Fic: The dangerous book for boys. (Part two, AU, Sherlock/John, PG-13.)
The dangerous book for boys. Sherlock (BBC), PG-13, still wildly AU. Sherlock/John. Part two. Of three? I'm working on it. Part one can be found here.
It's like being under a magnifying glass, when he does that; like someone putting a mirror to your mouth to look down your throat. To search inside. It's almost like care.
John finds Sherlock in the staff bathroom on the third floor. Not immediately; he checks all the student's bathrooms and then the rest, and there's only one that's locked, with an "out of order" sign hanging over it, and the faint sound of uncomfortable snorting coming from behind the door. John knocks, twice, and the honking noise stops. "Let me in," he says. There's a moment, and then the lock turns. John slips inside and locks it again behind him. Sherlock is standing in front of the mirrors with handfuls of bloody tissue pressed to his face. He turns to one side and then the other, considering his reflection.
"I expected more swelling," he says, through a mouthful of paper.
"Just wait," John says. He moves closer. "May I?" Sherlock doesn't answer. "It's alright. I've patched up Harry a million times. Her idea of fun is seeing if she can make the jump between her bedroom window and the neighbor's roof." Sherlock sighs and steps back and lets John pull his hand away to look at the source of the problem. He shuts his eyes when John touches the bridge. "It's not bad," he says. "It's not crooked. How's your breathing?"
"Doctor John," he says, with a slight edge. "It's functioning."
"Yeah, functioning is good, but good is better," John returns. "Do you feel like something's blocking-" Sherlock makes an irritated noise, bats his hands away and turns around, pacing over to the window. "Really mature," says John. "What was that all about, anyway? Starting a riot to gauge crowd reactions?"
"I would not-"
"It's just a joke," John cuts in, quietly. "It's fine. Tell me."
"It was childish," Sherlock says. "People don't like to be faced with the consequences of their actions. Kenneth Block is no exception." John can't help an unexpected chuckle escaping. "What's so funny?"
"The refrigerator that tried to maim you is named- Block?" John grins. "Come on." The side of Sherlock's mouth twitches upward, but that's all.
"Coincidence," he says. "If there was any fitness in names, he'd be called Kenneth Flunitrazepam."
"Gesundheit," John returns. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"It's a powerful sedative and anticonvulsant. Read the newspaper, John. You'll find it under its registered trade name. Rohypnol."
"What? Is that why-"
"Watch." Sherlock pulls him closer to the window. "I picked this bathroom for the view." Down below, there's a minor disturbance in the circle in front of the school. A pair of police cars are sitting parked with their lights off, and two uniforms are packing Kenneth Block into the back of the closest one. He's shouting at someone; probably Lestrade, considering the principal is standing and watching the whole thing with professional calm. "There was an overdose at a party in August, before you arrived. A fourteen-year-old. I traced the supply, but not to its source. I have a feeling Kenneth will be more than happy to share that information, to save his own skin," he adds. There's obvious satisfaction in his tone, bordering on glee. "They'll have found the stash in both his lockers, by now. If they've any sense, they'll pull the list of contacts from his smartphone." Sherlock seems to pause at that, then pulls his own phone out of his back pocket and types furiously on the tiny keyboard.
"Are you texting somebody?"
"Lestrade," he answers, and flips it shut. Sure enough, down below, the principal's hand goes to his breast pocket. "Just reminding him to look for a particular name."
"What name?"
"It doesn't matter." Sherlock turns around, suddenly all smiles, putting his dirty, bloodied hands onto both of John's shoulders. "Are you busy? Harry-sitting? Any plans?"
"I've got detention." John says. Sherlock blinks. "You do remember how that happened, don't you?"
"You impersonated a spider monkey."
"Sherlock," he says, and his tone makes Sherlock pause in his manic skip towards the door. "Are we going to talk about any of this?"
"About how I'm a narc?" He tilts his head. "Or your well-hidden capacity for violence?"
