Part 6. My life with Holmes
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarinmum
Pairing: domSherlock\ subJohn
Rating: R for this chapter
Status: 6\9
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 2 season, swearing
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
“Hello?” John stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do for the best: lead the indecisive girl standing outside the door up to Holmes or pick up his bag and hurry to the other side of town, where he was being waited for. And if not for the despair in the eyes of the young girl in front of him, John would have gone without any hesitation.
“Hell.. Hello. Can I see Sherlock Holmes?” The sloppily-dressed girl stubbornly raised her trembling chin as if definitely resolved. He had seen similar behaviours in people who came to Holmes in the hope of finding a solution to their problems many times before.
“I'll show you the way.” John kindly let her in and led her up the stairs. No matter how much he wanted to stay and hear her story, he indeed was needed in another place. And he was so very late already.
“Sherlock,” he called softly to the detective, who was leaning over some experiment on their kitchen table. Sherlock shook his head almost imperceptibly making it clear that he had heard him.
The phone in John's pocket vibrated persistently, pointing out that he should hurry up.
“I have to leave you.” John smiled kindly and finally whispered to the bewildered and slightly frightened girl on his way out, “I strongly advise you not to hold anything back, then you'll have a chance of interesting him in your case.”
Leaving the nervous client and bored detective alone with each other, John had no doubt that they would be able to communicate on their own, without his participation in the process. The unexpected call from Bill was a real rescue for John. If he’d had to be alone with Holmes at least a couple of hours more, he was not sure that he would have refrained from fighting. The constant carping, endless stings of experiments and continuous demands for him to be in Sherlock's presence all the time were playing hard on his nerves. A week without a case and he was ready to run away, anywhere, just to give himself a chance to breathe freely away from Holmes's attention.
John got off at the required station and went to the right address. Bill knew his passion for street fighting, so he always tried to give him shifts on interesting ones. His current assistant, Charlie, a rather intelligent guy who usually worked with Bill, was glad to see him as they were old buddies.
“Today we have some interesting guys, great that you were able to come.”
John, with a smile, followed his young assistant through the crowd and past security. He watched two rounds with interest until it was time to do the duties for which he was here in the first place. He had just finished applying bandages to an unlucky bloke who had smashed his head, when Charlie burst in, calling for him to watch the next round.
“The guy is really good although he doesn't look like the type. You'll like him.”
“You think so?” John had his doubts.
“I'm sure. He rarely participates, and you’ve only been coming here for a few months, so you won’t have seen him in action.
“Ok, let's look at your guy then.”
He heard the familiar roar of the crowd excited by sweat and blood. Exactly for just such moments he would keep coming back to abandoned warehouses, down in dark basements, risking being crushed by an uncontrollable crowd. Risking being caught in a police raid or in an underground riot. All for the sake of the heat from dozen tightly packed bodies, for the sake of excitement and adrenalin rushing through the veins. John would not have traded this for anything.
In his youth, desperately needing money, he had gone down to the ring several times but those days were long gone. From this part of his past, he had a couple of scars and two fused ribs. Now it was enough just to watch.
Down on the ground, fenced by simple boards, one of the fighters was already there. John appreciated the man’s physique and menacing appearance, but as rule all this did not matter against the agility, stamina and accuracy of the applied blows.
“This one?” yelled John in Charlie's ear, pointing to the guy in the makeshift ring.
“No. That’s Pat.” Bill's assistant shook his head and smiled slyly. The crowd exploded with shouts and whistles. John did not even realize at first what kind of reaction it was.
He looked around in confusion. This had never happened in his memory. Utter delight or confusion.
“Here he is!” Charlie was in a hurry to make a bet.
“What are you betting on?”
“On which blow he will cut Pat down with!”
John leaned over the railing for a better view. They, as freelance doctors on such events, had one of the best observation points. The tall thin figure he would have recognized anywhere. In simple jeans, sneakers and bare-chested, Sherlock Holmes looked as appropriate here as in an expansive suit in some smartly furnished room. Painfully pale, wiry with subtle flourishes of scars on his back, chest and barely visible burns on his hands, this Sherlock caused John an almost tangible sense of unease, as if he had been caught peeping.
Holmes raised his hands in greeting and walked to the middle. He slowly looked around the jubilant crowd until he stopped on John’s astonished face as if he had specifically looked for him and was hoping to see him. After winking at him, Holmes returned to the standard ritual of greetings.
He had not expected to meet Sherlock in place like this. And, to be entirely honest, he had not expected to meet him today at all. John did not want much, just a couple hours for himself, without the constant presence of the world's only consulting detective and his vast intellect.
