Part 8. My life with Holmes
Eahh!!!! Finally i finished tranlsating it!! I was so damn buzy that have no time for it - and wll I laso decided to write more text in this chap - and it also took time)))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarinmum)))))) thanks for all ur work))
Pairing: pre-slash Sherlock\ John
Rating: no rating for this chapter
Status: 8\9
Warnings: AU!
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
John had about two weeks to prepare for Harry's discharge from the clinic. He decided not to delay getting some repairs done to her flat. He took a few days off from the clinic and made changes to the shifts, of which he’d had to take on more since Bill's injury. John was still bursting with anger recalling the meeting with that nutcase.
It was much harder to negotiate everything with Holmes, who wanted to know everything, even the minor details of his day. And John had no idea how he could explain to the detective the concepts of repainting and rearrangement, which were clear to all the other people on the planet.
“Why waste time on this, when Mycroft's people can do everything faster and better?”
He just tiredly rubbed the tip of his nose as he saw Sherlock reaching for the laptop on his knees.
“There are some things you need to do all by yourself. Doesn't matter whether you like it or not, but just by yourself. Do you understand?”
Holmes looked curiously at him as if he expected him to continue. But John was not going to explain exactly why he had to paint the walls in Harry's flat or move couches, and why he didn’t want his sister to go back to her old life. Even if it was still the same apartment.
John even wanted to ask for Sherlock's help, but then waived this idea away - he did not want to look stupid asking for the detective’s advice in choosing new curtains or new upholstery for the sofa. He did not doubt Holmes's taste, but was not sure he could stand listening to the detective’s usual diatribe about his own lack of taste for hours on end. So he just told him that he would be absent for several days and could be disturbed only as a last resort - emphasizing that that was only as a matter of life and death and that a desire for a cup of tea did not count in that category.
“John, just so you know, I lived perfectly fine on my own before your appearance in my life.”
“Sorry for doubting that, as the facts tend to scream the opposite,” and, with these words, John picked his army bag and left.
He had even thought about asking for Sarah's support, as a woman’s hand in such affairs could be a real help, but at the last minute he changed his mind. And he wanted to call Clara of all people even less. He could not help remembering Mycroft's flat, where the hand of good designer was visible in every corner. He liked the combination of quiet grey walls with dark furniture. Although he was not sure that the colour choice would suit a thirty-something woman.
The cluttered apartment, with a decent layer of dust on all possible surfaces and with a constant reminder of what had happened, no longer seemed the best place to return to. John looked around and could not understand how it had never occurred to him to restore the order here. He would not have liked to return to the chaos after a long absence.
First, all the numerous empty bottles were gone in the trash bin. All full and even unopened were mercilessly poured into the sink and also put into the garbage bags. Later he would have to make more than one to the recycling bins to get rid of the collected glass.
Armed with empty boxes from a nearby supermarket, he removed all the cabinets and shelves, moved the bigger furniture into the middle of the living room and removed the curtains. In his sister's bedroom he stood for some time over the bed, deciding what to do with it. And still having no ideas after ten minutes of thought, John began the main job of cleaning.
Stopping only once for a snack, in about three hours he had finished washing the cabinets and the floors. Now he had only to sort out the most ingrained mess in the bedroom so it did not interfere with painting the walls.
The doorbell distracted him from unscrewing the bedroom furniture. He was not even surprised, although by his estimation, Sherlock was supposed to be somewhere else an hour later.
“Hello.” John opened the door, but was in no hurry to move aside.
“Well, will you let me in or not? And don't look so smug. I was bored.”
John stepped aside, letting Sherlock inside. The detective walked through the flat, even looked into the kitchen and bathroom.
“In your place, I would have painted the walls a rich beige colour. But not the bedroom. And throw this awful couch away.” Sherlock motioned toward the maroon sofa, which John also didn’t like. It was too narrow and uncomfortable to spend a whole night on.
“Anything else?”
“If you want, I could help,” Sherlock suggested, as if choosing his words carefully.
John almost dropped his screwdriver in surprise.
