Fallen - Chapter 6: Destiny
Title: Fallen - Chapter 6: Destiny
Length: 3653 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and highly platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Fallen - Chapter 6: Destiny
As they entered into one of the labs, Mike laughs softly, clapping John upon the shoulder for what feels like the hundredth time since he clapped eyes on him. Either John is doing a very good job of pretending to be happy to see him, or Mike is so pleased to see John as to be blind to anything else. It’s not a comfortable sensation for him, pretending to be someone he’s not, trying at once to be polite and friendly toward one of Watson’s friends, when all John really wants to do is look for Sherlock.
“You’ll find it’s much changed since when you were here,” Mike warns as he waves an arm at all the computers and equipment. But John isn’t listening any longer. Instead he stands there in astonishment, allowing Watson’s military training to keep him upright and focused, trying desperately not to stare at the man seated in front of a microscope, ignoring the two of them.
Dear God. Sherlock.
Every cell in his body is rejoicing and it takes every ounce of willpower for John to stand steady and look away again, as if he didn’t know every intimate detail of the man sitting just a few meters away from him. To act as if he didn’t know him at all. A soft ring of a cell phone helps to distract him, Mike offering him an apologetic expression before calling out, “I’ll be right back… just need to take this…” Stamford steps out into the hall, leaving the two of them alone.
Turning back to Sherlock, like a piece of metal irresistibly drawn to a powerful magnet, John simply stares before forcing his eyes to drop to the table before him. There’s a dissection tray sitting there, and for a lack of anything better to do he takes a hobbling step forward and starts to rearrange the tools on it.
The silence is almost deafening, John’s mind racing a mile a minute as he cautiously takes in everything he can without making it too obvious. For one, there is no one else in the room with them, which is significant. Sherlock has not been assigned a new Guardian Angel. John’s shoulder flares up abruptly, forcing him to take a deep breath and then deliberately relax, gently rolling it to ease the ache. He’s angry, yes, that Sherlock would be abandoned simply because John overstepped his bounds, but he also feels a peculiar sense of… relief? In this strange way, Sherlock is still… his. No one else is looking after him. Now, if John can only figure out a way to resume his duties.
For another Sherlock looks well. Rested, even. So clearly he has recovered from his swim in the Thames and has been taking care of himself. Or, more likely, someone else has been. One brow lifts as John wonders just who that someone might have been…
“Well,” Sherlock’s voice rings out unexpectedly in a wonderfully rich timbre, “shall we get on with it then?”
John’s ocean blue eyes lift, startled and confused, as he blinks and honestly inquires, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come now. It’s obvious that the reason you’re here is to meet me.”
The rush of panic and adrenaline that fills John’s veins at the idea that he’s been caught out on something wished for rather than intended immediately fizzles out as Sherlock continues.
“Mike clearly brought you here to meet me. Now, he could be thinking of playing matchmaker, since he’s so disgustingly determined to believe that everyone has a soul mate just waiting to be found and takes great delight in trying to match people up. But he knows that I’m married to my work and that I wouldn’t tolerate such interference, never have, so the more likely reason you’re here is because you’re in need of a flatmate.”
“I am?” asks John, not because he’s trying to be dense but because Sherlock is talking to him. Sherlock is talking. To him. It’s all too delicious. Even the look of utter irritation at John’s perceived stupidity is delicious.
“Yes, of course you are. After all, you’re recently invalided from the military. Pension can’t be very much, but here you are, in London, which means that you must be in need of a flatmate because I only just mentioned to Mike earlier today that I was in need of a flatmate and, like I said, Mike is a natural born matchmaker. So! If he can’t match me up with a date, naturally he’ll want to match me up with someone who can help pay the rent.”
“And how exactly did you deduce that?” It’s one thing to watch Sherlock do this to others. It’s something else entirely to have him perform his talents on oneself. John can barely keep the grin off his face, relying entirely upon the skills of Watson to keep his expression neutral with just a hint of wariness.
Sherlock gives him one of those oh so familiar looks that says ‘oh, please it’s so obvious’ before explaining it to John.