John sighs.
"Neither," he decides.
They end up on the path by the river, under the railroad bridge, dangling their legs over the railing and chucking Sherlock's cigarette butts into the water far below. He's been smoking one after the other and now his eyes are burning like the red tips, his hands trembling faintly with nervous energy and nicotine, and John keeps wanting to put his own palms on top of Sherlock's to keep him still. Steady. It's- distracting. John shoves his hands further into his pockets and tries to think manly, unrelated thoughts. But maybe it's useless: Sherlock is watching him, he's sure of it, even in the dark. "You're doing it again," John tells him, after a while, staring down at his shoes. They're paused in midair, toes pointed down, like they're floating above the river.
"It bothers you."
"No," says John. He turns and meets his gaze. It's steadier than his hands. "Not really." And then he reaches out and takes the fresh cigarette from between Sherlock's fingers, stubs it out and flicks it away into the air, still glowing like a spark. It arcs up and then down and falls without a splash. They watch in silence.
"Thank you," says Sherlock, at last. John looks at him. "Don't be dense. I was about to eat floor tile when you arrived."
"Oh." John smiles. "That. You're welcome."
"How did she die?" It's abrupt; Sherlock's train of thought jumping the tracks again before John knew they were moving. It's so unexpected that John actually asks who? And then he realizes why Sherlock is looking at him with that weird intensity. It's like being under a magnifying glass, when he does that; like someone putting a mirror to your mouth to look down your throat. To search inside. It's almost like care.
"My mother," he says. "You want to know how my mother died." John puts the heel of his hands over his eyes and rubs, frustrated. He can feel a headache starting in the back of his brain. "You probably already went through the albums in my room and looked online for her obituary."
"Yes."
"Why do you-" John stops himself. "No, I know why." He sighs and relaxes his shoulders, blinks out at the city lights beyond. "I'm not ready to tell you," he says, finally. "Alright?"
"Yes," says Sherlock. "I can wait."
Sherlock takes the pack out of his coat and crumples it, ruining the last three cigarettes. He puts it in John's pocket.
It's almost two in the morning by the time they wander back to John's neighborhood; shabby little brick duplexes in rows, blue television lights still flickering from upstairs windows. The Watsons have the one in the very middle. John's uncle owns it, and keeps promising to do something about the leak in the basement. They walk in the middle of the street, no moving cars in sight, except for one idling unexpectedly in front of John's house. They stop at the corner and John stares at the car- sleek and black and gorgeous, totally posh. Beyond posh. There's a tall young man in a really good suit leaning casually on the hood. The wheels in John's head are turning about as fast as they can manage at this hour. Beside him, Sherlock's expression goes from neutral to utterly murderous.
"Sherlock," says the man, when they've crossed the street. He's dark-haired and dark-eyed and his tie appears improbably tight. He's weirdly young to be dressed that way. He stands up and looks down at both of them. "You didn't call."
"I never call."
"Yes, well." The tall man smiles; it's as narrow as his tie. "Tonight might have been particularly important. Your presence was missed at dinner."
"I doubt that very much."
"You've made your point," he continues. "I'll take you back, now."
"I'm fully capable-"
"It's manifestly clear that you aren't-"
John clears his throat, and they both turn to stare at him. Only Sherlock has the decency to look a bit like he's been caught at something.
"There's a family resemblance," says John. "Verbally." Sherlock's furious eyes start staring daggers in two directions. The tall man looks at John and back at Sherlock, and his smile widens and warms a fraction.
"Quite."
"None at all," snaps Sherlock. "Very well, Mycroft, you can drive me home. But I'll need to stop for a few things."