“You want to help me paint the walls?”
“I’ve never done this, so I'm intrigued,” shrugged Sherlock, taking his coat off. “I hope you are not going to insist that we have to throw the furniture all by ourselves. Or is it also a part of the ritual?”
“No,” laughed John. “I was going to hire movers.”
“I have just the men for a job like this.”
In about an hour, there was another ring at the door, and John let three strange-looking men in. He strongly suspected that they were some of Holmes' informants and members of his little personal information army.
Sherlock's participation in the overall process was limited mostly to sitting on a chair and watching him - sometimes, however, he was helpful with taking or holding something.
“That's all for now. We need to go shopping. And it would be really nice to have a meal somewhere.”
“Then let's go.” Holmes got up and reached for his coat.
Choosing paint for the walls and skirting boards, John could not shake the feeling that they resembled a long-married couple. Each time the thought made him ridiculously warm inside but for the most part made him smile. Also, he trusted Sherlock with choosing new curtains for the leaving room more than himself. Frankly, he had hoped to limit the epic idea of redecorating to just repainting the walls and changing some furniture. But of course, Sherlock had his own understanding of the process.
Returning to the flat, he was sure that Sherlock would immediately go back to Baker Street, to the familiar surroundings, to his experiments, to his investigations and suspects. But the detective remained, even though John had not asked him to stay.
“I'll spend the night here and start painting the living room in the morning,” John decided to explain. “So you don't have to stay. You’ve already helped more than I expected.”
“I'll stay nevertheless. I can't miss such an exciting thing as painting the walls.”
“But there's only one bed here.”
“It's big enough for two of us. Problem?”
“Umm…. No.”
“Excellent.”
“Aren't you bored so far?”
“No.”
Lying in Harry's bed next to a quiet Sherlock, John was worried that he would not sleep at all and actually felt a little bit awkward. He listened to their breathing until falling asleep unexpectedly, thinking that it would be great if he could manage to inspire Holmes for few days more until he was finished with everything.
++**++
“Sherlock.”
John stood over Holmes on the sofa. The detective lay with his eyes closed and refused to give any sign of life except for a barely noticeable movement of his chest. This meant that the ongoing conversation would not be easy one. Well it was partly his fault.
“Sherlock, I’m collecting Harry from the clinic tomorrow, and I would like to do it alone.”
Ok, he had said it. Still there was no response.
“You’ve helped me a lot and for that I am endlessly grateful. And I think Harry will appreciate it too…”
“You imply without my interference, or interference from Mycroft or anyone else.” Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes, ignoring John's last words completely.
“Yes,” John sighed with relief.
“Why?”
“It's private.”
“And photos of me in that jeans and shirt of yours are also private, yet still you sent them to that Murray fellow.”
“Sorry, mate, it was hard to resist.” He really could not resist the temptation. When they had both decided that Sherlock should not paint walls in his expensive suit, John had given him his old jeans, of course a bit wide and short, as well as his t-shirt. And of course, he could not know that Holmes would look so unusual in ordinary clothes… In John's clothes. “Just be grateful I didn't send them to Mycroft. Or post on my blog.”
“You wouldn't.”
“You sure?”
“Make them disappear forever and you can have the whole day to yourself. I won't interfere.”
“I rather like them.” John didn’t want to get rid of any photos of Sherlock. The man had no pictures at all, not counting the ones required for official documents. Not a single reminder of past events or of people associated with him.
“Do you?”
“Yes. Very much. They are unusual and perfect - er, perfectly representative of the help you’ve given me - and Harry, of course “ he broke off, abruptly, feeling that he was beginning to blush.
“And still I insist on their disposal.”
“Ok, you can text me, call or demand my assistance. Don't be surprised though if I won't answer. Because I will be busy with family business.”
After this conversation, John hoped that Sherlock would last at least until the evening and his curiosity and boredom would not result on any irreparable consequences.