He liked living at Baker Street, he liked Mrs. Hudson, and although he was still paid for being a nanny for Holmes, John was not going to spend every minute of the day next to him. He had his own life and people who he wanted to spend time with.
John did not bet on Holmes, he was sure the detective would win and felt it was wrong to do so.
Looking at the way Holmes flew away from attacks was exciting. John unconsciously held his breath every time his opponent's fists were dangerously close to Sherlock, but they never reached their goal. After a series of lightning strikes, his opponent was defeated by the detective who triumphantly raised his bleeding arms in the air and did a victory lap.
“Poser,” John muttered under his breath, shaking his head in admiration. He looked at the broken skin of the detective’s knuckles and frowned. It was hard to believe that such an experienced fighter as Holmes had got so beaten up. And as usual, John needed only to wait for Sherlock to solving this little puzzle for him. Although, he already suspected the reason.
A dark curly head flashed among the crowd, soon appearing on the stairs leading to their little room. So he was right in the end.
“I understand that I can get first aid here?” Holmes pointedly looked around with an innocent expression. Charlie whistled enthusiastically.
“I'm your biggest fan! All the guys put bets only on you.”
Not paying any attention to him, Sherlock walked right up to the bewildered Watson and licked the broken skin of his knuckles.
“Is everything ok, John?... John?” Charlie sounded really concerned.
“Yes.”
“Then I won't bother you.” Charlie raised his eyebrows significantly, throwing an expressive glance at their rather compromising position.
“Haven’t you got a new case?” John hissed irritably, pulling peroxide from the shelf.
“Maybe.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I came to get my doctor.”
++**++
While living with Sherlock, John has made a number of significant findings. First, Sherlock has never chased money and would refuse even very rich clients if he did not find anything exciting in the investigation of their problems. And at the same time, he could be absent for days staying somewhere in the slums of London helping some suspicious character if the case gave him an opportunity to show off his skills. Secondly, the detective's mind could not tolerate boredom.
There were a number of other observations that helped John, one way or another, to understand the character of the man in whose company he spent almost all of his time, rarely having the opportunity to escape from the relentless surveillance bordering on obsession.
That is why he had no doubt that the case Greg wanted to meet him about might be interesting for the detective. Lestrade had invited him to the pub and was rather apologetic about the fact that they’d had to meet for a work-related matter. But the matter was really too important to ignore. He asked for John's help in a case of some missing children.
At the pub, John politely asked, “What will you have?”
“Only water, I’m driving.”
When they were seated, Greg with his water and John with a pint of his favourite beer, Lestrade briefly outlined the whole course of events and most key moments of the investigation. Watson listened attentively, making notes in his notebook. It was one thing to read dry lines of reports and statements, and quite another to be listening to the professional who was most concerned with the matter.
“Sherlock only has two low-intensity investigations at the moment. In my opinion, he has taken them from utter boredom. One case, however, is rather unusual - I'll call it "Identification" in my blog”, John told the DI, enthusiastically. “I can't promise anything, but I'll do everything in my power to convince Holmes to take this one.”
“I would be very grateful. Sherlock has already refused for some reason, but now I have hope. And all because of you, John.” Greg wearily tousled his short grey hair. “I don't like to think that I could have done something more for these children but never did.”
“You’re expecting too much from me,” John noted sadly. “I'm not sure he will listen to me. Especially if he’s refused once already.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Hmm?”
“You're not right in saying that he won't listen to you. I think you're the only person other than his brother and Mrs. Hudson that he treats differently from all others.”
“Um… I don't know, I don't know.”
There was something in Lestrade's words that alarmed John. Sherlock was not the easiest person to live and work with, and the fact that even after a minute examination you were not included in the category of "case", "dull" or "tedious nuance" could be the best compliment that one could receive from the detective. And now John saw the confirmation of his speculation from another person’s perspective. If Lestrade, the only person out of their mutual acquaintances who had known Holmes for a long time (apart from his older brother), said that, then there was something in his words.
Greg gave him a lift to Baker Street. After parking at the curb he pulled out a few folders and, with a sigh, gave them to John.
“Sorry, we met up for this purpose. If only our reasons for getting together weren't so grim. Ideally, I’d rather we didn’t meet for work reasons at all.”
Since the DI had been released from the hospital, the only happy occasion that John had had for meeting him had been the celebration for the said hospital discharge, all the other occasions had been, in one way or another, connected with work.
John opened the door with his key and lingered for a bit on the stairs. From Mrs. Hudson's apartment came the familiar sounds of a late night television show. The stairs creaked as usual under his feet as he slowly climbed upward, mentally preparing himself for a conversation with Sherlock.