"And those would be-"
"Things," he hisses, like the whole conversation is totally irrational and pointless. He stalks to the passenger-side door and flings it open. John stifles a laugh at the sullen expression on his face. This is probably not the moment; Sherlock will kill him in his sleep or between classes if he cracks up now. "John, this is my brother," he says, slightly subdued. He gives Mycroft one more homicidal glare. "He already knows who you are." He sits and slams the door behind him. The windows are too tinted for John to see clearly, but it's obvious that Sherlock is knotted up on the seat, arms folded across his chest, sulking.
"John Watson," he says suddenly, extending a hand. Mycroft takes it and shakes it for a perfectly polite amount of time. No family resemblance there. "Nice to meet you."
"Very nice to meet you, John." Mycroft glances backwards. "I won't keep his grace waiting. He has school in the morning, as do you."
"Night, then," says John.
He stands and watches as Mycroft circles the car and drops into the driver's seat. There's a brief explosion of bickering just before the door shuts and muffles the sound. They pull away from the curb and Sherlock looks back, just once, in time to see John give a little wave. It feels a bit silly. Oh, whatever. John puts his hand down and sighs and trudges around to the back door, unlocks it as quietly as he can. He takes his shoes off and sneaks through the living room. But his dad's there, asleep in his work clothes on the sofa, arm outstretched towards the coffee table. There's only the light from the street to see by. John stands and stares at him for a long minute, listening to the faint sounds of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. His face is different, younger somehow, when he's sleeping. He looks the way he used to in yellowing pictures, swinging John up by his armpits, holding him above the water, steadying him as he blew out candles. Smiling out to the person past the camera. John takes the afghan off the back of the chair and pulls it over him. His dad shifts and then settles again. "Goodnight," John murmurs. He goes upstairs. There's no sound from Harry's room except for her steady snoring. John shuts the door and changes into pajama bottoms and crawls under the covers. He falls asleep and doesn't dream at all.
It's nice.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Are you still awake?
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
Yes.
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
John?
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
Did you need something?
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Not really. Sorry to bother you.
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
Don't apologize unnecessarily. It's a verbal tic.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Fine, I hope it bothered you. I hope you were busy. Curing cancer. I hope you had a test tube of something disgusting in your hand and your message alarm went off and you dropped it
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
You underestimate my reflexes. But you've overestimated my pharmacological abilities. A draw.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
:)
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
You and your unnerving little faces.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
8DDDDDD
On Sunday the Watsons go to Mike's family's house for lunch and company and obligation; Sherlock texts John obsessively the entire day, starting at nine in the morning with This is unacceptable. John rolls his eyes and turns off the ringer and endures it. His pocket buzzes in the middle of dessert. It's lemon sponge.
There is suspicious activity in the park,
come at once.
John texts back: no, but this is obviously taken as an indication of his boredom and desperate need to get texted back every ten minutes.
I have a theory about your aunt's house.
Please confirm.
He doesn't even want to know. He doesn't. But he types what is it and hits send, anyway.
It's boring and full of
Royal Doulton figurines.
Obviously. Come at once.
John glances at the mantle and the glass case in front of the fireplace and snickers into his sleeve. When he looks back up, everyone on the other side of the table, his dad and his dad's sisters and Harry, are staring at him curiously. Harry kicks him in the shin, barely, just grazing him with her toe. It's a big table. Thank goodness he still has the advantage of size on somebody.
After lunch they're sent outside with vague encouragements to 'play,' which Harry takes to heart. She careens out of the back door and flings herself up a tree while John and Mike are still shuffling awkwardly around the patio. John's not exactly happy with the situation; inside, they'll be talking about money, about the house, and it's about fucking time that he got to sit in on those conversations. He's hardly the least responsible member of their little trio. Mike starts talking about football and it's easy enough to just sit and nod in the right places. John stews and wanders mentally and agrees with everything until he suddenly realizes that Mike has just asked a very non-football-related question and is now sitting uncomfortably, waiting for a response.
"Sherlock?" John says, blinking. "What about Sherlock?"
"You spend a lot of time with him," Mike says. "I just think somebody should tell you about him, is all."
"Tell me what?"
