him to go to college. We all need to know something, don’t we?’
Vividly, John pictures the man before him living in his home country, ten or twenty years ago, a keen philosopher and thinker, talking to all the political and intellectual leaders of his generation, an eminent authority, distinguished, respected, admired. Then, one day, he decided to leave that safe world so his son could have a better future. Now he’s probably lying around drinking vodka all day in some dingy, little flat in London, conversing only with himself, reduced to a big head on a flabby, thin body.
It’s funny to think that this man really is all spirit and no flesh, whereas Sherlock likes to imagine himself as nothing but a brain, the rest just transport, when in fact his striking body makes him stand out just as much as his superior intellect. He’s tall, strong, fit, with the grace of an elf when he’s a fast ripple of movement and with the awe-inspiring aura of an ancient statue when he spends hours lounging on the sofa, lost in thought. He’s thin, but not unhealthily so, and supple enough in the right places.
Blushing at the turn his thoughts have taken, John looks back at the old man. Oddly enough, his new acquaintance is smiling at him and pats his hand affectionately.
‘Make the most of that, young man,’ he says, as if he knows exactly what John’s been thinking. John sincerely hopes that this isn’t the case. He spends far too much time already with someone of extraordinary mind-reading abilities. ‘It’s so good to see someone who’s exactly where he wants to be. Usually all I see are unhappy, moping faces. Particularly in the young people. They’re too lazy and scared to fight for their happiness. Omar’s not lazy, I’ll give him that, he’s fighting all the time - but does he know for what? I don’t think so. And then there’s Johnny and he’s even worse…’
‘Who’s Johnny?’ John asks, feeling stunned at the revelation that he looks as though he’s exactly where he wants to be in his life. Is he? After the week he’s had, he’d have expected to have the appearance of a hopelessly muddled rabbit.
‘Johnny’s the lad who helps Omar run all these laundrettes. He’s Omar’s oldest friend, back from school, and his Man Friday nowadays. The good thing about this underpants cleaning business is that Johnny’s no longer got the time to be a fascist, but he could really have made a good deal more of himself than to clean Omar’s floors. Ah! The working class has been such a disappointment to me.’
John doesn’t really know what to reply to that. He’s never been much of a philosopher or political activist. He’s always been more of a listener. He’s a good one, though, he’d like to think, so he settles for a sympathetic smile.
With a benign nod of his head, the old man announces, ‘If Omar’s not around, no point in my staying here and waiting for him. If you see Omar, tell him I was here. I’ll speak to him when he comes home tonight. Have a good day!’
Slowly, he shuffles towards the door. There he halts and turns back slightly for his parting words. ‘I worry about Omar. He’s always making money, never meeting any nice girls. I don’t think his penis is in full working order.’
John watches him disappear with burning cheeks and an odd feeling of fondness. The encounter has reminded him that first and foremost, he likes Sherlock. It’s odd that he needs to be reminded of it, but it’s forgotten all too easily beneath that boundless, breathless fascination which his flatmate also inspires in him - and which is something else entirely. Mycroft Holmes, for instance, doubtlessly is a fascinating man - clever, enigmatic, dramatic, not to mention powerful, and yet John doesn’t like him all too well. But he’s liked Sherlock from the very first moment. Or should he rather say from the very first wink?
He’s grateful to the funny old man for bringing it home to him. It makes him feel a lot more secure in whatever it is that’s happening with them right now. He’s not just advancing towards a goal yet unknown because he’s being pulled forward by a treacherous momentum of infatuation, a will-o’-the-wisp, a false shadow of his omnipresent fascination with the most extraordinary man he’s ever met - no, there’s also a tailwind of profound sympathy carrying him along.
Like an echo of the metaphorical wind he’d just been musing about, a wave of cool, fresh air reaches John. It’s followed by an energetic young lady with a sharp, beautiful face. She deposits a basket full of all-purpose cleaner and other cleaning paraphernalia on one of the benches and then proceeds to give John a careful once-over as if she’s trying to determine whether he’s a good catch. As was to be expected, he doesn’t pass the test. Too old, too insignificant. Her eyes return to his face with a challenging expression.
‘What are you staring at?’ she snaps at him. John thinks this is decidedly unfair. After all, so far she’s definitely done a lot more staring.
‘Nothing. Do you work here?’ he asks levelly.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘I just wondered - is it always this empty here?’
‘Yeah. Mostly. This place only opened a couple of weeks ago. Not a good spot. Most people here in the area have their own washing machine at home. So far, people just come here during the happy hour between 5 and 11 am. Washing’s half a quid cheaper then.’
‘Oh right. Didn’t know that.’