“You served in the war. I’m guessing Afghanistan, but it could have been Iraq. You were a doctor there, but also a soldier going by the hammer bite callus on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, so you’ve used a gun regularly. You also have a soldier’s bearing and haircut still, but you rearranged the medical tools on that dissection tray into the correct order for a surgeon, ergo, doctor. Your clothes are a bit too large, but they’re new. Not something you would buy for yourself, naturally, so more likely bought for you as a gift from someone who didn’t realize you’d lost weight. Sudden weight loss, when linked to your military service, suggests you’ve recently spent a fair amount of time in a hospital, most likely recovering from injuries that got you remanded from the front. You favor your left shoulder and were rolling it cautiously when you entered the room, so most likely you were shot there in the line of duty and that’s what brought you home. You’re also limping of course, but that’s not the real problem. You stand perfectly steady and without any apparent pain, it only appears to be a problem when you walk, so most likely psychosomatic. Shall I continue?”
John simply nods before adding, “Yes, please.” He continues to delve into Watson’s muscle memory, adding a dose of confusion and astonishment to his features. Sherlock would expect those reactions.
One brow lifts, as if surprised by John’s affirmative reply, but Sherlock indulges the good doctor.
“You’ve been to Barts before, but not for a while according to Mike’s comment about things being different so, not since University. You and Mike are of an age and he clearly feels like he can be physically close to you, but he’s never mentioned you before. Now, Mike knows that I’m a difficult sort of person to get along with, let alone live with, so he wouldn’t set me up with just anyone, which means based on his memories of you he thinks we’d be a good match. Ergo, you studied together. Were clearly once good friends, or at least Mike considers you a good friend, though you seem a bit indifferent to him now, or perhaps your affections have waned over the years. And for all his faults and proclivities, Mike does tend to be a decent judge of character and realistic about one’s flaws. Do you like the violin? Because I tend to play it when I’m thinking, often in the middle of the night. I also tend to have a number of experiments going on at any given time, I hope that won’t be too bothersome for you. I certainly have no intention of stopping.”
John smiles, glancing down to hide the expression of pleasure on his face. “You…. that was… incredible.” Really the words that were on his lips were ‘you are incredible’, but that would be showing his hand a bit much at this stage of the game. He needs to win Sherlock’s trust, but too much flattery and the consulting detective would close himself off out of suspicion.
Sherlock expression shifts subtly, a hint of surprise and uncertainty touching his eyes as he glances away for a moment, glances back briefly, then drops his gaze down as he leans forward to peer into the microscope once more.
“That was… different.”
“What was?” inquires John blithely.
“That. What you said.” Pale silvery eyes lift, brows creasing as he asks abruptly, “Did you mean it?”
“Of course I meant it,” John replied pragmatically. “Why wouldn’t I? It was, in a word, amazing.” All of it, at the very core, wrong of course, but that’s not really Sherlock’s fault. He can only work with what he can see, after all.
Sherlock lifts his gaze and stares at John for a moment longer before the corner of his mouth quirks. Drawing a pen and a card from his pocket he jots something down and then turns about, pulling on his long black coat and wrapping his blue scarf about his neck. Striding over he hands the card to John, noting, “The address is 221B Baker Street, I wrote it on the card there. Come by this evening, round 5:30, see if the place suits you.” He’s gone in a whirl of black before John even gets the chance to say ‘alright’.
Blinking he stares at the card, turning it over to read where it says, 'The Science of Deduction' along with Sherlock’s name and number. A slow smile spreads across John’s face until he is positively grinning.
And he didn’t even have to pray.
*****
Walking up to the door in question, John rings the bell at 5:30 sharp. Glancing left and right, he can’t help but notice that the neighborhood is a distinct improvement over their last flat. It’s probably more of a combination of convenience, opportunity, and timing, though, rather than an actual desire to improve his conditions. Physical environments, actually physicality in any sense of the word, have never been of much importance to Sherlock. With a huff of air that he can actually see, John waits for someone to open the door, with dwindling hope. He can’t help but wonder if Sherlock will actually be here or if he will have forgotten.
When the door does finally open, it’s not Sherlock standing there but an older woman with silvering hair and a warm smile. “Can I help you?”
Glancing about once more, John fishes the card he was given out of his pocket and studies it again, murmuring, “I’m terribly sorry, do I have the wrong address? I’m looking for 221B Baker Street…”
“Oh, no dear, you have the right address, come in, come in,” she offers, stepping aside to allow John entrance before closing the door and calling up the stairs, “Sherlock! Your young man is here!” A violin is playing, unabated by either John’s ring or her call. Shaking her head she turns to consider John for a moment before offering her hand. “I’m Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, dear. Pleased to meet you, Mr….?”