"He's a weirdo, for starters," Mike says, and when John frowns and starts to talk over him, he puts his palms up defensively. "Yeah, and that's fine, I'm not saying that's not fine. But people don't like him. You already know that," he adds, feinting a jab at John's shoulder. "I didn't see you in the hall, but Pete did. Nice work. Kenneth was a twat." John stares at him, more than a little confused. Mike doesn't seem to notice. "Anyway, he's not unpopular because he's weird, it's because he thinks he's better than everyone else. He used to go to that public school up the hill, until he was kicked out. Pete told me he heard that he was in boarding school before that, someplace fancy, and got the boot there as well. He's always in the offices, in trouble, getting hauled in front of Lestrade. It's alright for him, because his family's stupid rich and he's just playing, but-" Mike trails off. "You don't want to get involved in whatever it is. You should just ignore him. Say you're busy with family stuff. I mean, you never see anyone else around him, right? Nobody wants to be."
John's pocket buzzes.
"Mike," he says, and his cousin looks at him expectantly. "Thanks for looking out for me." Mike beams.
"Yeah, it's nothing-"
"Would you tell my dad something?"
"-sure?"
"Tell him I had to go," John says. He stands up and walks out of the back gate, Mike calling after him, and doesn't look back. He tugs his phone out of his pocket. Missed message, again. Still in the park. I think one of the elderly chess players has poisoned the other, it says. But I'd like a second opinion.
John walks faster.
The edge of the park is quiet, past the playground, where there's a herd of knee-high people shrieking and hitting each other with plastic dump trucks. On this side there's just a handful of older men with chess sets or newspapers, and Sherlock.
John stops at the end of the sidewalk, just out of Sherlock's sight, and watches for a minute before crossing the grass. Lets himself look for once, pretends to be inside Sherlock's wandering brain for a passing second or two, noticing everything, discarding the noise. He's sitting on top of a picnic bench, wearing that ridiculous old-fashioned greatcoat that swims around him, that John always thought he stole from an older, bigger, stodgier relative. Now he knows he probably got it out of a boutique window in Covent Garden. But it doesn't change anything, not really; not the way he sits up, knees and elbows knocking together, mouth set, gaze greedy, hands fisted in his pockets for warmth. Not the way his hair is continually mutinying, the way his skin's too pale and his eyes too feverish and his fingers are always twitching for a cigarette. When he's up close, John can't do anything be get caught up in his wake, trailing the comet. But from here it's different. He looks different. He looks the way John sometimes feels. Like there's a distance between himself and everybody else, like he's not sure how it got there or how far it goes.
It goes pretty far, John guesses.
"I skipped the best part for you," John says, and Sherlock turns around. "You know what comes after the lemon sponge?"
"The antacid?"
"Ha ha," John frowns. "No. The second helping of lemon sponge."
"How deliciously petite bourgeois."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous?"
"Yes," says John, firmly. "Now tell me about this chess murder. Everybody here looks alive." He glances around; there's one elderly man in a tan overcoat with the paper spread out over his face. It's only kind of moving as he exhales. "Alright, mostly alive."
"It's done," Sherlock says, with a distracted wave. "A misunderstanding."
"How do you misunderstand poison?"
"Liquid vitamin supplement. A benign gesture on the part of an overbearing friend, but typically benign gestures don't end with a man rolling on the pavement, grasping his throat." John makes a concerned noise. "Don't worry. It was merely an unexpected allergy to a filler, no lasting harm done. The ambulance arrived almost immediately."
"Ah." John processes this. "You spent the afternoon watching old people slip each other spiked drinks?"
"Drink, singular."
"You know they have movie theaters, now," John says. "They're the big dark rooms with massive televisions inside."
"Hilarious."
"I thought so." John stands up. "Come on. You've got to be hungry. I don't have to be a genius to know you haven't left this bench all day. You're practically sinking into it." Sherlock scowls, if half-heartedly. "My house is empty. You can come rummage through the cupboards." He pauses, gathering ammunition. "Jaffa cakes were two for one this week."
