Fic for koshartu: The Case of the Meddling Siblings
Title: The Case of the Meddling Siblings
Recipient: milverton @ AO3 (koshartu )
Author: destntoast
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: Teen
Warnings: References to drug use/abuse; discussions of sexuality
Summary: Mycroft and Harry Watson team up to send John and Sherlock on a case to distract a Sherlock who’s been pining after John. And Harry, at least, is determined to get the boys together. Two sets of Holmes & Watson shenanigans ensue. (post-S2 AU)
Notes: This story grew well beyond what I initially intended, in part because I had a lot of fun using about 2/3 of the awesome prompt ideas, even though the recipient offered them as separate suggestions (e.g., Mycroft & Harry interacting, case!fic, pining!Sherlock, something to do with travel). So this is just Part 1, to be continued after reveal (on AO3)! I hope that’s it’s a satisfying beginning. Happy Holmestice, dear recipient! :)
Also, a big shoutout to my betas and Britpicker (to be named after the reveal) - they were tremendously helpful! However, I rewrote substantially after the Britpicking, and if I introduced any new errors in as a result, the fault is entirely mine. (Feel free to point them out if you spot any!)
Also on AO3: The Case of the Meddling Siblings
CHAPTER 1
"Sir, there's one more thing that needs your attention -- I believe it's time to invoke Project Domino."
Mycroft stared up at Anthea over his papers. "Harry Watson?" She nodded, handing him a file. He flipped through it briefly and frowned. "You're right; circumstances warrant it. Is there a suitable case?"
Anthea smiled. "I've got just the one, sir. I'll make sure the Times covers it, with the correct details."
"Excellent."
* * *
"Just a bit posh, yeah?" was Harry's first comment about Mycroft's abode. He watched as she set her suitcase down with exaggerated care on the mahogany floor of his personal office, and then took a wide stance and cocked an eyebrow. She clearly hoped to signal confidence, nonchalance. Yet he also observed her increased blink rate, and the way her hands fidgeted.
"Good evening, Ms. Watson," he greeted her from behind his desk.
"Yeah, hi." She waited, but when he chose to simply watch her to see what she would do, she eventually continued. "Look, not that I don't appreciate your offer to put me up, but -- why? We only met at that one Christmas party. I wasn't sure you'd even remember me, much less be inviting me over."
"Oh, I think you underestimate your memorability." Mycroft replied drily. He was fairly certain that all the guests remembered her ignominious appearance.
Harry flushed just a little. "Oh, well. I, uh, don't remember that night too well. I might have had just a bit too much to drink…?" She bit her lip, waiting for further hints of what she'd done. Mycroft made a noncommittal noise and leaned back in his chair. It was not in his current interests to make her feel shame or become defensive.
When she got no further answer, Harry continued, "So, why am I here -- and how? It was a bit crazy, you know -- there I am, standing there on the corner, wondering where I'll sleep tonight, and then a big black car rolls up, window rolls down, and a beautiful woman tells me to get in?" She laughed. "Thought maybe I was in some kind of movie, James Bond or something. You know?" Mycroft unfortunately did know. His parents were fans of the Bond franchise, despite its gross inaccuracies and questionable narrative structures.
"And then when she said that someone was concerned about me and wanted to offer me their guest room? And I hadn't told a soul that I needed one? I thought maybe it was actually some sort of horror thriller. You know?" She laughed again, more nervously. Mycroft viewed that genre with even more distaste and was less familiar with it, but he took her point.
"I contacted you because I need your assistance," Mycroft said. "It's to do with your brother."
Harry straightened. "John? What's he done?" Interesting. Mycroft made a note to find out what incidents in the Watsons' personal history led her to leap to that conclusion.
"It's not something he's done, yet." Harry relaxed just a little, but her brow furrowed. "But I'm worried about him. Well, I'm primarily worried about my brother, truth be told. Sherlock has been extremely moody lately, but it's affected John's temper as well, and they're playing off one another. I fear my brother's tendencies toward dark pursuits if this should continue."
"Dark pursuits…?"
"Heroin, among others." Harry's eyes widened. "Should he begin down that path, he would, based on past evidence, be likely to spiral very deeply, very quickly."
She nodded and grimaced. He knew she was personally familiar with such spirals, if not that particular drug. "How bad does he get?"