The detective as usual had occupied the sofa and was busy staring at the ceiling. And when John appeared, he just gave him a quick once other and again returned to the contemplation of the ceiling.
“You met Lestrade. And you should not have drunk a third pint. After more than two you became distracted, although more pleasant. And I don't like the smell of beer,” Holmes muttered under his breath. “The DI wanted you to hand me some papers about a case… judging by the photos sticking out, about the missing blind children… Hmm…”
John came closer to better hear the detective's muttering. Sherlock threw another look at the folder in his hands and went back to grumbling, but now quite illegibly.
“You have nothing interesting on. Will you take this case?”
“I'll accept on one condition,” Holmes said quickly. John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. A bargaining detective could mean anything: from experiments in the bathroom to… he did not want even to continue to pursue this idea. The evening had turned out not to be very pleasant already so far.
“I think you'll take it nevertheless. At least, you won't be bored.”
“No, only on one condition.”
“And what is it?” sighed John and waved the pile of folders in front of the detective's face.
“I want to look at that scar on your shoulder - the bullet wound,” elaborated Holmes.
Oh, of course, the detective also knew about his other scars. Most likely, he had delved into his hospital records. Wanker.
“What?... And don't look at me like that. I just want to make sure that I heard you correctly”.
“To examine your scar - that’s my condition. Do you agree?”
John frowned. It was not in Holmes’ nature to ask for something. Most of the time, if he wanted something, he simply demanded not asked. Besides, he could claim it from him as an employer. In the end, John had agreed to be his assistant. And that this strange request was related to one of Holmes's experiments was not even questioned. Why would Holmes look at his scar if not for an experiment? Reassured by his conclusions, John had not further doubts.
“All right. Where do you want me?” John froze. His words sounded ambiguous - and not only to himself, he was sure.
“Here. But if you want we can do it in your bedroom… I have an emmm... experiment going in my room... and I don't want you seeing it.”
“If it is somehow connected with what you are taking from Molly, I just don't want to know. Just don't….” After some thinking he decided to elaborate. “You said you don't like me smelling of beer. Are you are ok with that now?”
He had already got over the embarrassment and watched the chaotic activity of the strangely over-excited detective. Holmes initially fumbled with some papers, scattering them around. Then he ran to the kitchen, but quickly returned. Of course, he ignored his question.
“What are you waiting for? Let's go.”
John looked doubtfully at the enthusiastic detective. This idea was growing less attractive every passing minute. As if reading his mind, Sherlock just grinned at him.
Stepping into his bedroom, John first of all turned on the light. Then, after some thought, he pulled off his sweater and hung it neatly on a chair. His shirt followed it shortly after. Holmes waited patiently while he unbuttoned it without any comment.
There was something intimate in what was happening, though this was not the first time the detective had been in his room. Usually, he came to him at any time, regardless of John’s presence or absence, whether he was preparing for bed or getting dressed. He had even come in the middle of the night, demanding attention or assistance. But this time was different.
Not for the first time, he was under Holmes’ close observation. And every damn time, he felt awkward. He was not embarrassed; John was not ashamed of either his body or his scars, evidence of a turbulent life. But Sherlock's gaze was as palpable as touch.
Holmes got very close. Too close for John's comfort. He mumbled something barely audible. John only heard "through", "back" and maybe even "amazing", he was not sure. He could endure it as long as the detective did not touch him, therefore he immediately recoiled from an unexpected touch to his neck and whirled away. Holmes didn’t even look guilty.
“We didn’t agree to that,” John stated, slowly pronouncing each word for emphasis. “You can look but not touch.”
“Arghhh! Words, words!”
“I said no.”
“John…” Sherlock stilled, his eyes lit up strangely, and John decided to change his tactic urgently. The detective didn’t like being told no. Also he was not the only one able to bargain.
“I want to visit my sister. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
After some thinking John decided to clarify: “You will do that for me?”
“I want to touch you. Will you allow me?”
“Wash your hands for a start. God knows where they've been today.”
“Alright,” snorted Holmes.
John turned to face the wall and waited patiently for Holmes to return. He decided not to sit on the bed; it would be too uncomfortable for him if the two of them were sitting right next to each other… on the bed…. No, too much for him. So John decided just to suffer the other man’s presence standing up. When Sherlock returned and stood behind his back, he could feel his hot breath and body heat.
John shivered.
In the silence of the room only their breathing and the sounds of the street, coming from the half-open window, could be heard. Then even those sounds ceased; it seemed the only two of them were left in the whole world.