‘There’s a big sign at the door and additional ads on the windows - didn’t you see them?’
John shakes his head and wonders why the whole world seems to have conspired to make him feel like an idiot.
‘And to answer your question,’ she continues flippantly as though that, too, were stated on the signs outside, ‘yes, I work here. I come by late at night and clean the whole place. Omar, the guy who owns this joint, is my cousin. He’s got four launderettes now. The others are more profitable than this one, I believe. He’s greedy, just like my father, always trying to rake in money. His friend Johnny does most of the maintenance, but he can’t clean four places, so I’m helping them out here.’
‘Does he pay you decently, at least?’ John asks.
For the first time, her face softens a little and her mouth does something that could almost be interpreted as a smile. Maybe she’s now decided that he’s a hopeless idiot, but a nice one at least. ‘Not really. Told you - he’s greedy. And I’m just a girl. I’m Tania, by the way.’
She holds out her hand. He shakes it. ‘I’m John.’
He’s aware that a couple of months ago, he would have asked her out for coffee by this point, no matter how strongly she’d displayed that she wasn’t interested. Now he doesn’t even consider it. And he doesn’t regret that one bit. He’s not sure if he and Sherlock will ever do anything - most certainly, they’ll never do coffee dates, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. After all, why flirt over coffee when you can just as well flirt over some poor bastard’s mutilated corpse?
Remembering his earlier encounter with the funny old man, John tells her, ‘Omar’s father was here just now. He was looking for him. Do you know where he is?’
‘Somewhere where there’s a chance of making a mint.’ Tania shrugs and goes to prepare herself a bucket of fresh water. A minute later, she’s outside on a small ladder, cleaning the windows.
John watches her vigorous movements until they suddenly still. Quickly, she jumps down the ladder and fumbles in her coat pocket. She extracts her phone and presses it to her ear. The other ear she covers with her free hand to shut out the noise of the busy street, but it doesn’t seem to help. John can see her lips move in something that strongly looks like ‘Sorry, I can’t hear - Hello? Sorry. Hello? I can’t hear you!’ A second later, she disappears on the right side of the launderette building. Undoubtedly, she’s heading to the small backyard in the hope of finding a bit more quiet for her phone call there.
John gazes at the abandoned bucket and ladder outside. The vague thought of why Tania’s bothering to clean the windows at all, since they’re almost spotless and she’s not even paid well for her efforts, begins to form in his mind when the arrival of a new set of customers distracts him.
It’s a couple in their late fifties, their arms entwined, their heads bent towards each other, both laughing flirtatiously. He’s a dark, olive-skinned man with a broad moustache and a proud belly that threatens to burst his shirt and suit, she a dainty English lady with girlish curls, carefully applied make-up and a ridiculously voluminous fur coat. John has been around the Holmes brothers long enough to recognise expensive clothing that hints at old money and a fine education, and expensive clothing which signifies nothing more than - money. In this case, it’s the latter.
A small basket dangles jauntily from the woman’s arm. It contains a couple of pastel-coloured blouses which she places tenderly in the washer next to John’s. The man goes to pay for her and also fetches the washing powder. They turn on the machine and stay there, standing close, whispering sweet nothings to each other.
It’s rather uncomfortable for John. Although he was here first and has every right to stand there, he suddenly feels like an intruder. He keeps his eyes studiously trained on his own washing. Ten more minutes. Then he can escape back home to possible health hazards and further awkward interactions with his flatmate. He doesn’t care if Sherlock has exploded half the kitchen in his absence or if he continues to confuse the hell out of John with his bashful smiles - it’ll be infinitely preferable to this.
Out of the corner of his eye John perceives that Tania has rematerialised in front of the laundrette. As she bends down to the abandoned bucket, she glances inside and freezes. She’s staring at the couple next to John. In the flash of a moment she straightens up and rushes inside, her eyes flaming in a way that’s reminiscent of Sherlock’s more dangerous experiments in the kitchen.
The portly man gives a violent start when he beholds Tania. ‘Tania! What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Cleaning the windows. Can’t really do that by night,’ she explains brusquely. Turning to the woman, she says with a poisonous smile, ‘You must be Rachel. How nice to meet you. At last. After so many years in my family’s life.’
All at once, John realises two things. Firstly, that the stout man must be Tania’s father and the woman in the fur coat his mistress. Secondly, that he’s about to witness an intensely explosive family quarrel. Hastily, he crouches down in front of his washing machine and tries to make himself invisible. In five minutes, his washing’s finished. Good.
Taken slightly aback by Tania’s directness but still managing to sound suave, the woman named Rachel replies, ‘Tania. I do feel I know you.’