"Disappearance, for long stretches. Overdose. Brief bouts of clinical death." He smiled thinly.
"Oh, God! That would be terrible for John." Belatedly, she blurted, "And that must be so hard on you!" He nodded with false gratitude for her sympathy. He would rather not be discussing any of this, much less with someone outside the family. But it was a useful time to build empathy with Ms. Watson.
Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, so -- what do we do? Should we be preparing for an intervention? Does that sort of thing even work for Sherlock?" she asked doubtfully.
Mycroft smiled grimly. "No, it does not. He needs a distraction -- they both do. Something interesting enough to stop the negative feedback cycle."
"A case?" Harry smiled tentatively.
Mycroft inclined his head. "One that takes them far away from London and its temptations -- there's one in the Lake District that should be perfect."
"Sounds good." Harry frowned. "So, what do you need me for?"
He smiled, rising from his chair and leading her across the room to a door different from the one she'd come in by. She followed him out the door and down a side hall. "You'll be working with me to monitor both Doctor Watson and Sherlock throughout the case, assessing your brother's moods and responses. Your lifetime of experience with him makes you the perfect expert for the job --"
"Just as you are an expert on Sherlock?" Harry sounded amused.
"Precisely. Together, we will monitor and ensure that both of our brothers are back on a more even keel by the end of the case." He opened the door onto a smaller room, filled with computer screens.
Harry's eyes were saucers. "Hang on, you literally meant 'monitor?' You mean you're going to send them on a roadtrip to solve a case, and we're going to spy on them?"
Mycroft grimaced. He must persuade her he had their siblings' best interests at heart. "Well, in a sense one might say that, but --"
"Awesome."
* * *
"So, you think it's a good case, then? At least a six?"
"It's a nine, John." John's eyebrows rose. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye while ostensibly keeping his attention on navigating the traffic on the M40. John, often tense and angry recently, was relaxed, open, interested. Had slept better last night after learning of the impending case than he had in two weeks -- as evidenced by the fact that he had taken the time to use a blade to shave this morning, sported a freshly cleaned and ironed shirt, and had taken the scenic route through the park on his morning run (the soil on John's trainers spoke volumes). Sherlock was duly grateful for a case, even if it hadn't been such an interesting one.
"Right -- a Keswick guest house with two deaths," John said, dubious. When Sherlock suggested they visit, John had expressed surprise, even though he'd seen the same newspaper story as Sherlock. John observed so little.
"Two murders. In the same room -- exactly a week apart -- with the door locked from the inside, both times."
"Locked from the inside?" John looked startled.
Despite John's obtuseness, it was good to be back with him. Very good. It had taken a fake death and a prolonged time abroad to make Sherlock realize how satisfying John's presence was, but now he was all too aware. "Did you not read the article, John? The police were present when the body was found each time, meaning that the proprietors themselves did not possess a key. They summoned assistance after becoming alarmed by their guests' failure to check out."
"Right." John stared at him admiringly, and Sherlock smiled. He'd spent the better part of two years thinking every night of John, in part imagining John giving him such looks whenever he successfully tracked down and incapacitated a member of Moriarty's network. (Though he had also -- and more practically -- longed for John's marksman skills and nerves of steel.)
John's admiration faded to puzzlement. "But I thought the police said there was no evidence of foul play? Heart attacks, yeah?"
"That's because the police are idiots," Sherlock said. John grinned at him, and Sherlock felt a spike of warmth shoot through his gut. It felt so good -- almost like the old days. But ever since returning, it hadn't been like the old days.
At first, Sherlock thought that it was because he wasn't seeing John as much, since he'd started a practice outside London after Sherlock's presumed death and rented a new flat. But even after John moved back to 221B, it was better, but not the same. Sherlock grew more and more out of sorts as he tried to figure out why.
He'd speculated it was because of the nightmares that he didn't want to let John out of his sight. Dreams that by all rights should stop, now that the stimuli were gone -- about what would happen to John if he failed to track down all of Moriarty's snipers. Nightmares, too, about coming back and finding John no longer needed him. And the lingering worry, even while awake, whenever John was not present -- such as when he disappeared upstairs at night -- that something might have happened to him. But empirically, he'd determined that even observing John while he slept was insufficient to settle his disquiet.
