A Journal of Impossible Things 1/?
They all had different explanations for what happened.
Lestrade was sure that everything had started with the newest grotesque murders. Mrs. Hudson believed that it had to be something about camaraderie within the medical profession. Mycroft assumed it was founded in John’s adrenaline addiction. Sherlock rejected all of these half-baked ideas, insisted that John had nothing to do with it, that everything had changed when the other lodger moved in, barreled into their lives and disrupted things.
John, though, knew that it began with Sherlock.
He had woken up to the sounds of clatter and the smell of smoke, but he hadn’t moved. For a few moments, he let his eyes adjust to the soft, dull light playing across the ceiling, pupils dilating and contracting minutely. Letting himself actually wake up, if only so that he could be alert enough to save his lunatic flatmate from an untimely end, again. If he wanted to be saved- he suppressed the thought, even as his throat constricted. A few moments passed. Something crashed to the floor downstairs. John could feel all of his age resting deep in his bones, in the lines of his face and the pit of his stomach, the weight of inevitability pulling him into the mattress. It was a feeling he’d thought he’d left behind, back in Before Sherlock. A feeling of steady suffocation, sinking. Sagging.
He fought against it, levering himself up onto his elbows, a slight crease between his brows as his shoulder ached and his leg twinged. The furrow deepened, the only sign of discomfort he would allow. It was a psychosomatic injury, and he’d be damned if he’d let his insecurities play his body like this. Sticks and stones, he thought wryly and swung his legs over the side of the mattress, letting his feet brush against the cold wooden floor. He couldn’t hide in here, though he knew that the chill that awaited him outside his door would cut him to the quick, aggravate him, and make his life a wretched state of affairs. And he would not take his cane, he thought, a spurt of defiance shooting through him, making him tilt his head back and stretch his muscles (or was it just obstinance?). He was not too- He didn’t let himself finish the sentence, but landed on his feet solidly, ready to face whatever was thrown at him that day.
By the time he had come downstairs, Sherlock had already disappeared. John felt the cold pierce through his jumper; settle into his skin, and shook himself. After what he had seen last night, it wasn’t surprising that Sherlock didn’t want his company. He winced as he moved to get a cup of tea and felt his leg throb with imaginary pain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been dismissed before, but this. This was new.
John had known that his flatmate was in a foul mood by the time they returned from the crime scene: something had escaped his all-seeing eyes, something that he insisted was right there. “It’s there, somewhere in front of me, I can almost- and then it isn’t! What does that, that’s not possible!” He simply shrugged and placed the journal he had bought to keep observations in on the living room table. A second opinion, Sherlock had said, helped him, so- But it quickly became apparent that he had overstepped his bounds. After many hours silent meditation, Sherlock spoke. “Here,” he stated flatly, waving a hand at the journal John had left open for him. “I don’t need your notes.”
John glanced up, suddenly unsure. “Sorry? But I thought you said I ought to get a notebook for-”
“Not necessary.” It was like the rug was being snuck, rather than yanked, from below his feet. He gaped at his flatmate for a few seconds, then pursed his lips. What was Sherlock up to?
“You wanted a second pair of eyes. This is what I saw.”
“And I’m saying I don’t need them, must I really repeat myself?” Sherlock drawled, voice cool. “I have everything I need already.” John nodded, a little lost, and tried to return to his paper, when the low voice continued. “You ought to go into work tomorrow.”
He scoffed then, sure that his friend must be having him on. “Pardon? And get interrupted halfway through an examination by irate texts about how sick people can’t possibly be more interesting than a corpse?” Sherlock waved his hand again, not even turning to look at John.
“You ought to be doing what you’re best at.” The words were calm, precise, with meaningful emphasis on the last words.
“Not helping you out then?” Sherlock’s gaze, when it turned on him, was appraising- mocking. Bored. It spoke volumes. It hurt. “Right then,” he muttered, flushing and getting up, moving off upstairs before he raised his voice, let some of the hot fury boiling in his veins burst past his lips. He refused to get into another argument where he’d yell and Sherlock watched him with that same chilly gaze as he dismantled every argument. The anger kept him awake, kept him growling under his breath and punching the pillow, but the thing that made his hand tremble and his leg ache was the knowledge that for some reason he had started being treated like just a member of the Yard.
John’s phone buzzed and his hand jumped to his pocket with perhaps more alacrity than he wanted to admit. Speaking of the police, he thought, an ironic smile quirking across his lips as he saw Lestrade’s name on the display. It disappeared immediately, however, when he finally moved into the kitchen and saw what had been “experimented on.” “Dammit, Sherlock!”
------------------------------------------------------
“Of everything you could possibly destroy in the flat, you go for sugar bowl, the stove, and the kettle?” John hissed as he and Sherlock moved down one of the stark hallways that led to Bart’s laboratory, noticing to his annoyance that the other man lengthened his stride. “Are you just out to sabotage me now?”
Sherlock sighed through his nose, glancing down at the shorter man, and John was forcibly reminded of Mycroft’s look of condescension and indulgence. “So Lestrade’s got you at his beck and call now? Nice to see he hasn’t run out of lap dogs. Or was it my brother?” He felt the breath catch in his throat and swallowed, hard. He did not need to deal with this- despite what everyone believed, he was not “stuck” with Sherlock, and there’d be no taking pity on Lestrade from now on.