Collecting his sister from the clinic the next morning, he unwittingly felt nervous. He didn’t know how she would react to the world around her, even after having a long conversation with her doctor and psychologist. John could only guess how Harry would react to his initiative of redecorating her flat, but he did not care anymore. Spreading the latest books and knick-knacks on the shelves he had smiled contentedly to himself and closed the flat until Harry's return. He had done it all not only for his sister but for himself as well. Maybe now he would not lie awake at night, seeking escape from his nightmares and thinking that he had not done enough or tried hard enough to help her.
Harry Watson was able to surprise her brother just as suddenly, though not as often, as Sherlock Holmes could. John watched with mild alarm for his sister while she hesitantly walked from room to room, touching the familiar things in their new surroundings. Then she just walked over and hugged him.
“Thank you.”
John stroked her warm back, softly fingering her blonde hair as he recalled a similar scene but in different circumstances. And he could not help thinking about how things had changed over the last several months. Not only had the circumstances changed, he himself had changed - the reality of that struck him suddenly.
“Are you hungry?”
“I'm dying for pizza.”
“I know a great place, you'll love it.”
The place had been shown to him, of course, by Sherlock. For some time he had had a suspicion that almost every owner of the cafés and restaurants in a three-block radius of Baker Street was obliged to Holmes in one way or another. John often wondered if it had somehow happened by accident or if Holmes had somehow managed to arrange things so he could have free food whenever his body was demanding it.
“Has something happened?”
“No.” John was surprised by the question. “Everything’s ok. Why are you asking?”
“You are constantly checking your phone. So I thought that maybe you were waiting for an important call.”
John was embarrassed and hid his mobile in his pocket. He didn’t want to remind his sister of her ex, even if it was just her present, which he now so shamelessly used while checking if there were any messages from Sherlock. What a stupid situation.
“You look happy. Grounded.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Is that Holmes man treating you well? I suppose he pays well.”
“Mmm… Yes. I'm all right with everything.”
During the last few months, he had stopped seeing their relationship as only a working one. In fact, John had begun to think more and more of Sherlock as a friend. A strange one, but also a true one. The kind of friend for whom he was ready to do stupid things and to risk his own life and safety, and not only because he was paid to do so. Even the money that he continued to receive on a weekly basis was spent mostly on the detective and his experiments. Their taxi rides alone cost a small fortune.
Looking at his sister under his eyelashes John suddenly realized that he would gladly risk his life and welfare for Sherlock even if he was not paid for that. Even if it was not asked of him.
“I'm happy to know that you are ok, John.”
++**++
John met Mycroft almost as regularly as he met Bill and Lestrade. Usually it was in the most unexpected places, the choice of which he tried not to be surprised by. A couple of times they even met in hotel rooms. And if he were a bystander, he probably would have formed the opinion that these were secret meetings. Sometimes they would sit over their tea just talking about various things, but mostly discussing Sherlock and their work together. It was a very safe topic in John's opinion.
However there was a good reason for doing exactly this. John really preferred that their conspiracy resembled a meeting of two lovers than something more serious to the outside observer.
Sherlock, of course, being childish and possessive, did not like his frequent appointments with Mycroft or with his friends, and if the latter was not even discussed, the detective could only begrudge his own brother. Part of the reason why his meetings with Holmes senior could not be under the Baker Street roof were dictated by their inability to talk properly in the same room as a sulking Sherlock.
Mycroft was very pleased with his progress. They had not expected that they would be able to contact Moran so soon. Even though John was not happy with the prospect of communicating with Sebastian Moran, he was ready to suffer.
Returning after one more appointment with Mycroft, he asked to be dropped off near the park. It was really nice weather and he did not want to sit in the four walls in their flat waiting for Sherlock to show up.
“John! John Watson!”
John turned around. A short stout men with a pleasant face came up to him. As John had passed him sitting on the bench reading a newspaper, he had seemed vaguely familiar to him.
“Mike. Mike Stamford. We studied together.”
“Sorry, Mike. Didn’t recognize you. Hello.” John really did not recognize his former classmate; he’d thought that maybe he was one of their clients, not associating him with his Uni days.