‘But you don’t,’ comes the swift retort. John glances up in time to see Tania’s father roughly seize his daughter’s wrist. ‘Shut up, girl, dammit!’
‘Nasser!’ Rachel calls out in mildly rebuking tones. ‘Leave off, please. Let Tania and me have a little chat.’
Reluctantly, Nasser lets go of his daughter’s wrist. He throws a reproachful look at John, his moustache quivering in silent threat. Quickly, John turns his head back to his washing. He really doesn’t want to be dragged into their argument. Just four more minutes now, the counter on his washer tells him.
Unimpressed by her father’s anger, Tania is meanwhile saying to Rachel, ‘I don’t mind my father having a mistress.’
Sounding tense, Rachel rejoins, ‘Good. I’m so grateful.’
Simultaneously, Nasser says sternly, ‘That’s enough, Tania! Go home!’
Still crouched in front of the machine John feels his legs go numb. Uneasily, he shifts about, trying to find a more comfortable position. Normally, he’d just get to his feet and stretch his legs, but with Tania’s withering voice washing over him, staying down seems the only sensible course of action. After all, he’s well-trained in how to behave in a combat zone.
‘I don’t mind my father spending our money on you,’ is what Tania says. Briefly, John glances up at the three of them to check the impact of those words, seemingly affable and accepting, but foreshadowing something dark and terrible, like a ticking bomb. Tania’s father is staring at her, utterly speechless, while Rachel asks warily, ‘Why don’t you mind?’
‘Or my father being with you instead of our mother,’ Tania carries on, as though Rachel hadn’t spoken at all, only to deliver her final blow, ‘but I don’t like women who live off men.’
Thank God! The washing’s done. Hastily, John stuffs the clean, wet clothes back into his bag. He’ll hang them up at the flat. Using the drier on-site would mean spending more time here in this steadily more hostile atmosphere.
John slings the bag over his shoulder and makes his way inconspicuously towards the exit. When he’s almost reached the door, he allows himself to glance back briefly at the quarrelling trio.
Rachel looks sick, Nasser livid, Tania cool and disdainful. The air between them bristles with hostility and aggression. But before a big domestic of ultimate MCA dimensions can break out, an explosion of quite another kind occurs. There’s a loud bang, followed by anxious shrieks from all three parties. Smoke starts to fill the room, forcing John to cough.
Part 2/2
Recipient: jazzy_fay
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Author: frozen_delight
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Beta: Many, many thanks to my fantastic beta dioscureantwins for all her help, advice and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine of course. Extra thanks to the lovely canonisrelative and stardust_made for their sound advice and patient hand-holding.
Summary: A minor commotion in a launderette on Balcombe Street leads to a major alteration in John Watson’s life.
Additional Notes: Incorporates elements of the film “My Beautiful Launderette”. My apologies to Hanif Kureishi for making such irreverent use of his dazzlingly brilliant script.
Dear jazzy_fay, I wasn’t able to work in all the things you requested, but here’s a fluffy, relationshippy casefic which you’ll hopefully enjoy all the same.
It’s official - John’s a prize idiot. How else is it to be explained that he’s the one currently stuffing his and Sherlock’s dirty laundry (okay, mostly his, since Sherlock’s wardrobe apparently consists almost entirely of delicate materials that either need to be hand-washed or taken straight to the dry cleaner’s) into one of the washing machines of a launderette on Balcombe Street - when it was Sherlock who broke their washer at 221B with some strange and probably highly unhygienic experiment that John really doesn’t want to know the details of?
Of course it never entered Sherlock’s head that after apologising - which he still seems to consider as the height of flat-sharing consideration - the only decent thing would have been for him to take the washing to the launderette. Curiously enough, it didn’t occur to John, either. Sherlock looked rather adorable when he interrupted John’s rant with a perfect little pout and the reminder that he had already apologised - and before he knew it, John was already on his way to the launderette.
Shaking his head and cursing Sherlock’s cute face, John continues to load the washing machine. This incident, he thinks, is the bizarre highlight of the thoroughly bizarre week that began last Saturday after a night out with Greg Lestrade.
Of course Lestrade himself is completely innocent of what ensued when he and John parted ways outside the pub. As always, their friendly get-together came down to a couple of drinks at their local, plus football and the usual half-humorous, half-stunned chit-chat about Sherlock’s many - exasperating - quirks and talents. Vividly, John remembers the buoyant walk back to the flat. In even greater detail and colour, he can picture himself standing on the doorstep of 221B, where, for a moment, he’s struggling to insert his key into the lock. Not long, mind you, he’s not that drunk! It’s only the briefest of moments. Then he’s inside and slowly starts climbing the stairs, feeling just a tad tipsy and entirely in harmony with himself and the world.