“Watson. John Watson,” John replies, taking her hand and shaking it politely while looking around.
“Sherlock’s flat is upstairs, 221B. I suppose you must be the young fellow he’s going to be sharing it with then, yes?” She considers John again before dimpling and noting, “There’s an extra room upstairs, should you be needing one...”
John gets the distinct sense that Mrs. Hudson is fishing for something, but what exactly that is he’s not quite certain. Blinking, he offers her a somewhat confused smile and notes, “Well, I suppose I best take a look first, see what is what, and we can move forward from there?”
She gives him a broad, pleased smile and pats his arm. “Right. Off you go then, just right up the stair and give the door a good pounding. He’s like that sometimes, off in his own world somewhere. If you need anything, just give us a call. Be right downstairs.” She opens the door to her flat, pausing to glance up at John as he begins his assent. “Oh, hang on a minute.” She picks up a bundle of mail from a small stand and hands it up to John. “Be a dear and take that up for me.” Her hand pats lightly against her side as she confesses, “I’ve got a hip… but then I see stairs are not exactly your friends either, hmmm?” her gaze coming to rest on his cane curiously. “Oh, and just to be clear on things, I don’t do any cooking or cleaning. Just the landlady, as I said. Rent is due the first of the month.”
John gives the woman a quick smile and nod, watching as she departs, catching sight of the edge of a wing inside her flat just as she shuts the door. Turning he stares at the flight of stairs before sighing, working his way awkwardly up them. Arriving at Sherlock’s door, he knocks lightly at first and, when that doesn’t seem to work, harder.
The music stops abruptly and seconds later Sherlock opens the door, holding the instrument in his left hand. “Ah, John! You’re late,” he notes, even though it would be more accurate to say that Sherlock was a tad late in his response.
Lips twisting, John gives the tall man before him an ironic smile and offers, “Sorry ‘bout that. Damn leg and all,” tapping at the side of it with his cane, offering the mail with his left hand.
Sherlock’s gaze drops to the offending limb and offers a dubious, “Mmmm, yes. Well, come in,” as he takes the mail with a small nod of thanks. Turning about Sherlock carries his violin over to its case, carefully putting it away first before examining the small stack.
John steps into the apartment, drawing to a surprised halt at the fact that it’s filled with stuff. It’s only when he takes a few more steps inside that he realizes that he’s being faced with all of Sherlock’s stuff. His… stuff. The belongings that should have gone up in flames along with his old flat. How is this possible?
The next thing he realizes is that there is a strangely acrid smell to the air. Sniffing curiously, John’s gaze comes to rest on the back of Sherlock’s head as he notes bemusedly, “Smells rather… have you been smoking?” John realizes the slip the moment the words leave his mouth, but fortunately Sherlock is currently too preoccupied with sorting through his mail to take notice.
“Can’t keep up a smoking habit in London these days, and Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, complains about the smell,” Sherlock rumbles as he ends up just taking the mail to the mantle and pinning it into place with a knife before glancing about at his sundry possessions. “Yes, well, that is what happens when one’s previous flat burns to the ground. No matter though. Everything that was important got saved. Every once in awhile boredom is a surprisingly useful catalyst.”
Boredom?
Glancing around John looks at the objects around the room before he breathes, “You protected them…” as the realization strikes.
Just because you’re a Guardian Angel doesn’t necessarily mean you know what your human is doing or thinking at any given moment. Unless they’re the sort to talk aloud to themselves or doing something obvious, sometimes their actions can be quite curious and elusive. But John remembers now. A day when Sherlock was in a bored fit and searching through spell books to pass the time until one caught his attention. That day when he went through all of his belongings, tossing them this way and that as he “sorted” them, to use the term generously, into piles of ‘boring’ and ‘not boring’.
Nothing in the room is from the ‘boring’ pile. Sherlock was enchanting them, putting protection spells on them.
It’s not until he notices that Sherlock is staring at him that John realizes that he’s said that earlier statement aloud and that it was entirely the wrong thing to have said. A normal person would have made some sort of exclamation about the fire, words of condolence perhaps or concern? Sherlock is looking at him with shrewd and keen interest that indicates that John has done something unexpected and surprising. It’s not a look that one sees on Sherlock’s face very often.
It only takes the consulting detective a moment to deduce the answer. Fortunately, for once, he’s asking himself the wrong question. “You’re a Sensitive.”