"The police might also be lying," he continued, keep his expression in the neutral-to-positive mode that John expected when they were setting out on a case, despite the darker thoughts running through the back of his mind. "The article said the guest house remains open, but the proprietors are not letting out that room at this time -- which either means the police are still investigating it and don't want anyone to know, or the proprietors themselves have doubts about the cause of death."
John pondered. "Does anything actually rule out heart attacks?"
In spite of all John's flaws and appalling lack of critical thinking skills, after testing many hypotheses (several of which involved provoking negative responses from John; thoroughness was vital to good science), Sherlock had been forced to admit the unavoidable truth. He craved John, in a way that he'd only craved a few substances in the past. And, in some way, he wanted more than what they'd had before.
Sherlock snorted. "Did you read the article next to the one about the guest house?"
"Erm. No?"
Sherlock felt that all the time spent away from John now needed to be made up for, with interest. As to the what exactly he would find satisfying, Sherlock was not entirely certain. Had shied away from considering it in any detail, given the irrelevance of his desire when mapped upon the reality of John Watson's own very different wants.
"There have also been a number of mysteriously missing chickens in the same area."
John frowned. "How is that relevant?"
His greatest fear now was John leaving. It was an inevitability that John would, eventually, leave 221B for some woman. The threat had never seemed very real or concerning before Sherlock had faked his death, but now it was all-consuming. And Sherlock was concerned that his recent discontent -- the broken rhythm of their previous partnership -- might accelerate this process. Yet he could not seem to control his darker moods. And sometimes John's response was almost gratifying; lacking John's desire, he craved the heat of John's anger only a bit less than that of John's admiration.
He was, indeed, very glad for a case to distract them both.
"I'm not sure yet. But I'd say it almost certainly means the deaths are murders."
John brightened. "Ah, right then. Good." Sherlock felt the warmth inside of him again as they both laughed, and did his best to banish all useless thoughts into a different wing of his mind palace.
* * *
"God, they're indecently happy about people being murdered," Harry said, standing just inside the doorway of Mycroft's spy headquarters and yawning. The room was small, but not cozy -- a single table with two chairs sat in the middle of walls of screens on all sides, just a meter or so away in any direction. A high, dark ceiling and a lack of lighting other than a few dim sconces (to avoid glare on the screens? she wondered) completed the room's ominous feel. The only concession to comfort was a thick Oriental carpet, which Harry dug her bare toes into as she watched John and Sherlock from several angles on various monitors, listening to their surround sound conversation.
Mycroft turned to look at her over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow. "How well do you know your brother?"
"Yeah, all right -- guess I've known he was a morbid bugger ever since he signed up to dissect dead bodies in med school," she said, cracking a grin. "The army and Sherlock Holmes haven't made matters any better, though."
She stood a long moment, contemplating the strange man who was her host. He wasn't as much of a blighter as Sherlock was -- at least not in any obvious ways, like saying horrible things to your face -- but he seemed to be at least as cold and calculating. And even though he claimed to be looking out for her little brother, she didn't necessarily believe it. Which was part of why she was still here, despite the weirdness of the whole situation -- to watch out for John's best interests.
Also kipping in a far nicer bed than she would have managed to find of her own accord.
And, okay, she was hardly about to pass up the chance to observe up close the wacky hijinks of her brother and his bizarre live-in detective. If John's blog was entertaining, how much better would this be?
She shuffled over and slouched into a chair next to Mycroft, trying not to feel self-conscious of her disheveled t-shirt and shorts she sported next to his impeccable suit. No point in letting him intimidate her, though. She put her feet up on the table and ignored his disapproving glance.
"How did you sleep?"
"Oh, I slept terrifically well," she lied cheerfully, hoping he wasn't as observant as his brother. Her eyes couldn't look that good at this point, but she didn't feel like talking about it. "Your guest bed is very comfortable." That much was true -- and hey, if she was going to spend a night tossing and turning with occasional bonus bouts of crying, might as well be a cushy one. "Sorry I'm late to the party."
Mycroft shook his head. "It's not a concern. You haven't missed much -- they're only a half hour outside the city."
She nodded. "Good. Oh, and cheers for the breakfast waiting for me this morning. Very in keeping with the 'posh hotel' vibe you've got going on here. What is that you do, anyway, that supports this sort of lifestyle, and all of this?" She tried to sound casual as she waved at the wall of monitors, and to not let her desperate curiosity seep through into her voice.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It reminded her of Sherlock's smile, when he was talking to Harry -- when he was talking to most people who weren't John, or Mrs. Hudson. "I occupy a minor role in the British government. A rather boring one, I'm afraid, that leaves me too much time to think about my wayward brother."