Drinking always makes him a bit mawkish and prone to all kinds of unusual revelations. Such as how deeply rooted he is in this planet, how lucky to be alive in this time and age. That happened last autumn, when the smell of recent rain and the rustle of the leaves under his feet almost prompted him to throw himself to the ground in a vain attempt to hug the whole world. At least if Greg is to be believed. John’s own recollections of the night are rather hazy.
This time, apart from feeling a bit tipsy and sentimental, he’s still very much in his right mind and so it doesn’t escape his notice when he climbs into his bed that it isn’t quite as empty as it ought to be. Needless to say, Sherlock offers no apology for having spread himself out on John’s bed. Instead, he instantly starts berating John for being back twenty minutes later than he’d estimated. John is not only feeling tipsy and sentimental, but also rather tired, so he tells Sherlock to go bother the skull and let him sleep in peace.
As it turns out, the skull is decidedly useless in this particular case, for Sherlock is in desperate need of advice. Right this instant. It can’t possibly wait till morning. It being the following catastrophe: Molly is very cross at him. Reluctantly, the detective admits that this might partly be his fault. All right, completely. So what is he to do about it?
John immediately understands the gravity of the situation and sniggers - their constant supply of body parts is seriously threatened. And because John is a good friend and completely mad, he finds himself agreeing that a fridge without a severed head or at least a couple of toes is really depressing. He sniggers even more at that. He must have drunk more than he thought.
In the half-darkness of the room he can make out the outlines of Sherlock’s profile. Most prominently the drooping pout. After a while, he realises that there’s an expectant kind of silence pervading the room - Sherlock must have asked him something while John’s attention was fixed on his lips. He has no idea how long he’s been staring. Fortunately, the alcohol, warming him merrily from the inside, prevents him from feeling self-conscious or uneasy about it. He erupts into another short series of giggles, because, really, the situation is just too absurd. Then, drawing on his own colourful history of - not always successful - endeavours to smooth the ruffled feathers of all the girls he’d managed to upset, both pre and post meeting Sherlock, John attempts to offer solid advice - apologise as sincerely as possible, bring along a present, chocolates maybe, invite her for a coffee.
Sherlock listens with the intense concentration that’s usually reserved for particularly gruesome crime scenes and geeky pieces of information like the characteristics of 243 types of tobacco ash. Possibly, he’s even storing John’s advice away in the pompous depths of his mind palace for future reference. John rather hopes his words of common good sense won’t end up straight next to the data on tobacco ash.
Once John has exhausted all his well-meant suggestions, the detective leverages himself up in a whirl of exuberant force that John rightfully feels should be forbidden after police curfew. As quickly as his fuzzy, fatigued mind allows him to, John extends a hand to his friend’s shoulder to keep him from escaping. Yawning, he does his best to impress on his flatmate that Molly won’t be likely to forgive him, despite all his spectacular efforts, if he now dashes off to wake her at this ungodly hour.
Grumbling about pointless sensibilities, Sherlock slumps back onto the bed with the awkward grace of a new-born foal, his head hitting John’s shoulder and his elbow jabbing sharply into John’s sensitive stomach. It’s rather painful, since Sherlock’s all angles and bones. But it’s also curiously nice, because Sherlock is so warm and heavy, like a cup of soothing herbal tea that envelopes the body in a blissful state of sleepy relaxation.
Sighing contently, John burrows himself more deeply into his blankets. He’s beginning to feel exceptionally comfortable. The whole situation no longer seems all that absurd. Once again, he finds himself glancing at Sherlock’s mouth. Up this close, in the muzzy half-darkness, Sherlock looks even more like a twelve-year-old. Only his mouth, smooth, plush, relaxed, raises associations in John that are of a decidedly adult nature. Not for the first time, he wonders if Sherlock has ever been kissed. He’ll have to ask him one day. One day soon.
John’s eyes flutter shut, and before his sleep-addled brain registers it, he’s turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. Then, with another sigh, he buries his head deeper into his pillow. It all happens so very quickly that he hardly knows if it really happened or if he merely imagined it all, on the brink of a dream. Sherlock says nothing. Neither does John. And then he’s already drifted off.
The next morning he wakes up alone, feeling well-rested but distinctly embarrassed. When he comes downstairs, he notes that Sherlock’s coat isn’t hanging on their rack. Right, so he’s already out and about. John decides that they’ll probably just ignore what happened. But then he notices that Sherlock has left him tea. It’s gone cold and is therefore completely undrinkable, but a warmth spreads through John at the sight of it, all the same.