John’s weight shifts as he turns to face Sherlock, cane thumping on the floor as he decides there’s no point in denying it. His chin lifts up slightly, almost aggressively, as if he were admitting to something less than savory.
“Yes. Yes I am…”
Sherlock continues to stare at him with cool, slanted eyes, before a slow, almost wicked smile curls his lips as he replies with relish, “Excellent.”
Sherlock is all about using whatever is at hand for his own purposes, treating people like disposable tools left and right. He’s staring now at John as if he just discovered a brand new Leica scanning electron microscope in his living room. However, this pleasure at his newfound discovery, and whatever personal gratification it allots him, is just as quickly forgotten as his gaze shifts toward the window. Familiar red and blue flashing police lights can be seen reflecting on the curtains, though no siren accompanies them. The smile on his lips grows even broader as he repeats again, with even more pleasure, “Excellent.”
Turning their heads as one, both men look toward the open door as the familiar figure of Lestrade bounds up the seventeen steps to the flat, giving John only the most cursory of glances before locking all of his attention and focus on Sherlock.
“There’s been another one.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’s different? Why are you here?”
“Other than the fact that I have four, count ‘em, four apparent suicides that somehow are linked, even though there’s nothing to connect the four victims together and I have no leads whatsoever on this case?” He stares back at Sherlock, meeting the cool, dispassionate gaze before huffing out a breath. “This one left us a message. And this has gone far enough. I need your help.”
Sherlock lips curl into a small, satisfied smile as he replies, “Yes. Yes you do. Right then, go on ahead and I’ll meet you there. Text me the address.”
Lestrade glances over at John almost apologetically before he tilts his head toward Sherlock and murmurs under his breath, “Thank you,” then heading back down the stairs.
Spinning around in a circle, Sherlock at least has the decency to wait before the door downstairs closes before he exclaims, “Finally! He should have brought me in after the second case, but at last there is something to do! Four suicides! Serial suicides! No pacts, no secret societies, so just what compels four perfect strangers to commit suicide for no reason?!” He swirls on his coat and starts reaching about for various items in the room - a small spell book, a talisman, a box of chalk, and a variety of items he uses to help with the more supernatural deductions - before he suddenly seems to remember that John is there.
“Make yourself comfortable, I should be back in a few hours!” And with that he is off in a whirl of black, feet thumping down the stairs excitedly like a kid on a snow day.
John almost goes to follow Sherlock without even thinking about it. He’s always followed Sherlock. It takes a moment to realize two things.
One, he doesn’t have to follow Sherlock everywhere. He could, you know, get a life. Except for the part where he’s already decided that probably isn’t an option for him.
Two, he hasn’t been invited. And although that certainly has never stopped Sherlock before, John knows enough about human nature to realize that it’s not normal to follow after someone you’ve supposedly just met when they’ve been invited by the police to examine a crime scene and you have not.
Very not normal.
With Sherlock gone, the ache in his shoulder and thigh return with a vengeance. So, with a frustrated grunt, John flops himself down into a comfortable armchair and stares about their new flat, wondering just what the hell to do with himself now.
He doesn’t even realize that Sherlock’s returned until the impossibly tall man re-enters the room with a dramatic swish of his coat, staring at John, his voice deep and silky smooth as he reiterates, “You’re a Sensitive. And a doctor.”
Glancing up at Sherlock, John’s brows knit for a moment before he confirms the obvious. “Yes, yes I am.”
“Are you any good?”
“At which? Sensing or doctoring?”
Sherlock gives a tiny shake of his head and his hand, as if the distinction is irrelevant. “Either.”
“Then yes. Very.”
His eyes narrow as Sherlock tugs his gloves on and points out, “You must have seen some fairly horrific things over the years. The sorts of things that cannot be unseen.”
John almost smiles, thinking to himself, ‘Ohhhhh, Sherlock you have no idea.’ Somehow he manages to keep a straight and sober face. “Yes. Indeed. More than you can imagine.”
Sherlock’s brow quirks in a mix of amusement and annoyance at what he takes as both a slight and a challenge, for he can naturally imagine quite a bit.
“Good,” he notes decisively, “then I’m sure you won’t mind some more. Hop to John, there’s work to be done!” he exclaims with a gleeful clap of his hands as he turns and rushes down the stairs without even glancing over his shoulder to see if John is behind him.
John follows. John always follows.