"Ah," she said, a bit skeptical. "Well, I admit I got peckish in the middle of the night and went exploring… why are all the doors around here shut and locked?"
Mycroft tilted his head and stared at her a long moment. "It cuts down on dust."
She stared back. "Uh-huh."
She swung her feet back down to the floor. Gathering her hair into a haphazard bun, she grabbed a pen from the table in front of Mycroft and shoved it through her locks, holding them in place. Mycroft shot her a look of something approaching horror. "What?" she frowned. "You weren't using it. Okay, so tell me about this setup. How are you pulling off this Creepster-Vision thing?"
Mycroft let out a pained sigh. "There are small cameras and audio detectors placed at several points throughout their vehicle, as well as in some of the luggage."
"Right." Harry pointed at two of the monitors. "So here, where we can see their faces from above, are those in the visors?" Mycroft nodded. "And then some of these must be from the backseat -- and then these black screens are the boot?" Another nod. She whistled. "It's amazing that you've got cameras so small that they can't even detect, and with such a good picture. And that you got it all rigged up without them noticing. How'd you manage any of that?"
When Mycroft didn't immediately answer, she continued, "More importantly, can you do it again? I have someone I'd like to keep an eye on -- several someones, actually --"
"No."
"Come on," she wheedled. "One of them is living in a flat that is rightfully mine, so it wouldn't even be --"
"No."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "I'm going to report you for gross misappropriation of government equipment."
When he seemed completely unmoved, she sighed and turned back to the monitor. "Right, well. Plenty of time for me to get you to change your mind while we spy on our little brothers."
* * *
John was happy. They were playing deductions -- one of Sherlock's favorite games. John would make guesses about the owners of cars sharing the road with them, and Sherlock would tell him all the ways that he was wrong. And then John would laugh, astounded at how Sherlock's mind worked. Somehow it never got old, though John almost never got anything right.
"What about that people carrier, John?" Sherlock asked, pointing at a vehicle slightly ahead and to their left. "What can you tell me about the driver?"
"Erm, well…" John tried to focus on the question, but to a large extent he didn't care about getting anything right. He was just happy to be spending time with Sherlock while he was in a good mood, and not wreaking any havoc on the flat. "The vehicle registration plate starts with B -- they're from Birmingham, then, likely headed home from a visit to London."
Sherlock's behavior since John had moved back in had been, at times, nearly intolerable -- turning the heat off for three days this past winter to test the difference between how quickly pipes froze upstairs versus. downstairs (Mrs. Hudson had not been happy about that one, either). Experimenting with different acids on a number of John's clothes ("I wasn't about to destroy my own -- you needed new clothing anyway, John.") And the experiment with all the body parts decomposing on the kitchen counter for a week -- well.
All of those times, though, were better than the times that Sherlock sunk onto the sofa and didn't move for days on end, unmoved by Lestrade's attempts to interest him in unsolved crimes, or John's attempts to get him to mock whatever was on the telly. Mrs. Hudson tried to bring food or tea. All of them were ignored at best and snapped at more cruelly than usual at worst. And they were all concerned.
John searched the vehicle for more clues. "The plate also says it was purchased in 2009..."
John had spent so much time recently oscillating between angry and worried that he'd wondered sometimes why he didn't leave. Find a saner flatmate.
And why haven't you? A little voice asked him. It sounded a bit like Ella's voice. Funny that he'd gone to therapy and gained a voice in his head, asking questions about things he'd rather leave unexamined. There's a panic that sets in when you think about leaving, isn't there? Why is that? He didn't know why. He didn't want to think about it.
Sherlock was watching him. John continued, "... and it's in desperate need of washing, so I'm going to say it belongs to someone with not much time or money to spare."
Is it the nightmares that started when Sherlock died? That haven't fully stopped since he came back? That leave your chest in a vise which only starts to loosen when you hear signs of life -- his violin his dreadful banging -- downstairs? Is that why?
If Ella were really here, asking unwanted questions, he'd tell her that he truly was just worried about Sherlock. That Sherlock had come back with a look in his eyes John has seen before, from men and women who'd faced the horrors of war -- or worse, been captured -- and come out of it changed. That John didn't want to abandon a fellow comrade in a time of need.