The week that follows has a decidedly surreal character. John feels as though he’s walking down an infinitely long corridor, passing many doors on both sides, never knowing which to open, which to leave shut. And the ones he does open merely lead on to other mysterious corridors and twisted staircases he's not sure he wants to climb, not with Sherlock always turning up around odd corners. Mostly, John just tries to walk on with their life as normal, undistracted, undeterred. That proves difficult enough as it is. At one point John actually finds himself standing in their kitchen, smiling at the new bag of thumbs in the fridge - a clear indicator that Sherlock did indeed manage to reconcile with Molly.
Even though he’s probably secured his 24/7 access to fresh body parts and the morgue for the rest of his life, Sherlock’s behaviour continues to be slightly off, a fizzy amalgamation of shy smiles and crazy experiments that leaves John puzzled, dazzled and fond, incredibly fond. He rather suspects that in his own way, Sherlock feels just as out of his depth as John does. Maybe he’s equally baffled by John’s recent actions as John is by Sherlock’s, who knows? Not that John thinks his behaviour could possibly compete with Sherlock’s when it comes to the mad and bewildering. It’s like Sherlock’s following the dating tips in My Weekly and giving them a highly individualised interpretation.
For instance: Do something special. Sherlock certainly does, just not for John. He conducts an experiment that he claims to have always wanted to do, completely body-part free, but leaving a disgusting smell in the flat nonetheless. And because he is in an exceptionally bright and patient mood, he explains it all to John in great detail. Knowing what it is that he’s smelling only worsens John’s nausea, though. A disheartened, slightly hurt expression appears upon Sherlock’s face at John’s lack of passionate interest in the subject, but it’s soon chased away by a look of genuine puzzlement when John suggests that they go for a walk in the park.
The baffled stare doesn’t vanish once they actually are at the park and Sherlock discovers that all John wants to do is walk about a bit and sit some time on one of the benches near the pond. Why one would bother to go to the park and stroll around without any concrete purpose seems utterly beyond the detective. Still, being the extraordinary personality that he is, he manages to be impatient and moody on top of mystified. Like a little child bored to tears in the back of the car on the family’s annual holiday trip, driving the parents to distraction with his repeated questions of ‘Are we there yet?’, Sherlock asks every two minutes, ‘Can we go now?’
Unfortunately, he’s a lot more eloquent and scathing than the little boy in the back of the car could ever be. When John wants to feed the ducks in the pond with some old bread that he brought along, Sherlock showers him with a long and patronising lecture on why it’s such a disaster to the ecosystem when the city population fattens pigeons or ducks with their leftovers. However, while he’s busy ranting away, he does break the rock-hard bread into feedable little pieces and hands them to John, so John is disinclined to write off their outing as a complete failure.
This jumbled emulsion of emotions lingers in their interactions for the rest of the week, rather like the inexpungible, easily inflammable types of gas that Sherlock sometimes uses for his more destructive experiments. In a way, it’s not dissimilar to the atmosphere of intense suspense that reigns in the flat when there’s a case. Though, this time, there isn’t one, as far as John can tell. There’s just them.
Somehow, John spends more time in Sherlock’s company than he normally would, not even retreating to his bedroom when his flatmate performs revolting experiments, and while he finds himself frustratingly tongue-tied and sheepish, he still manages to enjoy their quiet togetherness. In turn, Sherlock seems more aware of John’s presence. Sometimes, he looks up from whatever it is he’s doing and sends John an awkward smile. Or he spouts weird comments such as, ‘Really, John, I can’t believe you’re still wearing that eye-sore of a jumper. The oatmeal colour makes your otherwise nice eyes appear appallingly puffy and vacant.’
John's almost emptied his bag of washing when he comes across the jumper in question, illuminated somewhat unflatteringly by the harsh light of the launderette and the memory of Sherlock’s scorn. He stares at it for a long moment, wondering if he should even bother to wash it or chuck it straight into the bin. He settles for the first option, because although the jumper has been in his possession for years and he’s worn it on many occasions, it hasn’t hindered Sherlock from noticing that he has ‘nice eyes’. Besides, it’s warm. And comfy.
When he’s finished loading the drum, he goes to pay at the slot machine, which, as he realises with horror, doesn’t accept debit cards. He’s about to curse Sherlock a second time, when, mercifully, he finds a bit of spare cash in his wallet. He pays for his laundry load and for the washing powder. The latter is provided in a plastic cup at a dispenser right next to the slot machine. The washing powder is paste-like rather than coarse-grained, as though it had been stored somewhere damp or diluted with water. John eyes it with distaste. The whole place seems rather shiny and new. It’s sad that the owners have tried to economise on the detergent, of all things.