Length: 3653 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and highly platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OC characters are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to daluci for being a top-notch beta, to non_canonical for her excellent advice and Brit picking, and to abundantlyqueer for her encouragement, support, and being inspirational!
Fallen - Chapter 6: Destiny
As they entered into one of the labs, Mike laughs softly, clapping John upon the shoulder for what feels like the hundredth time since he clapped eyes on him. Either John is doing a very good job of pretending to be happy to see him, or Mike is so pleased to see John as to be blind to anything else. It’s not a comfortable sensation for him, pretending to be someone he’s not, trying at once to be polite and friendly toward one of Watson’s friends, when all John really wants to do is look for Sherlock.
“You’ll find it’s much changed since when you were here,” Mike warns as he waves an arm at all the computers and equipment. But John isn’t listening any longer. Instead he stands there in astonishment, allowing Watson’s military training to keep him upright and focused, trying desperately not to stare at the man seated in front of a microscope, ignoring the two of them.
Dear God. Sherlock.
Every cell in his body is rejoicing and it takes every ounce of willpower for John to stand steady and look away again, as if he didn’t know every intimate detail of the man sitting just a few meters away from him. To act as if he didn’t know him at all. A soft ring of a cell phone helps to distract him, Mike offering him an apologetic expression before calling out, “I’ll be right back… just need to take this…” Stamford steps out into the hall, leaving the two of them alone.
Turning back to Sherlock, like a piece of metal irresistibly drawn to a powerful magnet, John simply stares before forcing his eyes to drop to the table before him. There’s a dissection tray sitting there, and for a lack of anything better to do he takes a hobbling step forward and starts to rearrange the tools on it.
The silence is almost deafening, John’s mind racing a mile a minute as he cautiously takes in everything he can without making it too obvious. For one, there is no one else in the room with them, which is significant. Sherlock has not been assigned a new Guardian Angel. John’s shoulder flares up abruptly, forcing him to take a deep breath and then deliberately relax, gently rolling it to ease the ache. He’s angry, yes, that Sherlock would be abandoned simply because John overstepped his bounds, but he also feels a peculiar sense of… relief? In this strange way, Sherlock is still… his. No one else is looking after him. Now, if John can only figure out a way to resume his duties.
For another Sherlock looks well. Rested, even. So clearly he has recovered from his swim in the Thames and has been taking care of himself. Or, more likely, someone else has been. One brow lifts as John wonders just who that someone might have been…
“Well,” Sherlock’s voice rings out unexpectedly in a wonderfully rich timbre, “shall we get on with it then?”
John’s ocean blue eyes lift, startled and confused, as he blinks and honestly inquires, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come now. It’s obvious that the reason you’re here is to meet me.”
The rush of panic and adrenaline that fills John’s veins at the idea that he’s been caught out on something wished for rather than intended immediately fizzles out as Sherlock continues.
“Mike clearly brought you here to meet me. Now, he could be thinking of playing matchmaker, since he’s so disgustingly determined to believe that everyone has a soul mate just waiting to be found and takes great delight in trying to match people up. But he knows that I’m married to my work and that I wouldn’t tolerate such interference, never have, so the more likely reason you’re here is because you’re in need of a flatmate.”
“I am?” asks John, not because he’s trying to be dense but because Sherlock is talking to him. Sherlock is talking. To him. It’s all too delicious. Even the look of utter irritation at John’s perceived stupidity is delicious.
“Yes, of course you are. After all, you’re recently invalided from the military. Pension can’t be very much, but here you are, in London, which means that you must be in need of a flatmate because I only just mentioned to Mike earlier today that I was in need of a flatmate and, like I said, Mike is a natural born matchmaker. So! If he can’t match me up with a date, naturally he’ll want to match me up with someone who can help pay the rent.”
“And how exactly did you deduce that?” It’s one thing to watch Sherlock do this to others. It’s something else entirely to have him perform his talents on oneself. John can barely keep the grin off his face, relying entirely upon the skills of Watson to keep his expression neutral with just a hint of wariness.
Sherlock gives him one of those oh so familiar looks that says ‘oh, please it’s so obvious’ before explaining it to John.