“It was Lestrade, and I only came because he sounded frantic. Anderson refused to work with you.” He nodded to himself grimly. Before, he’d have laughed. Right now, it was hard not to sympathize. “I’m just supposed to do what we- what I usually do. I didn’t even get to say hello to the new lodger.” John did feel sorry that he hadn’t been given time to talk to the new tenant in 221C; according to Mrs. Hudson, he was a doctor of some sort. Odd, very odd. A traveling man, she had said knowledgably, “And when I told him you were an army doctor, he mentioned being in a war himself one time! I think the two of you will have lots to talk about- someone with similar interests.” It would be nice to have a conversation, John thought, instead of being talked at. And if anything, he could have warned the poor bloke about the violin, gunshots, yelling, and police charging up and down the stairs at all hours.
“Yes, well, he won’t be staying long.” John peered up at Sherlock, scowling.
“And why not?”
“Older man living alone who’s seen war and has traveled often, now looking to settle down?” Suddenly those cold grey eyes were fixing him with a steady, deliberate look. “I doubt he’d stay in 221. It’s a bit frenetic for someone of that disposition.” John knew exactly what he meant.
“Yes, he’d have be a bloody fool to stick around, wouldn’t he?” he said, voice a bit louder than he’d have liked. Sherlock merely looked away and walked through the doors to the lab, calling imperiously for Molly. John stopped short in front of them, practically shaking with rage, eyes fixed sightlessly on the small, rectangular windows. Right. He didn’t have to stay here. He didn’t have to be here, he wasn’t on the damn payroll. Anderson would have to grow a spine, because he was, and he wasn’t going to stand for it any longer. Any of this. “Sociopaths get bored,” he muttered to himself, and turned on his heel. He’d been a fool to think he was some sort of exception.
John had every intention of going back to the flat, calling Sarah, and seeing how long she was willing to put up with him- hopefully long enough for him to calm down, or for Sherlock to… No, that wouldn’t work. He’d just have to see what happened. But as he passed the windows that looked down into the mortuary, he came to an abrupt halt.
The was a stranger in the morgue. This struck him particularly because how often did he get to think “There is a stranger in my morgue”? The body he recognized, it was the one they had looked at just last week, but the person in there was definitely a stranger. A strange-looking stranger at that… John squared his shoulders, scowled down at the interloper, and, banging the door open, marched down the short flight of stairs that led to the mortuary. “And just what! do you think you’re doing?” he barked out as he banged open the second door, and was gratified to see the other man jump and turn around to face him, a suitably guilty look on his face. His very unusual face, John thought, as he watched the expressions flit across it- worry, more guilt, bewilderment, a sort of attempt at explanation, and then a sudden, brilliant look of realization and excitement.
“Hello!” the stranger shot back, his voice as young as his appearance. He waved. He bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked utterly pleased with himself. “I’m the doctor- and you’re my neighbor!”
“I’m your-” But the other man was already by his side, clasping him gently by the upper arms and leaning forward. John’s eyes widened exponentially. He leant back, keeping his eyes fixed on this bizarre person and balling his fists. He tried very hard not to yell again. The stranger had pursed his lips and was beginning what looked like an air kiss, but paused at the expression on John’s face and seemed a bit uncertain.
“This is what they do nowadays, isn’t it? It seemed to work before but you’re a bit, er, intimidating, so perhaps a handshake is- yes that’s much better!” He moved away, gripping his hand firmly and beaming again. “Of course, an army doctor wouldn’t want anyone intruding on his personal space, I suppose I should have known but who has time for remembering things like that? A great distraction from much more important things liiiiike the body over there.” He spun around again, pulling John after him, his entire frame buzzing with energy.
“See, there’s something wrong with this corpse, isn’t there-?” The stranger bent over the corpse, which was mutilated beyond belief. Well, her chest is caved in, John thought, but before he could say anything, the other man had plowed on, poking the body and pressing at its temples. “Something not quite right. Do you notice it? You do, of course you do, but rather you don’t, can almost see it and then- poof, it’s gone again, lurking in the corner of your eye.” He pulled John around the edge of the table, peering down into the dead girl’s eyes. Bowtie, floppy hair, tweed suit; he seemed like some escaped junior academic on the lam from his professors, full up with knowledge and energy and not much else. “You see, there- there!” The stranger spun John around, making him splutter, so that he was parallel with the slab, then locked eyes with the doctor. His eyes were dark, very dark and grey, like storm clouds, and when they were trained on him, John found he could not look away. “This thing that I am looking for, this thing you can’t see yet, it’s there,” the stranger continued quietly. “Corner of your eye: most things hide there and they don’t like to be disturbed…”
The door opened suddenly, and Lestrade and Sherlock strode inside, already arguing furiously. John dimly registered that they were yelling about him, but his attention was still captured by the man who had released his shoulders and who was now smiling at him. A secretive smile, full of bizarre camaraderie and mischief. “I suppose I’ll see you back at the flat, Dr. Watson,” he murmured, and before Sherlock had even looked around, the stranger was gone.