Untitled Police Force John Fic
Title: Never Thought of One... uh.
Characters:Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: A Study in Pink
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Not mine in even the vaguest sense of the word.
Author's Notes: A kinkmeme fill for this prompt, "John never joined the army. He joined the police force."
Once again, not beta'd, nor brit-picked. Did some editing between the fill and this post, but if you find anything terrible, do let me know. Also, feel free to throw title ideas at me.
When Mike Stamford introduces him to a Doctor John Watson, Sherlock does what comes naturally: he skins him to the bone, revealing every unsettling aspect of himself that he has been attempting to hide from the world. And the doctor reacts in a predictable manner, mostly confusion, a touch of indignation, but also, oddly, curiosity.
And while that is mildly intriguing in of itself, Sherlock can't help but shake the feeling that he's somehow missed something. Improbable, but not impossible, and it is for that reason alone that Sherlock finds himself rattling off his address as he blusters out the door.
When John finally makes it to the flat, Sherlock finds himself almost excited; even with spending extra time in this man's presence the 'not quite correct' feeling is still there, lurking, and it's been so long since Sherlock got to spend time with anyone interesting. Then it really is Christmas- complete with flashing lights- when Lestrade shows up with news of a suicide note. When Lestrade sees John, they share a funny little look and half nod, and he makes a mental note to reexamine that interchange later- it can wait, because the game is finally on!
And since John is a conveniently travel sized mystery, Sherlock invites him along, too.
The cab ride, normally a rather dull necessity, allows Sherlock to examine the mystery of John in closer quarters. He lets John ask his questions, and is surprised by his lack of anger and delighted by his praise. The response, while atypical, somehow fits with the information he has been gathering regarding his new flatmate. But something is still not right.
"Did I get anything wrong?" He deigns to ask as they walk side by side to the police barrier.
"Well," John evades, frowning a bit as he stumps along with his cane.
"Spot on, then?"
And then John grins. It's a quick flash of teeth that makes him look ten years younger, and that not quite correct feeling expands like thunder cloud directly over his head.
"Not quite. Sergeant Donovan!" John greets, "Always a pleasure."
"What in the hell are you doing here?" And Sherlock mulls over the lack of disdain in her voice before realizing she's not even talking to him- she's talking to John. Who is talking back.
"We were invited." John says as he ducks under the police tape, and then lifts it for Sherlock. Ah, there is that lovely glare of hers. "He's with me," John says, smiling in a manner that is clearly supposed to be disarming as he gestures to Sherlock with his cane. He executes a smooth turn towards the crime scene while simultaneously handing his cane off to Sally, who immediately grabs onto it.
"You're not still wasting your time with Anderson, are you Sally?" John says over his shoulder, "You know you could do so much better. No offence, Anderson." And then he's inside. Sherlock spares Donovan a glance- she is preoccupied with wondering why she ended up being the one holding the cane- before following.
John is bounding up the steps, all calm smiles and warm greetings. It is probable that John and Donovan are previously acquainted, but less probable that John is previously acquainted with the whole of Scotland Yard. Sherlock doesn't think it is possible to frown any harder, but he tries anyway.
At the top landing, Lestrade is waiting for them with an air of resigned impatience that lifts as John jogs up the last few steps.
"Watson. Was wondering when you'd break character." And they shake hands firmly and warmly, holding on long enough to indicate friendship, or a very close work colleague. "Alright, spill, how long did you last before he figured you out."
John exaggerates looking at his watch, "Up until, oh, two minutes ago?" John directs this question at Sherlock, but obviously doesn't expect an answer.
"No way," Lestrade chuckles, "not possible. Nothing fools Holmes."
"You are... not an army doctor." It's out of Sherlock's mouth before he can do anything about it.
"Not as such, no."
"You knew Mike Stamford. And you obviously studied at Bart's."
"I went to med school with Mike. Briefly. Not my thing, as it turns out."
"And the tan lines?"
"Had to testify at a trial in Spain, actually."
"How'd that go, by the way?" Lestrade was clearly enjoying this conversation far more than necessary.
"Great, managed to convict on all charges."
Sherlock made a noise that could only be described as frustrated and resisted the strong urge to pull his hair out. "What of the military stance? The haircut?"
"My dad was in the military, he made sure I had good posture. And I got the haircut for the trial, had to look professional."
"The limp?" Sherlock was floundering. It was the first time he could recollect doing so, and the experience made him very unhappy.
"Oh, that? Broke my ankle, what, two and a half years ago?" John turned his head to Lestrade.
"I'd say closer to three."
"That long? Broke it three years ago, then, held on to the cane. Good for undercover stints- no one expects the limpy guy in a jumper. Works pretty well as a night stick in a pinch, too. Thought you had me when you noticed how I was standing, though. Psychosomatic limp, huh? Didn't even know that was a thing."
Lestrade shrugged, "Neither did I."
Sherlock was too busy attempting to pull his hair out to dignify that with a response. The sky was falling. Rapture had come to pass. Sherlock Holmes had been unequivocally, catastrophically, appallingly wrong.
"Really didn't have to do anything to convince him, either. I'm ten steps in the door and he's filling in a life story."
"Does that mean I don't have to pay you?"
"Bet's a bet, Lestrade."
Lestrade huffed. "Fair enough. Back to the task at hand, though, we've got the fourth victim, and could really use some fresh input... Sherlock?"
It was then that Sherlock noticed Lestrade and John looking at him in a manner one normally reserves for injured wild animals.
“Look,” John reaches out a careful hand to give him a few consoling shoulder pats, “if it’s any consolation, you were mostly right about Harry.”
There is a snort from Lestrade. “What’s your sister got to do with anything?”
Sherlock could only whimper.
THE END.