“I know-I know. I got fat,” Mike chuckled, brushing off John’s polite denial.
They looked at each other with surprise.
“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”
“I got shot.” What else could he say? He really had got shot.
They went to the nearest café to drink some coffee and remember their student years.
“So you are still at Barts then?”
“Teaching now - bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them. What about you?”
“Well working here and there.”
“Private practice? This is our John Watson!”
“It’s been hard to find work with my injury.”
“Oh, sorry…”
Ok, not the most awkward conversation he had in his life but still a bit not good.
“Are you on a break?”
“You could say so. Now my lab is… ummm…. Currently my laboratory is occupied by one person. Just between us, strictly speaking, he should not be there at all. Only God knows what fragile and expensive equipment we use. And if something happens, the postgraduate dean will tear my head off. But you see, he rescued me in one case, and now I just can't refuse…”
Somehow he could guess exactly who they were discussing right now. And he was curious what his friend from Uni thought of Holmes.
“So is he a scientist?”
“Not quite. He knows anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist, but it seems that he has never studied medicine systematically. I would say that he is obsessed with science, and in him it borders on callousness. That man is currently sitting at my workplace. He either does not show for weeks or sits there day and night. If you want, we can go there right now.
From the park, they went to Barts continuing to reminisce about their student years. The few times that John had been back at his alma mater, he had not had the opportunity to go past the morgue, so now he looked around curiously. Everything in the building was familiar to him: the endless walls of long corridors and numerous sets of doors with different nameplates. The laboratory was empty, and only the far corner was occupied by Sherlock Holmes, hunched over the table. John had wondered where he’d gone so early that morning.
“Holmes, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”
“Ah, John, exactly the man I need. Give me a hand here,” Sherlock demanded immediately, barely glancing at them.
“You know each other?” Now it was Mike's turn to look surprised.
“We live together,” explained Holmes and handed John a flask containing a suspicious-looking substance. John just groaned and rolled his eyes. Again. No wonder everyone around them thought they were a couple, after statements like that.
“Oh!... So this is that John.”
Watson frowned.
“Mike, what is he saying about me behind my back?”
“Well…. In general Sherlock compares you to others. And not in their favour, I must say.”
“Seriously? Who would have thought,” John chuckled, pleased with such praise.
“Mike. You need to be absent for at least 15 minutes more,” said Holmes, looking with distaste at the good-natured Stamford, who hastened to say his goodbyes to them and leave.
“So I'm better than others.”
“Don't be dull. Of course, you are better. Different. Otherwise I wouldn’t tolerate your presence in my life.”
John paused. For the first time, Sherlock had confirmed with words what he had demonstrated again and again with his actions and in whatever ways the detective was accustomed to.
“Well, you know, it's always nice to know that you appreciate me,” John teased him. “How long do I have to hold this flask for?”
“Put it aside.”
A comfortable silence hung between them as John attentively watched Sherlock’s careful hands, while the detective pretended not to notice. Then the phone in John's pocket came to life with an incoming message.
Sherlock with you? MH
“If it's Mycroft, tell him I have no time to do any legwork for him,” grumbled Sherlock. “And if it's Lestrade, he’d better bring me all those folders of cases I have requested.”
Yes. Sends his hello. Being childish. JW
“What cases?”
“Old murder cases where the victims’ left hands were cut off.”
“If you want, I can ask him, as a thanks to you for your help with Harry's recovery.” John remembered that he had still had not managed to thank the detective properly for his assistance. After living with Holmes for months now he knew how poorly the detective took compliments or praise, pretending that they were unimportant but craving them nevertheless. Holmes sought approval only from a couple of people - the people whose opinions were really valued by him. And he, John, was lucky enough to be one of them, or so it seemed.
“If you would be so kind. Lestrade will listen to you, I’m sure.”