Sensitive fingers once again started with his neck, running down the prominent vertebrae, then slid up to the ugly scar of healed skin on his shoulder. John felt every light touch, even to the areas where his damaged skin was less sensitive.
John tensed. He felt no threat. He was just uncomfortable standing with his bare back to the man who, John knew now for sure, could in one movement break his neck. And he did not want to think of how they might look to someone else seeing them in this position.
“Relax.”
“Easer to say than to do,” hissed John.
“Recall for me Lestrade's words.”
“Well…a few years ago, three blind teens aged 13 to 14 were kidnapped. Except for the fourth one - Brian Bower. He is deaf-mute. All the kids disappeared in the middle or near the city centre.” John started to calm down. “The last place they all were seen was a special school for children with similar disabilities. Supposedly they were kidnapped down the road from the school towards the bus stop. No witnesses, no leads. No requests for money - so no clues to find the kidnappers. Their bodies have not been found. That could mean that either they are still alive, which is unlikely, or that the bodies were very carefully disposed of, which is much more likely…. There was a theory about a serial killer. Judging by the numerous clippings of articles that Greg gave to me, this supposed killer was even given a nickname - Spider. Rather questionable, but typical newspaper stuff. Police were working on several trails, one of which was about elite clubs with er... specific services.”
“For your comfort, let's call them just clubs.”
“Er … if you say so.” John frowned. “But whatever we call them, the meaning will stay one and the same. The police checked this lead with no result. I didn't quite understand how they got this clue, Lestrade's explanation was rather confusing. Then the kidnappings suddenly stopped and now, six months later, a new one.”
“I remember this case.” Sherlock suddenly sighed loudly and quickly added. “Tomorrow after our visit to your sister we're going to question the parents of the last victim.”
John nodded, glad that he would have a chance to visit Harry in the clinic. If he hadn’t been distracted by the plans for tomorrow, he would have realized what had just happened more quickly. At least he had a justification for his slow reaction.
“What the fuck?... You… You licked me!” John knew he looked silly with his mouth open but he couldn’t help it.
“I wanted to do that and I did,” said Sherlock, already texting somebody on his phone as if nothing had happened. “Thank you, John. You've been most helpful.”
Although he was curious to know in what way exactly he had been so helpful, John decided not to elaborate, closing the door with relief after the detective's departure. Then, while lying in bed, he spent a long time stroking the place at the base of his neck where the feel of a hot tongue still lingered.
++**++
Waking up before dawn from a nightmare, the details of which he did not want to remember, but was unlikely to ever be able to forget, John lay still with his eyes wide open, listening to the silence. He couldn’t tell if he was alone in the house. He knew that Mrs. Hudson was probably downstairs. She would hardly have gone somewhere at five in the morning. With Holmes it was harder to tell - the detective might be gone anytime at night - but John had lain awake for a long time during the night, so he would have heard the sound of a slamming door.
Going into the kitchen, the first thing John always did was to turn the kettle on. Without his morning dose of tea, he simply didn’t feel like a decent human being. Feeling a persistent gaze on him, he didn’t look around.
“Breakfast?” Even knowing the answer, John still felt obliged to ask all the same.
“Only tea.”
John, still feeling wrecked from his restless sleep, was slowly moving around the kitchen, making tea and toast with jam.
“We need milk. And eggs.” Looking at the meagre contents of their fridge, he was glad that he didn’t come across something that had no place on the shelves - of normal people, anyway, in which category they were, of course, not included.
“The car will be here in 30 minutes,” said Sherlock, his head bent over his tea.
“Good.” John returned his attention to his plate of toast, pretending not to notice the snatching hand of the detective, who was going to have tea only.
Thirty minutes passed quickly. Only as he sat on the back seat of yet another black unmarked car did he realize how nervous he had felt all morning. And he had every reason to worry. He knew all too well that any kind of treatment could only be successful if a patient wished to be cured. And in the case of his own sister, John was not certain of anything.
During the second visit to the clinic, he had been asked not to come again, limiting all his communication with Harry by phone. Mycroft explained that from then on he would have to get special permission, but he just saw this as a new form of manipulation that he wouldn’t be able to prove.
Digging his fingers through Harry’s soft blond hair, he could hardly believe that what was happening to them was real. After his arrival, he had met her doctor and discussed her progress. Not fearing any regression, he asked to be taken to his sister.
“Everything will be just fine.” John frowned at his own tone and decided to be honest, not really knowing to what he was referring in fact. “Sooner or later it will end, and you'll be able to return.”
“How is she?” The unexpected question made him wince. It pushed unwanted feelings onto him, forcing the words to stick in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about Harry's ex-wife - she’d always stood between them. From the beginning, she had been between them.