He fills the somewhat untrustworthy looking washing powder into the designated compartment and searches for the button to start the machine. Unfortunately, the washers in the launderette seem to be the latest model on the market and - like so many other devices that form a part of modern life - they refuse to bow down to his will. John presses several promising-looking buttons, swears a bit, curses at Sherlock a third time for having broken their reliable, friendly old machine at home - all to no avail. There are no other customers at the launderette, so there’s no one he can ask for help with the infernal compilation of metal and plastic designed specifically to annoy the hell out of Dr John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.
Just as John is about to embark on a loud and violent row with his maddeningly silent mechanical foe, a tiny little man with yellow, paperish skin and thin, uncombed white strands of hair on his over-proportionally large head steps into the room. The doctor in John immediately discerns that the stranger consumes large amounts of hard liquor at frighteningly regular intervals. Notwithstanding this observation, there’s something touching and childishly sweet in the man’s features and movements that reminds John of Sherlock and makes it impossible for him to reproach the man for his unhealthy lifestyle. Also, despite his unkempt appearance, an air of authority surrounds the stranger, so pronounced that it forbids judgement and invites respect.
The old man takes small, shuffling steps in John’s direction. Still, once he actually arrives in front of John, he looks up with surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed him before. ‘I was looking for Omar,’ he says with a slight accent. Most likely Indian or Pakistani, John thinks.
John has no idea who Omar is, of course, but at the information that the so-called guy is the owner of the laundrette, he asks the old man if he knows how to operate the washers. The man says that he’s never been here before, but he presses a couple of buttons, seemingly at random, and a second later, the machine finally whirrs to life.
Omar, it turns out, is the dotty man’s son. This is already the fourth laundrette that he’s opened, financially aided by his uncle, the old man’s brother. John’s new acquaintance is outspoken and a little sarcastic in his disapproval of the life his son has chosen - the sharp tongue another trait he seems to share with John’s endearingly frustrating flatmate.
‘I want don’t want Omar to be so involved with that old crook and his crooked money,’ he says with sincere regret. ‘I don’t want him to walk around looking like an undertaker on holiday. No son of mine should be an underpants cleaner, no matter how well it pays. I want him to go to college. We all need to know something, don’t we?’
Vividly, John pictures the man before him living in his home country, ten or twenty years ago, a keen philosopher and thinker, talking to all the political and intellectual leaders of his generation, an eminent authority, distinguished, respected, admired. Then, one day, he decided to leave that safe world so his son could have a better future. Now he’s probably lying around drinking vodka all day in some dingy, little flat in London, conversing only with himself, reduced to a big head on a flabby, thin body.
It’s funny to think that this man really is all spirit and no flesh, whereas Sherlock likes to imagine himself as nothing but a brain, the rest just transport, when in fact his striking body makes him stand out just as much as his superior intellect. He’s tall, strong, fit, with the grace of an elf when he’s a fast ripple of movement and with the awe-inspiring aura of an ancient statue when he spends hours lounging on the sofa, lost in thought. He’s thin, but not unhealthily so, and supple enough in the right places.
Blushing at the turn his thoughts have taken, John looks back at the old man. Oddly enough, his new acquaintance is smiling at him and pats his hand affectionately.
‘Make the most of that, young man,’ he says, as if he knows exactly what John’s been thinking. John sincerely hopes that this isn’t the case. He spends far too much time already with someone of extraordinary mind-reading abilities. ‘It’s so good to see someone who’s exactly where he wants to be. Usually all I see are unhappy, moping faces. Particularly in the young people. They’re too lazy and scared to fight for their happiness. Omar’s not lazy, I’ll give him that, he’s fighting all the time - but does he know for what? I don’t think so. And then there’s Johnny and he’s even worse…’
‘Who’s Johnny?’ John asks, feeling stunned at the revelation that he looks as though he’s exactly where he wants to be in his life. Is he? After the week he’s had, he’d have expected to have the appearance of a hopelessly muddled rabbit.
‘Johnny’s the lad who helps Omar run all these laundrettes. He’s Omar’s oldest friend, back from school, and his Man Friday nowadays. The good thing about this underpants cleaning business is that Johnny’s no longer got the time to be a fascist, but he could really have made a good deal more of himself than to clean Omar’s floors. Ah! The working class has been such a disappointment to me.’
John doesn’t really know what to reply to that. He’s never been much of a philosopher or political activist. He’s always been more of a listener. He’s a good one, though, he’d like to think, so he settles for a sympathetic smile.