“Anything, as long as you are never bored,” John teased and went to make a call to Greg. He didn’t like it one bit when Sherlock was sulking in their flat with nothing to occupy his mind. John tried to comfort himself with the hope that, if only he was not so desperately bored, he would not be so damned happy to engage in the dangerous games that the detective was invited to play with Moriarty.
and the last chap is here - part 9
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarinmum)))))) thanks for all ur work))
Pairing: pre-slash Sherlock\ John
Rating: no rating for this chapter
Status: 8\9
Warnings: AU!
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
John had about two weeks to prepare for Harry's discharge from the clinic. He decided not to delay getting some repairs done to her flat. He took a few days off from the clinic and made changes to the shifts, of which he’d had to take on more since Bill's injury. John was still bursting with anger recalling the meeting with that nutcase.
It was much harder to negotiate everything with Holmes, who wanted to know everything, even the minor details of his day. And John had no idea how he could explain to the detective the concepts of repainting and rearrangement, which were clear to all the other people on the planet.
“Why waste time on this, when Mycroft's people can do everything faster and better?”
He just tiredly rubbed the tip of his nose as he saw Sherlock reaching for the laptop on his knees.
“There are some things you need to do all by yourself. Doesn't matter whether you like it or not, but just by yourself. Do you understand?”
Holmes looked curiously at him as if he expected him to continue. But John was not going to explain exactly why he had to paint the walls in Harry's flat or move couches, and why he didn’t want his sister to go back to her old life. Even if it was still the same apartment.
John even wanted to ask for Sherlock's help, but then waived this idea away - he did not want to look stupid asking for the detective’s advice in choosing new curtains or new upholstery for the sofa. He did not doubt Holmes's taste, but was not sure he could stand listening to the detective’s usual diatribe about his own lack of taste for hours on end. So he just told him that he would be absent for several days and could be disturbed only as a last resort - emphasizing that that was only as a matter of life and death and that a desire for a cup of tea did not count in that category.
“John, just so you know, I lived perfectly fine on my own before your appearance in my life.”
“Sorry for doubting that, as the facts tend to scream the opposite,” and, with these words, John picked his army bag and left.
He had even thought about asking for Sarah's support, as a woman’s hand in such affairs could be a real help, but at the last minute he changed his mind. And he wanted to call Clara of all people even less. He could not help remembering Mycroft's flat, where the hand of good designer was visible in every corner. He liked the combination of quiet grey walls with dark furniture. Although he was not sure that the colour choice would suit a thirty-something woman.
The cluttered apartment, with a decent layer of dust on all possible surfaces and with a constant reminder of what had happened, no longer seemed the best place to return to. John looked around and could not understand how it had never occurred to him to restore the order here. He would not have liked to return to the chaos after a long absence.
First, all the numerous empty bottles were gone in the trash bin. All full and even unopened were mercilessly poured into the sink and also put into the garbage bags. Later he would have to make more than one to the recycling bins to get rid of the collected glass.
Armed with empty boxes from a nearby supermarket, he removed all the cabinets and shelves, moved the bigger furniture into the middle of the living room and removed the curtains. In his sister's bedroom he stood for some time over the bed, deciding what to do with it. And still having no ideas after ten minutes of thought, John began the main job of cleaning.
Stopping only once for a snack, in about three hours he had finished washing the cabinets and the floors. Now he had only to sort out the most ingrained mess in the bedroom so it did not interfere with painting the walls.
The doorbell distracted him from unscrewing the bedroom furniture. He was not even surprised, although by his estimation, Sherlock was supposed to be somewhere else an hour later.
“Hello.” John opened the door, but was in no hurry to move aside.
“Well, will you let me in or not? And don't look so smug. I was bored.”
John stepped aside, letting Sherlock inside. The detective walked through the flat, even looked into the kitchen and bathroom.
“In your place, I would have painted the walls a rich beige colour. But not the bedroom. And throw this awful couch away.” Sherlock motioned toward the maroon sofa, which John also didn’t like. It was too narrow and uncomfortable to spend a whole night on.
“Anything else?”
“If you want, I could help,” Sherlock suggested, as if choosing his words carefully.
John almost dropped his screwdriver in surprise.
“You want to help me paint the walls?”