“I just want you to try… I’ve never asked you that before. So just try.”
They couldn’t break their embrace for a long time when it was time for him to leave. He refused to let go, gently stroking Harry's back with soothing movements. The leaves quietly rustled above their heads, it was another ordinary autumn day.
In the car, he turned around and stared at the empty road behind him for a long time. John couldn’t believe that he had the opportunity to change something for the better, but he was willing to work with what he had.
Holmes had waited all this time in the car and said nothing, surprising John who was expecting at least one barbed comment about wasted time. They stopped in a respectable area of London near a nice house with a wrought fence, through which they could see the lawn and a small summer-house under the trees.
John involuntarily straightened his jacket and collar. It turned out that Brian's family was quite wealthy, but they still hadn’t received any demands for money. And now all they could do was try to cope with each other's grief. He quickly caught the sleeve of Holmes's coat and pulled him back.
“Sherlock, I'm begging you, restrain yourself a little,” he muttered.
All his past experience told him that he could only ask and hope that his request would at least have some influence on the detective’s behaviour. If he behaved as usual, they would most likely be simply thrown out of the house. But perhaps they would have time to find out something important before that happened.
“We are from Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes announced over the intercom and eagerly opened the unlocked gate.
They were waited for. A woman with tears in her eyes opened the door to them. Judging by the similarity to the photo of Brian, she was his mother.
“Good day, Mrs. Bower,” John hurried to greet her, not trusting detective in this.
“Just Amanda,” sniffed the distraught woman. “Inspector Lestrade warned me to expect you. Although I don't think I can add anything to what has already been said.”
John was pleasantly surprised by Holmes’ restrained behaviour while he asked some very strange questions. Then Sherlock asked to have a look not only into the boy's room, but even in the basement and did everything without making any inappropriate remarks.
After questioning Amanda for no more than 15 minutes, Holmes went to talk to the staff, leaving John to sit with the grieving mother. They hadn’t been able to meet the boy's father and his uncle.
“What about Mr. Bower? Shall we visit him in his office?” John looked at his watch. No wonder he was so hungry, it was twenty past three.
“Later if we need to.”
“Don't you think it's strange that Brian is different from the other missing children? Why not choose a blind kid again? After all, someone took them because of their blindness. What do you think? “
“Yes, yes, John. I need to go to Barts.”
“Do you need me?”
“… No. Go back to Baker Street. I might need your assistance, so don't plan anything.”
At first, John really was going to return to Baker Street, but he decided that he did not want to cook at all. Especially, as he would have to drop by the store and buy something first. So he called Bill, wishing that his last girlfriend was still present and was cooking for him. Although the ability to cook was the last thing that interested Murray in his girlfriends. In addition, John hoped to gain some information from him. And ok, Bill was his friend - he didn’t need excuses to see him.
He had met Murray long before Afghanistan, but after being invalided out he didn’t imagine they would cross paths one day. But life was always full of surprises and they crossed paths again and again. And now he, John Watson, was sitting in the kitchen in not very affluent area of London and was looking at the man whom he had met one rainy morning a few years ago.
“Hey, do you have anything to eat?”
Bill smirked and silently rose from the table.
“You’re lucky that I have yesterday's left-over risotto.”
“You cook?”
“Of course,” grinned Bill.
“Fuck the prejudice! Marry me.”
Having finished his portion, John leaned back contentedly in his chair and watched as Bill washed the dishes. The muscles on his back were moving harmoniously under a faded t-shirt - the simple actions lulling him with their monotony. John forced himself to shake off sleep, now was not the best time to rest.
“Bill, is there any chance that you remember the Spider case, the serial kidnapper of blind kids?” he asked, deciding not to beat around the bush.
“Another interesting case for Holmes?” Bill asked, curiously, receiving only a vague shrug from John in return. “Hmmm… How long has it been?”
“Since 2007. And a new kidnapping a few days ago.”
“Ok. Let me think… I returned at the end of 2008. And I remember the hype in media. There were a lot of rumours, and we thought it all was due to some club for perverts.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing else. I can ask the guys if you want.”
“No, thanks though.”
He was not surprised to get a new message from Holmes. He had the impression that Sherlock knew just exactly when to send his bloody texts.
Baker Street. Urgent. SH.
John already knew from hard-gained experience that nothing good came from such messages. And of course he was right. To his regret, Sherlock didn’t share any conclusions about the case with him, and they spent the whole evening fighting with the fire alarm. In fact, to be quite accurate, it was John who fought with the fire alarm while Sherlock was busy with an absolutely mad experiment with fire.
part 7