With a benign nod of his head, the old man announces, ‘If Omar’s not around, no point in my staying here and waiting for him. If you see Omar, tell him I was here. I’ll speak to him when he comes home tonight. Have a good day!’
Slowly, he shuffles towards the door. There he halts and turns back slightly for his parting words. ‘I worry about Omar. He’s always making money, never meeting any nice girls. I don’t think his penis is in full working order.’
John watches him disappear with burning cheeks and an odd feeling of fondness. The encounter has reminded him that first and foremost, he likes Sherlock. It’s odd that he needs to be reminded of it, but it’s forgotten all too easily beneath that boundless, breathless fascination which his flatmate also inspires in him - and which is something else entirely. Mycroft Holmes, for instance, doubtlessly is a fascinating man - clever, enigmatic, dramatic, not to mention powerful, and yet John doesn’t like him all too well. But he’s liked Sherlock from the very first moment. Or should he rather say from the very first wink?
He’s grateful to the funny old man for bringing it home to him. It makes him feel a lot more secure in whatever it is that’s happening with them right now. He’s not just advancing towards a goal yet unknown because he’s being pulled forward by a treacherous momentum of infatuation, a will-o’-the-wisp, a false shadow of his omnipresent fascination with the most extraordinary man he’s ever met - no, there’s also a tailwind of profound sympathy carrying him along.
Like an echo of the metaphorical wind he’d just been musing about, a wave of cool, fresh air reaches John. It’s followed by an energetic young lady with a sharp, beautiful face. She deposits a basket full of all-purpose cleaner and other cleaning paraphernalia on one of the benches and then proceeds to give John a careful once-over as if she’s trying to determine whether he’s a good catch. As was to be expected, he doesn’t pass the test. Too old, too insignificant. Her eyes return to his face with a challenging expression.
‘What are you staring at?’ she snaps at him. John thinks this is decidedly unfair. After all, so far she’s definitely done a lot more staring.
‘Nothing. Do you work here?’ he asks levelly.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘I just wondered - is it always this empty here?’
‘Yeah. Mostly. This place only opened a couple of weeks ago. Not a good spot. Most people here in the area have their own washing machine at home. So far, people just come here during the happy hour between 5 and 11 am. Washing’s half a quid cheaper then.’
‘Oh right. Didn’t know that.’
‘There’s a big sign at the door and additional ads on the windows - didn’t you see them?’
John shakes his head and wonders why the whole world seems to have conspired to make him feel like an idiot.
‘And to answer your question,’ she continues flippantly as though that, too, were stated on the signs outside, ‘yes, I work here. I come by late at night and clean the whole place. Omar, the guy who owns this joint, is my cousin. He’s got four launderettes now. The others are more profitable than this one, I believe. He’s greedy, just like my father, always trying to rake in money. His friend Johnny does most of the maintenance, but he can’t clean four places, so I’m helping them out here.’
‘Does he pay you decently, at least?’ John asks.
For the first time, her face softens a little and her mouth does something that could almost be interpreted as a smile. Maybe she’s now decided that he’s a hopeless idiot, but a nice one at least. ‘Not really. Told you - he’s greedy. And I’m just a girl. I’m Tania, by the way.’
She holds out her hand. He shakes it. ‘I’m John.’
He’s aware that a couple of months ago, he would have asked her out for coffee by this point, no matter how strongly she’d displayed that she wasn’t interested. Now he doesn’t even consider it. And he doesn’t regret that one bit. He’s not sure if he and Sherlock will ever do anything - most certainly, they’ll never do coffee dates, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. After all, why flirt over coffee when you can just as well flirt over some poor bastard’s mutilated corpse?
Remembering his earlier encounter with the funny old man, John tells her, ‘Omar’s father was here just now. He was looking for him. Do you know where he is?’
‘Somewhere where there’s a chance of making a mint.’ Tania shrugs and goes to prepare herself a bucket of fresh water. A minute later, she’s outside on a small ladder, cleaning the windows.
John watches her vigorous movements until they suddenly still. Quickly, she jumps down the ladder and fumbles in her coat pocket. She extracts her phone and presses it to her ear. The other ear she covers with her free hand to shut out the noise of the busy street, but it doesn’t seem to help. John can see her lips move in something that strongly looks like ‘Sorry, I can’t hear - Hello? Sorry. Hello? I can’t hear you!’ A second later, she disappears on the right side of the launderette building. Undoubtedly, she’s heading to the small backyard in the hope of finding a bit more quiet for her phone call there.
John gazes at the abandoned bucket and ladder outside. The vague thought of why Tania’s bothering to clean the windows at all, since they’re almost spotless and she’s not even paid well for her efforts, begins to form in his mind when the arrival of a new set of customers distracts him.