“You served in the war. I’m guessing Afghanistan, but it could have been Iraq. You were a doctor there, but also a soldier going by the hammer bite callus on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, so you’ve used a gun regularly. You also have a soldier’s bearing and haircut still, but you rearranged the medical tools on that dissection tray into the correct order for a surgeon, ergo, doctor. Your clothes are a bit too large, but they’re new. Not something you would buy for yourself, naturally, so more likely bought for you as a gift from someone who didn’t realize you’d lost weight. Sudden weight loss, when linked to your military service, suggests you’ve recently spent a fair amount of time in a hospital, most likely recovering from injuries that got you remanded from the front. You favor your left shoulder and were rolling it cautiously when you entered the room, so most likely you were shot there in the line of duty and that’s what brought you home. You’re also limping of course, but that’s not the real problem. You stand perfectly steady and without any apparent pain, it only appears to be a problem when you walk, so most likely psychosomatic. Shall I continue?”
John simply nods before adding, “Yes, please.” He continues to delve into Watson’s muscle memory, adding a dose of confusion and astonishment to his features. Sherlock would expect those reactions.
One brow lifts, as if surprised by John’s affirmative reply, but Sherlock indulges the good doctor.
“You’ve been to Barts before, but not for a while according to Mike’s comment about things being different so, not since University. You and Mike are of an age and he clearly feels like he can be physically close to you, but he’s never mentioned you before. Now, Mike knows that I’m a difficult sort of person to get along with, let alone live with, so he wouldn’t set me up with just anyone, which means based on his memories of you he thinks we’d be a good match. Ergo, you studied together. Were clearly once good friends, or at least Mike considers you a good friend, though you seem a bit indifferent to him now, or perhaps your affections have waned over the years. And for all his faults and proclivities, Mike does tend to be a decent judge of character and realistic about one’s flaws. Do you like the violin? Because I tend to play it when I’m thinking, often in the middle of the night. I also tend to have a number of experiments going on at any given time, I hope that won’t be too bothersome for you. I certainly have no intention of stopping.”
John smiles, glancing down to hide the expression of pleasure on his face. “You…. that was… incredible.” Really the words that were on his lips were ‘you are incredible’, but that would be showing his hand a bit much at this stage of the game. He needs to win Sherlock’s trust, but too much flattery and the consulting detective would close himself off out of suspicion.
Sherlock expression shifts subtly, a hint of surprise and uncertainty touching his eyes as he glances away for a moment, glances back briefly, then drops his gaze down as he leans forward to peer into the microscope once more.
“That was… different.”
“What was?” inquires John blithely.
“That. What you said.” Pale silvery eyes lift, brows creasing as he asks abruptly, “Did you mean it?”
“Of course I meant it,” John replied pragmatically. “Why wouldn’t I? It was, in a word, amazing.” All of it, at the very core, wrong of course, but that’s not really Sherlock’s fault. He can only work with what he can see, after all.
Sherlock lifts his gaze and stares at John for a moment longer before the corner of his mouth quirks. Drawing a pen and a card from his pocket he jots something down and then turns about, pulling on his long black coat and wrapping his blue scarf about his neck. Striding over he hands the card to John, noting, “The address is 221B Baker Street, I wrote it on the card there. Come by this evening, round 5:30, see if the place suits you.” He’s gone in a whirl of black before John even gets the chance to say ‘alright’.
Blinking he stares at the card, turning it over to read where it says, 'The Science of Deduction' along with Sherlock’s name and number. A slow smile spreads across John’s face until he is positively grinning.
And he didn’t even have to pray.
*****
Walking up to the door in question, John rings the bell at 5:30 sharp. Glancing left and right, he can’t help but notice that the neighborhood is a distinct improvement over their last flat. It’s probably more of a combination of convenience, opportunity, and timing, though, rather than an actual desire to improve his conditions. Physical environments, actually physicality in any sense of the word, have never been of much importance to Sherlock. With a huff of air that he can actually see, John waits for someone to open the door, with dwindling hope. He can’t help but wonder if Sherlock will actually be here or if he will have forgotten.
When the door does finally open, it’s not Sherlock standing there but an older woman with silvering hair and a warm smile. “Can I help you?”
Glancing about once more, John fishes the card he was given out of his pocket and studies it again, murmuring, “I’m terribly sorry, do I have the wrong address? I’m looking for 221B Baker Street…”
“Oh, no dear, you have the right address, come in, come in,” she offers, stepping aside to allow John entrance before closing the door and calling up the stairs, “Sherlock! Your young man is here!” A violin is playing, unabated by either John’s ring or her call. Shaking her head she turns to consider John for a moment before offering her hand. “I’m Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, dear. Pleased to meet you, Mr….?”