All John wanted was for things to go back to the way they'd been. He hoped maybe this case, a really good case from the sounds of it, would help speed Sherlock along that path toward normalcy -- or as normal as Sherlock ever got.
"Since it's a people carrier," he concluded, "I think it's probably a large family. Parents and four children, let's say -- big enough that there's no hope of squeezing everyone into a smaller car, no matter how tight their budget. And I'll guess that Dad is driving, because that's still statistically more common, I reckon."
John was fairly pleased with his deductions. "How'd I do?"
"Terrible, John." Sherlock sped up and passed the vehicle, letting John see a young female driver, alone save for some long pieces of lumber at her shoulder protruding from the back seat. "How did you not spot the wheel trims?"
John smiled and settled in to hear what he'd missed.
* * *
"For Christ's sake," said Harry, after several hours of deductions. She looked about ready to throw something at the monitors, but Mycroft judged the probability sufficiently low that he felt no need to take preventative measures. "Is this sort of thing all they do together? Don't they ever… talk about anything?"
Mycroft smiled. "We are British."
"Granted." She sighed. "Well, at least they seem remarkably cheery right now. Any idea why Sherlock's been so difficult lately?"
Mycroft shook his head. In a deadpan voice, Harry asked him, "It's because Sherlock is desperately in love with John, isn't it?"
He shot her a startled glance for a fraction of a second before he managed to shut his features' rebellion down into a calm, composed mask.
"What?!" Harry breathed. "Oh my god. Oh my god! I was kidding! Oh my god!" She was laugh-shouting at this point, and Mycroft watched with mild alarm. "Yesss!" she hissed.
He tried not to panic as he stared at her with confusion. "I cannot confirm whatever you believe you have just learned. But why would such a belief excite you?"
"Because this is a problem I think I can fix."
"I shudder to think."
"Says the man with a large bank of monitors trained on his brother. What do you think I could do that's weirder than that?"
He arched an eyebrow. She obviously didn't understand how difficult it was to keep his brother safe, nor the challenges of ensuring Sherlock was not doing anything that put national security at risk. Holmes problems were not normal problems, and they did not have normal solutions. "What sort of fix do you have in mind?"
"Well, if Sherlock were in love with my brother -- which, I know, you 'can neither confirm nor deny,'" she did a remarkably terrible impression of Mycroft, "then if it just so happened that my brother were in love with him back, then we could get the two of them together, and they could live happily ever after."
Mycroft frowned. "Even granting, for the moment, your most questionable string of assumptions -- that is not the goal."
"What?" Harry looked at him with confusion.
"My primary goal for Sherlock is stability, not happiness."
Harry gasped. "What a thing to say! You don't want him to be happy?"
"I didn't say that." He shook his head at her logical fallacy. "I'm unconvinced that short term happiness is the best route toward long term stability, which is what Sherlock needs most. The relationship he once had with John Watson was grounding, good for him. I would like for that dynamic to resume."
Harry blinked. "So you're just dismissing the possibility of them both becoming more happy long term, just like that? I mean, 'ever after' is supposed to imply stability."
"I don't believe in happily ever after, as you say; or rather, I believe that in a chaotic system, it's impractically difficult to optimize for."
"That's… I think that sounds like the saddest maths I've ever heard." She shook her head.
He pursed his lips. She had no idea how Sherlock Holmes worked.
For a little while, they watched the monitors together in silence, although Sherlock and John were currently also quiet, and there was not much to observe. Then, "Okay, but," Harry started. "What if it's not possible for them to go back to where they were before? What if things have changed, and they can't be stable in the same way again?"
"Then they will need to find a new stability. With our help, as necessary."
"And you don't think that new stability could include bonking?"
Mycroft grimaced. "I'm not sure my brother knows what to do with sex, other than be alarmed by it. So no, I don't think adding that element to their relationship would add stability."
Harry frowned. "You think he's asexual?"
"I'm not actually sure," he reluctantly admitted. He hated not knowing things.
"You monitor him day and night, and you don't know if he's had sex?"
"Having had sex and being interested in sex are not the same thing."
She blinked at him. "Fair point. Creepster. So what do you think he does want, then, if he's pining? Romance? Formal declarations of love, commitments to stick together, all that? Doesn't sound very much like Sherlock."