“I’ve never done this, so I'm intrigued,” shrugged Sherlock, taking his coat off. “I hope you are not going to insist that we have to throw the furniture all by ourselves. Or is it also a part of the ritual?”
“No,” laughed John. “I was going to hire movers.”
“I have just the men for a job like this.”
In about an hour, there was another ring at the door, and John let three strange-looking men in. He strongly suspected that they were some of Holmes' informants and members of his little personal information army.
Sherlock's participation in the overall process was limited mostly to sitting on a chair and watching him - sometimes, however, he was helpful with taking or holding something.
“That's all for now. We need to go shopping. And it would be really nice to have a meal somewhere.”
“Then let's go.” Holmes got up and reached for his coat.
Choosing paint for the walls and skirting boards, John could not shake the feeling that they resembled a long-married couple. Each time the thought made him ridiculously warm inside but for the most part made him smile. Also, he trusted Sherlock with choosing new curtains for the leaving room more than himself. Frankly, he had hoped to limit the epic idea of redecorating to just repainting the walls and changing some furniture. But of course, Sherlock had his own understanding of the process.
Returning to the flat, he was sure that Sherlock would immediately go back to Baker Street, to the familiar surroundings, to his experiments, to his investigations and suspects. But the detective remained, even though John had not asked him to stay.
“I'll spend the night here and start painting the living room in the morning,” John decided to explain. “So you don't have to stay. You’ve already helped more than I expected.”
“I'll stay nevertheless. I can't miss such an exciting thing as painting the walls.”
“But there's only one bed here.”
“It's big enough for two of us. Problem?”
“Umm…. No.”
“Excellent.”
“Aren't you bored so far?”
“No.”
Lying in Harry's bed next to a quiet Sherlock, John was worried that he would not sleep at all and actually felt a little bit awkward. He listened to their breathing until falling asleep unexpectedly, thinking that it would be great if he could manage to inspire Holmes for few days more until he was finished with everything.
++**++
“Sherlock.”
John stood over Holmes on the sofa. The detective lay with his eyes closed and refused to give any sign of life except for a barely noticeable movement of his chest. This meant that the ongoing conversation would not be easy one. Well it was partly his fault.
“Sherlock, I’m collecting Harry from the clinic tomorrow, and I would like to do it alone.”
Ok, he had said it. Still there was no response.
“You’ve helped me a lot and for that I am endlessly grateful. And I think Harry will appreciate it too…”
“You imply without my interference, or interference from Mycroft or anyone else.” Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes, ignoring John's last words completely.
“Yes,” John sighed with relief.
“Why?”
“It's private.”
“And photos of me in that jeans and shirt of yours are also private, yet still you sent them to that Murray fellow.”
“Sorry, mate, it was hard to resist.” He really could not resist the temptation. When they had both decided that Sherlock should not paint walls in his expensive suit, John had given him his old jeans, of course a bit wide and short, as well as his t-shirt. And of course, he could not know that Holmes would look so unusual in ordinary clothes… In John's clothes. “Just be grateful I didn't send them to Mycroft. Or post on my blog.”
“You wouldn't.”
“You sure?”
“Make them disappear forever and you can have the whole day to yourself. I won't interfere.”
“I rather like them.” John didn’t want to get rid of any photos of Sherlock. The man had no pictures at all, not counting the ones required for official documents. Not a single reminder of past events or of people associated with him.
“Do you?”
“Yes. Very much. They are unusual and perfect - er, perfectly representative of the help you’ve given me - and Harry, of course “ he broke off, abruptly, feeling that he was beginning to blush.
“And still I insist on their disposal.”
“Ok, you can text me, call or demand my assistance. Don't be surprised though if I won't answer. Because I will be busy with family business.”
After this conversation, John hoped that Sherlock would last at least until the evening and his curiosity and boredom would not result on any irreparable consequences.