“Watson. John Watson,” John replies, taking her hand and shaking it politely while looking around.
“Sherlock’s flat is upstairs, 221B. I suppose you must be the young fellow he’s going to be sharing it with then, yes?” She considers John again before dimpling and noting, “There’s an extra room upstairs, should you be needing one...”
John gets the distinct sense that Mrs. Hudson is fishing for something, but what exactly that is he’s not quite certain. Blinking, he offers her a somewhat confused smile and notes, “Well, I suppose I best take a look first, see what is what, and we can move forward from there?”
She gives him a broad, pleased smile and pats his arm. “Right. Off you go then, just right up the stair and give the door a good pounding. He’s like that sometimes, off in his own world somewhere. If you need anything, just give us a call. Be right downstairs.” She opens the door to her flat, pausing to glance up at John as he begins his assent. “Oh, hang on a minute.” She picks up a bundle of mail from a small stand and hands it up to John. “Be a dear and take that up for me.” Her hand pats lightly against her side as she confesses, “I’ve got a hip… but then I see stairs are not exactly your friends either, hmmm?” her gaze coming to rest on his cane curiously. “Oh, and just to be clear on things, I don’t do any cooking or cleaning. Just the landlady, as I said. Rent is due the first of the month.”
John gives the woman a quick smile and nod, watching as she departs, catching sight of the edge of a wing inside her flat just as she shuts the door. Turning he stares at the flight of stairs before sighing, working his way awkwardly up them. Arriving at Sherlock’s door, he knocks lightly at first and, when that doesn’t seem to work, harder.
The music stops abruptly and seconds later Sherlock opens the door, holding the instrument in his left hand. “Ah, John! You’re late,” he notes, even though it would be more accurate to say that Sherlock was a tad late in his response.
Lips twisting, John gives the tall man before him an ironic smile and offers, “Sorry ‘bout that. Damn leg and all,” tapping at the side of it with his cane, offering the mail with his left hand.
Sherlock’s gaze drops to the offending limb and offers a dubious, “Mmmm, yes. Well, come in,” as he takes the mail with a small nod of thanks. Turning about Sherlock carries his violin over to its case, carefully putting it away first before examining the small stack.
John steps into the apartment, drawing to a surprised halt at the fact that it’s filled with stuff. It’s only when he takes a few more steps inside that he realizes that he’s being faced with all of Sherlock’s stuff. His… stuff. The belongings that should have gone up in flames along with his old flat. How is this possible?
The next thing he realizes is that there is a strangely acrid smell to the air. Sniffing curiously, John’s gaze comes to rest on the back of Sherlock’s head as he notes bemusedly, “Smells rather… have you been smoking?” John realizes the slip the moment the words leave his mouth, but fortunately Sherlock is currently too preoccupied with sorting through his mail to take notice.
“Can’t keep up a smoking habit in London these days, and Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, complains about the smell,” Sherlock rumbles as he ends up just taking the mail to the mantle and pinning it into place with a knife before glancing about at his sundry possessions. “Yes, well, that is what happens when one’s previous flat burns to the ground. No matter though. Everything that was important got saved. Every once in awhile boredom is a surprisingly useful catalyst.”
Boredom?
Glancing around John looks at the objects around the room before he breathes, “You protected them…” as the realization strikes.
Just because you’re a Guardian Angel doesn’t necessarily mean you know what your human is doing or thinking at any given moment. Unless they’re the sort to talk aloud to themselves or doing something obvious, sometimes their actions can be quite curious and elusive. But John remembers now. A day when Sherlock was in a bored fit and searching through spell books to pass the time until one caught his attention. That day when he went through all of his belongings, tossing them this way and that as he “sorted” them, to use the term generously, into piles of ‘boring’ and ‘not boring’.
Nothing in the room is from the ‘boring’ pile. Sherlock was enchanting them, putting protection spells on them.
It’s not until he notices that Sherlock is staring at him that John realizes that he’s said that earlier statement aloud and that it was entirely the wrong thing to have said. A normal person would have made some sort of exclamation about the fire, words of condolence perhaps or concern? Sherlock is looking at him with shrewd and keen interest that indicates that John has done something unexpected and surprising. It’s not a look that one sees on Sherlock’s face very often.
It only takes the consulting detective a moment to deduce the answer. Fortunately, for once, he’s asking himself the wrong question. “You’re a Sensitive.”