"I don't know if even Sherlock knows what Sherlock wants. And even if he does, what he wants is certainly not always what he should get. In any case, I've seen no evidence that Doctor Watson would be amenable to any of the possibilities outlined."
Harry shrugged. "I actually think he could surprise you on that front. At least, if it was clear to him that Sherlock wanted him, I think there's a good chance he might come around. With my help, anyway."
Mycroft folded his fingers together beneath his chin and contemplated this, startled. What evidence could he have missed about John Watson? If Harry was right, did it change any of his calculations?
"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked sharply, as he noticed Harry pulling out her phone.
"Testing your hypothesis," Harry said.
* * *
The pleasant silence after a particularly satisfying deduction was broken by the sound of John's phone receiving a text.
"Harry?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah -- how'd you know?" John was looking at him with those wide eyes, ready to tell him how fantastic he was.
Sherlock thought of eight possible lies he could tell. "You have a different text alert sound for her."
John blinked and then started laughing, and Sherlock chuckled as well. "Sherlock Holmes, bloody brilliant detective."
John peered down at his phone for a bit, holding it out far from his face -- he needed reading glasses, didn't want them because he didn't want to bother with doctors, but more because they reminded him of his father. If Sherlock got reading glasses for himself and left them around the flat, there was a better than average chance that John would surreptitiously start using them. "Harry wants to know if I know any asexuals," John read, slowly. "For her LGB… a bunch of letters… for an advocacy group she helps run, apparently. Needs someone to come on a panel."
"Mm." Sherlock did not believe Harry was involved in running any such group. She was motivated by socializing -- by meeting people, when she was on the market -- and by drinking, when she was off the wagon, but not by attending or organizing panel discussions. Interesting.
John rubbed his forehead, still staring at his phone. "Don't know why she'd ask me -- who does she think I know? I mean, there's you -- but it's a laugh to think that you'd come talk to her group." He snorted.
"Me?" Sherlock said, confused.
John glanced up at him, also confused now. "Aren't you...? I thought you said… not your area, no?"
Sherlock frowned at his imprecise thinking. "One can't simply equate abstention from sex with asexuality."
John nodded slowly. "Okay, right." Sherlock relaxed -- when had he tensed up? -- and returned to pondering Harry's motives. "So," John said slowly, "you are attracted to people? Sometimes?"
Sherlock gripped the steering wheel tighter, heat creeping into his cheeks. "I am capable" -- he let disdain drip from the word, hoping it would serve to put an end to this line of questioning -- "of feeling attraction." The specifics of his attractions were something he did not want to discuss any further with John in particular.
"Oh. Right." John licked his lips. "So… have you --"
Did John have such a difficult time imagining him as a sexual being? It shouldn't have stung. "Have I ever had sex? Of course I have!" he snapped. "There's nothing wrong with me."
"I didn't mean --" John frowned. "Of course there's not! I was going to ask --"
"Women or men, I suppose? Or some particular position -- do you want a list of those? Really, John. Is your paltry mind so insurmountably focused on the trivialities of sex? Who does what to whom; which bit of anatomy interlocks with which other bits?" He was dimly aware he was overreacting and should probably stop before he caused John to grow angry, but momentum carried him onward. "Yet another reason I've opted out of such matters -- how could I be attracted to the brains of people who are constantly obsessed with trifles such as this?"
"Yes, well, giant loss to humanity. it's hard to imagine how anyone could be attracted to you once you opened your mouth, anyway." John spit back, then pursed his lips and lapsed into silence, glaring out the window.
* * *
"Fuck," Harry said.
"That did not go as well as it might have," Mycroft observed.
"Shut up."
* * *
At the petrol station, John had stalked off into the small nearby town without a word, and Sherlock had let him go. Sherlock filled the car with petrol, then perched on the driver's seat with his hands steepled beneath his chin, contemplating what was wrong with him.
Why couldn't he just answer John's questions like a normal "mate?" -- he could always make up lies when the subject warranted. It was explosive moments like that which would cause John to leave him even sooner. But there was no pretending… If what John Watson wanted was normal conversation, he ought to know by now that he would have to look elsewhere.