Collecting his sister from the clinic the next morning, he unwittingly felt nervous. He didn’t know how she would react to the world around her, even after having a long conversation with her doctor and psychologist. John could only guess how Harry would react to his initiative of redecorating her flat, but he did not care anymore. Spreading the latest books and knick-knacks on the shelves he had smiled contentedly to himself and closed the flat until Harry's return. He had done it all not only for his sister but for himself as well. Maybe now he would not lie awake at night, seeking escape from his nightmares and thinking that he had not done enough or tried hard enough to help her.
Harry Watson was able to surprise her brother just as suddenly, though not as often, as Sherlock Holmes could. John watched with mild alarm for his sister while she hesitantly walked from room to room, touching the familiar things in their new surroundings. Then she just walked over and hugged him.
“Thank you.”
John stroked her warm back, softly fingering her blonde hair as he recalled a similar scene but in different circumstances. And he could not help thinking about how things had changed over the last several months. Not only had the circumstances changed, he himself had changed - the reality of that struck him suddenly.
“Are you hungry?”
“I'm dying for pizza.”
“I know a great place, you'll love it.”
The place had been shown to him, of course, by Sherlock. For some time he had had a suspicion that almost every owner of the cafés and restaurants in a three-block radius of Baker Street was obliged to Holmes in one way or another. John often wondered if it had somehow happened by accident or if Holmes had somehow managed to arrange things so he could have free food whenever his body was demanding it.
“Has something happened?”
“No.” John was surprised by the question. “Everything’s ok. Why are you asking?”
“You are constantly checking your phone. So I thought that maybe you were waiting for an important call.”
John was embarrassed and hid his mobile in his pocket. He didn’t want to remind his sister of her ex, even if it was just her present, which he now so shamelessly used while checking if there were any messages from Sherlock. What a stupid situation.
“You look happy. Grounded.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Is that Holmes man treating you well? I suppose he pays well.”
“Mmm… Yes. I'm all right with everything.”
During the last few months, he had stopped seeing their relationship as only a working one. In fact, John had begun to think more and more of Sherlock as a friend. A strange one, but also a true one. The kind of friend for whom he was ready to do stupid things and to risk his own life and safety, and not only because he was paid to do so. Even the money that he continued to receive on a weekly basis was spent mostly on the detective and his experiments. Their taxi rides alone cost a small fortune.
Looking at his sister under his eyelashes John suddenly realized that he would gladly risk his life and welfare for Sherlock even if he was not paid for that. Even if it was not asked of him.
“I'm happy to know that you are ok, John.”
++**++
John met Mycroft almost as regularly as he met Bill and Lestrade. Usually it was in the most unexpected places, the choice of which he tried not to be surprised by. A couple of times they even met in hotel rooms. And if he were a bystander, he probably would have formed the opinion that these were secret meetings. Sometimes they would sit over their tea just talking about various things, but mostly discussing Sherlock and their work together. It was a very safe topic in John's opinion.
However there was a good reason for doing exactly this. John really preferred that their conspiracy resembled a meeting of two lovers than something more serious to the outside observer.
Sherlock, of course, being childish and possessive, did not like his frequent appointments with Mycroft or with his friends, and if the latter was not even discussed, the detective could only begrudge his own brother. Part of the reason why his meetings with Holmes senior could not be under the Baker Street roof were dictated by their inability to talk properly in the same room as a sulking Sherlock.
Mycroft was very pleased with his progress. They had not expected that they would be able to contact Moran so soon. Even though John was not happy with the prospect of communicating with Sebastian Moran, he was ready to suffer.
Returning after one more appointment with Mycroft, he asked to be dropped off near the park. It was really nice weather and he did not want to sit in the four walls in their flat waiting for Sherlock to show up.
“John! John Watson!”
John turned around. A short stout men with a pleasant face came up to him. As John had passed him sitting on the bench reading a newspaper, he had seemed vaguely familiar to him.
“Mike. Mike Stamford. We studied together.”
“Sorry, Mike. Didn’t recognize you. Hello.” John really did not recognize his former classmate; he’d thought that maybe he was one of their clients, not associating him with his Uni days.
“I know-I know. I got fat,” Mike chuckled, brushing off John’s polite denial.
They looked at each other with surprise.