John’s weight shifts as he turns to face Sherlock, cane thumping on the floor as he decides there’s no point in denying it. His chin lifts up slightly, almost aggressively, as if he were admitting to something less than savory.
“Yes. Yes I am…”
Sherlock continues to stare at him with cool, slanted eyes, before a slow, almost wicked smile curls his lips as he replies with relish, “Excellent.”
Sherlock is all about using whatever is at hand for his own purposes, treating people like disposable tools left and right. He’s staring now at John as if he just discovered a brand new Leica scanning electron microscope in his living room. However, this pleasure at his newfound discovery, and whatever personal gratification it allots him, is just as quickly forgotten as his gaze shifts toward the window. Familiar red and blue flashing police lights can be seen reflecting on the curtains, though no siren accompanies them. The smile on his lips grows even broader as he repeats again, with even more pleasure, “Excellent.”
Turning their heads as one, both men look toward the open door as the familiar figure of Lestrade bounds up the seventeen steps to the flat, giving John only the most cursory of glances before locking all of his attention and focus on Sherlock.
“There’s been another one.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’s different? Why are you here?”
“Other than the fact that I have four, count ‘em, four apparent suicides that somehow are linked, even though there’s nothing to connect the four victims together and I have no leads whatsoever on this case?” He stares back at Sherlock, meeting the cool, dispassionate gaze before huffing out a breath. “This one left us a message. And this has gone far enough. I need your help.”
Sherlock lips curl into a small, satisfied smile as he replies, “Yes. Yes you do. Right then, go on ahead and I’ll meet you there. Text me the address.”
Lestrade glances over at John almost apologetically before he tilts his head toward Sherlock and murmurs under his breath, “Thank you,” then heading back down the stairs.
Spinning around in a circle, Sherlock at least has the decency to wait before the door downstairs closes before he exclaims, “Finally! He should have brought me in after the second case, but at last there is something to do! Four suicides! Serial suicides! No pacts, no secret societies, so just what compels four perfect strangers to commit suicide for no reason?!” He swirls on his coat and starts reaching about for various items in the room - a small spell book, a talisman, a box of chalk, and a variety of items he uses to help with the more supernatural deductions - before he suddenly seems to remember that John is there.
“Make yourself comfortable, I should be back in a few hours!” And with that he is off in a whirl of black, feet thumping down the stairs excitedly like a kid on a snow day.
John almost goes to follow Sherlock without even thinking about it. He’s always followed Sherlock. It takes a moment to realize two things.
One, he doesn’t have to follow Sherlock everywhere. He could, you know, get a life. Except for the part where he’s already decided that probably isn’t an option for him.
Two, he hasn’t been invited. And although that certainly has never stopped Sherlock before, John knows enough about human nature to realize that it’s not normal to follow after someone you’ve supposedly just met when they’ve been invited by the police to examine a crime scene and you have not.
Very not normal.
With Sherlock gone, the ache in his shoulder and thigh return with a vengeance. So, with a frustrated grunt, John flops himself down into a comfortable armchair and stares about their new flat, wondering just what the hell to do with himself now.
He doesn’t even realize that Sherlock’s returned until the impossibly tall man re-enters the room with a dramatic swish of his coat, staring at John, his voice deep and silky smooth as he reiterates, “You’re a Sensitive. And a doctor.”
Glancing up at Sherlock, John’s brows knit for a moment before he confirms the obvious. “Yes, yes I am.”
“Are you any good?”
“At which? Sensing or doctoring?”
Sherlock gives a tiny shake of his head and his hand, as if the distinction is irrelevant. “Either.”
“Then yes. Very.”
His eyes narrow as Sherlock tugs his gloves on and points out, “You must have seen some fairly horrific things over the years. The sorts of things that cannot be unseen.”
John almost smiles, thinking to himself, ‘Ohhhhh, Sherlock you have no idea.’ Somehow he manages to keep a straight and sober face. “Yes. Indeed. More than you can imagine.”
Sherlock’s brow quirks in a mix of amusement and annoyance at what he takes as both a slight and a challenge, for he can naturally imagine quite a bit.
“Good,” he notes decisively, “then I’m sure you won’t mind some more. Hop to John, there’s work to be done!” he exclaims with a gleeful clap of his hands as he turns and rushes down the stairs without even glancing over his shoulder to see if John is behind him.
John follows. John always follows.