He supposed he could try to make an effort to participate in a conventional dialogue periodically. He tried to imagine chatting with John about a match, then discussing some issue John was having with his current girlfriend -- how she'd complained of his forgetting some occasion, or perhaps about some kind of mismatch they'd discovered in their sexual appetites (was that what normal people did, with their mates?). He shuddered. That would not happen.
Everything he had said to John was true. He had no use for normal people -- or truly, for anything that distracted him from his work. And yet, somehow, John was different. It wasn't that John could solve cases -- hardly! -- but they worked better together than Sherlock did alone. Extraordinary. And, equally strange, John appreciated Sherlock. His attention was such a rush that Sherlock wanted to hoard every ounce of it and not spare a drop for anyone else, for the rest of his days.
A futile hope. But Sherlock could at least try not to invoke his anger so frequently, and thus perhaps hold that attention a bit longer.
For now, though, there was a case to solve, and they were not getting any closer while John stomped about, pouting. Sherlock considered going after him to speed the process along. Empirically, however, it worked better to wait for John to come back on his own, rather than to track him down and instruct him to hurry. Even a perfectly innocuous text could sometimes set John off again. No, it was better to let John work things out on his own, and then pretend once he returned that nothing had ever occurred between them.
Sherlock sat and waited, with the patience of a saint.
* * *
John was angry with Sherlock, but also himself. Sherlock was an arse, and ungenerous in his assumptions about John -- he hadn't been planning to ask any of those things that Sherlock had accused him of -- but John had poked him about a topic that he knew was sensitive for Sherlock. John had no idea why it was sensitive, but their rare conversations brushing up against sex or relationships, particularly with regard to the non-theoretical aspects, always caused Sherlock to deflect, often with invective.
In someone else, John might assume it was a sign of closeted homosexuality. But Sherlock seemed to have no issues with others being gay and a complete disregard for social biases. And so John had concluded, early on, that Sherlock was probably asexual, and at least mildly repulsed by things sexual in nature.
It was a startling revelation, after all this time, that he was wrong.
It made him feel off balance. He wanted just a little more information to help him understand. Had Sherlock had past relationships? -- that was what he'd planned to ask. Perfectly reasonable. It was useful to know, for instance, if your flatmate had any nutter exes who might show up.
But that wasn't why you wanted to ask it, Ella pointed out. You wanted to know who he's had relationships with. You would have been happy to know the answers to some of those questions he assumed you would ask. Why does any of that matter?
John didn't know. Sherlock was still Sherlock, after all. But a Sherlock who had definitely had sex, who may have had longer term relationships. The mind boggled. When --? Why--? (For a case?) Who on earth --? John had questions. He found he couldn't stop thinking about them.
Why? Would more information help you to be a better friend?
John couldn't answer that. By all rights, he just shouldn't care one whit.
It didn't matter, though, that he did care. He didn't need to ask those questions aloud; no good would come of it.
He calmed himself down, finally. Sherlock had yelled at him, had implied he was obsessed with trivialities -- but it was nothing John hadn't heard before from him, dozens of times. And John had been unnecessarily nosy. He would just find a way to let Sherlock know that there would be no more questions.
That would come a little later, though. Mentioned in passing, once things were going well with the case. For now, it was best for managing Sherlock's mood that John act like nothing had happened, and they get back on the road.
With a final deep breath and a slow unclenching of his fists, John headed back to the car.
* * *
While John paced his anger away offscreen, Harry paced the small carpet of the monitoring room. She didn't understand. "So, okay. We know Sherlock fancies blokes, right?"
Mycroft stared at her, not deigning to answer.
"I mean, he has to, right? If he's desperately pining for John. And John's a bloke. Then Q.E.D."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, well deduced."
"Right, so, why didn't he just say so, then?" Harry said, exasperated. She flopped dramatically back down into the chair, and she fixed Mycroft with an accusatory stare. "Why did your little brother set everything back so far instead of just stating the truth?"
"And if he had? What might John have felt necessary to clarify about his own desires? I would imagine," Mycroft said softly, with a surprising amount of kindness in his voice, "that the prospect of outright rejection from someone is far scarier than the continuation of a current state of longing."
Harry looked at him, startled. "Well, yeah, I guess… when you put it that way." She felt a little chagrined for having not given Mycroft credit for having emotions.
Then she frowned and looked back at the screen. "Just you watch, though. I have more ideas for how to make this all work out."
Mycroft said drily, "I can hardly wait."
-- TO BE CONTINUED --