“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”
“I got shot.” What else could he say? He really had got shot.
They went to the nearest café to drink some coffee and remember their student years.
“So you are still at Barts then?”
“Teaching now - bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them. What about you?”
“Well working here and there.”
“Private practice? This is our John Watson!”
“It’s been hard to find work with my injury.”
“Oh, sorry…”
Ok, not the most awkward conversation he had in his life but still a bit not good.
“Are you on a break?”
“You could say so. Now my lab is… ummm…. Currently my laboratory is occupied by one person. Just between us, strictly speaking, he should not be there at all. Only God knows what fragile and expensive equipment we use. And if something happens, the postgraduate dean will tear my head off. But you see, he rescued me in one case, and now I just can't refuse…”
Somehow he could guess exactly who they were discussing right now. And he was curious what his friend from Uni thought of Holmes.
“So is he a scientist?”
“Not quite. He knows anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist, but it seems that he has never studied medicine systematically. I would say that he is obsessed with science, and in him it borders on callousness. That man is currently sitting at my workplace. He either does not show for weeks or sits there day and night. If you want, we can go there right now.
From the park, they went to Barts continuing to reminisce about their student years. The few times that John had been back at his alma mater, he had not had the opportunity to go past the morgue, so now he looked around curiously. Everything in the building was familiar to him: the endless walls of long corridors and numerous sets of doors with different nameplates. The laboratory was empty, and only the far corner was occupied by Sherlock Holmes, hunched over the table. John had wondered where he’d gone so early that morning.
“Holmes, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”
“Ah, John, exactly the man I need. Give me a hand here,” Sherlock demanded immediately, barely glancing at them.
“You know each other?” Now it was Mike's turn to look surprised.
“We live together,” explained Holmes and handed John a flask containing a suspicious-looking substance. John just groaned and rolled his eyes. Again. No wonder everyone around them thought they were a couple, after statements like that.
“Oh!... So this is that John.”
Watson frowned.
“Mike, what is he saying about me behind my back?”
“Well…. In general Sherlock compares you to others. And not in their favour, I must say.”
“Seriously? Who would have thought,” John chuckled, pleased with such praise.
“Mike. You need to be absent for at least 15 minutes more,” said Holmes, looking with distaste at the good-natured Stamford, who hastened to say his goodbyes to them and leave.
“So I'm better than others.”
“Don't be dull. Of course, you are better. Different. Otherwise I wouldn’t tolerate your presence in my life.”
John paused. For the first time, Sherlock had confirmed with words what he had demonstrated again and again with his actions and in whatever ways the detective was accustomed to.
“Well, you know, it's always nice to know that you appreciate me,” John teased him. “How long do I have to hold this flask for?”
“Put it aside.”
A comfortable silence hung between them as John attentively watched Sherlock’s careful hands, while the detective pretended not to notice. Then the phone in John's pocket came to life with an incoming message.
Sherlock with you? MH
“If it's Mycroft, tell him I have no time to do any legwork for him,” grumbled Sherlock. “And if it's Lestrade, he’d better bring me all those folders of cases I have requested.”
Yes. Sends his hello. Being childish. JW
“What cases?”
“Old murder cases where the victims’ left hands were cut off.”
“If you want, I can ask him, as a thanks to you for your help with Harry's recovery.” John remembered that he had still had not managed to thank the detective properly for his assistance. After living with Holmes for months now he knew how poorly the detective took compliments or praise, pretending that they were unimportant but craving them nevertheless. Holmes sought approval only from a couple of people - the people whose opinions were really valued by him. And he, John, was lucky enough to be one of them, or so it seemed.
“If you would be so kind. Lestrade will listen to you, I’m sure.”
“Anything, as long as you are never bored,” John teased and went to make a call to Greg. He didn’t like it one bit when Sherlock was sulking in their flat with nothing to occupy his mind. John tried to comfort himself with the hope that, if only he was not so desperately bored, he would not be so damned happy to engage in the dangerous games that the detective was invited to play with Moriarty.
and the last chap is here - part 9