It’s a couple in their late fifties, their arms entwined, their heads bent towards each other, both laughing flirtatiously. He’s a dark, olive-skinned man with a broad moustache and a proud belly that threatens to burst his shirt and suit, she a dainty English lady with girlish curls, carefully applied make-up and a ridiculously voluminous fur coat. John has been around the Holmes brothers long enough to recognise expensive clothing that hints at old money and a fine education, and expensive clothing which signifies nothing more than - money. In this case, it’s the latter.
A small basket dangles jauntily from the woman’s arm. It contains a couple of pastel-coloured blouses which she places tenderly in the washer next to John’s. The man goes to pay for her and also fetches the washing powder. They turn on the machine and stay there, standing close, whispering sweet nothings to each other.
It’s rather uncomfortable for John. Although he was here first and has every right to stand there, he suddenly feels like an intruder. He keeps his eyes studiously trained on his own washing. Ten more minutes. Then he can escape back home to possible health hazards and further awkward interactions with his flatmate. He doesn’t care if Sherlock has exploded half the kitchen in his absence or if he continues to confuse the hell out of John with his bashful smiles - it’ll be infinitely preferable to this.
Out of the corner of his eye John perceives that Tania has rematerialised in front of the laundrette. As she bends down to the abandoned bucket, she glances inside and freezes. She’s staring at the couple next to John. In the flash of a moment she straightens up and rushes inside, her eyes flaming in a way that’s reminiscent of Sherlock’s more dangerous experiments in the kitchen.
The portly man gives a violent start when he beholds Tania. ‘Tania! What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Cleaning the windows. Can’t really do that by night,’ she explains brusquely. Turning to the woman, she says with a poisonous smile, ‘You must be Rachel. How nice to meet you. At last. After so many years in my family’s life.’
All at once, John realises two things. Firstly, that the stout man must be Tania’s father and the woman in the fur coat his mistress. Secondly, that he’s about to witness an intensely explosive family quarrel. Hastily, he crouches down in front of his washing machine and tries to make himself invisible. In five minutes, his washing’s finished. Good.
Taken slightly aback by Tania’s directness but still managing to sound suave, the woman named Rachel replies, ‘Tania. I do feel I know you.’
‘But you don’t,’ comes the swift retort. John glances up in time to see Tania’s father roughly seize his daughter’s wrist. ‘Shut up, girl, dammit!’
‘Nasser!’ Rachel calls out in mildly rebuking tones. ‘Leave off, please. Let Tania and me have a little chat.’
Reluctantly, Nasser lets go of his daughter’s wrist. He throws a reproachful look at John, his moustache quivering in silent threat. Quickly, John turns his head back to his washing. He really doesn’t want to be dragged into their argument. Just four more minutes now, the counter on his washer tells him.
Unimpressed by her father’s anger, Tania is meanwhile saying to Rachel, ‘I don’t mind my father having a mistress.’
Sounding tense, Rachel rejoins, ‘Good. I’m so grateful.’
Simultaneously, Nasser says sternly, ‘That’s enough, Tania! Go home!’
Still crouched in front of the machine John feels his legs go numb. Uneasily, he shifts about, trying to find a more comfortable position. Normally, he’d just get to his feet and stretch his legs, but with Tania’s withering voice washing over him, staying down seems the only sensible course of action. After all, he’s well-trained in how to behave in a combat zone.
‘I don’t mind my father spending our money on you,’ is what Tania says. Briefly, John glances up at the three of them to check the impact of those words, seemingly affable and accepting, but foreshadowing something dark and terrible, like a ticking bomb. Tania’s father is staring at her, utterly speechless, while Rachel asks warily, ‘Why don’t you mind?’
‘Or my father being with you instead of our mother,’ Tania carries on, as though Rachel hadn’t spoken at all, only to deliver her final blow, ‘but I don’t like women who live off men.’
Thank God! The washing’s done. Hastily, John stuffs the clean, wet clothes back into his bag. He’ll hang them up at the flat. Using the drier on-site would mean spending more time here in this steadily more hostile atmosphere.
John slings the bag over his shoulder and makes his way inconspicuously towards the exit. When he’s almost reached the door, he allows himself to glance back briefly at the quarrelling trio.
Rachel looks sick, Nasser livid, Tania cool and disdainful. The air between them bristles with hostility and aggression. But before a big domestic of ultimate MCA dimensions can break out, an explosion of quite another kind occurs. There’s a loud bang, followed by anxious shrieks from all three parties. Smoke starts to fill the room, forcing John to cough.
Part 2/2