Sherlock hops down.
"If we must," he says.
John is in the kitchen, pulling the biscuits down from the top shelf, listening to Sherlock flipping through one unsuitable channel after another and complaining about the inevitable brain-rot of the human species. "Do you want a soda?" John asks, over the noise of Connie Prince hysterically congratulating someone on changing their clothes. "We've got orange and cherry. And some of that tonic water stuff with lime in it."
"Tea!" Sherlock yells.
"You're welcome," John calls back. He puts the kettle under the tap, but the loose handle suddenly becomes the separated handle; the kettle drops into the sink and water splashes out across his shirtfront and soaks his left arm. "Shit." He turns the tap off. "Shit." He fishes the kettle out and looks at it, wondering if superglue works on metal, or if it's just for things like Harry's Barbie heads.
"Yes," says Sherlock. He's standing in the doorway, the sneak. "You could glue it." John sighs and drops it back onto the counter. His wet sleeve itches, so without thinking he unbuttons the cuff and rolls it up to his elbow. Sherlock inhales suddenly and takes a step forward, into John's space. The television blares.
"What?" John asks. Sherlock doesn't answer; instead, he reaches for John's wrist and circles it with his own long fingers, pulls it up to chest height. He tucks the end of the sleeve back. He presses a thumb to the vein in John's wrist, follows it down to the meat of his arm, above the elbow. He traces the lines there, the little white scars that dot and stutter the flesh. There are dozens of them, like freckles, in clumps and scattered constellations. They're faint, barely raised, only shadows on the skin. They can hardly be seen. Sherlock traces them in silence and John doesn't pull away. He can feel the blood in his arm, drawn to the surface.
"Glass," he says. "Auto glass. The cuts weren't deep." His gaze flickers up, to meet John's. "You crawled."
"It seemed like the thing to do."
"John-"
"It was a car accident," he says, calmly. "You know that already. Drunk driver. Somebody else. Before that, dad never-" he shuts his eyes, and inhales, and opens them again. "Harry was with the babysitter. It was just us. Out to dinner, like- I never got them all to myself. We were coming home, and it was raining." Sherlock is perfectly still, waiting. Watching every flicker, every pause and start. It should be unnerving, and it isn't. How often that seems to be happening. "I couldn't get to her, so I crawled. I held her hand. I was thirteen, my reach was shorter than it is now. If you can imagine." His arm is still in Sherlock's grip. Those pale hands are warmer than they look. "So now you know." Sherlock nods, mutely. They stare at each other, neither of them looking at the point where they are still connected. John can feel the nerves in his wrist humming. "Your turn," he says, after a while. "Tell me why you got kicked out of school."
"Eton," Sherlock corrects, uneasily. "I was expelled from Eton."
"Christ, really? You don't do anything halfway. What happened?"
"Somebody died," says Sherlock. His mouth is a thin line. John feels exhausted, like he just ran a race or forded a river. He doesn't know why. He doesn't want to let go. He is pretty sure Sherlock is the only thing holding him up.
"Me too," says John. "Go on," he says. "Go on, keep talking."
"It wasn't my fault. But I needed to understand. They wanted me to forget, and I couldn't forget. It became a problem." His frown makes a bitter little twist. "They were more concerned with bad publicity than with pursuing the truth."
"And what's the truth?"
"That it was murder," Sherlock says. "And the killer is still out there."
"Oh," says John. He is very quiet for a long moment. He remembers Sherlock telling Lestrade to look for a name. One important name. "But you know who it is. And you're going to catch him, aren't you?" Sherlock smiles at him, and there is something very cold and very beautiful in it. It's like looking at the sun through a layer of ice.
"Yes, I am," he says.
"Good." John exhales. "Let me help."
"Of course," says Sherlock. It's strangely reverent. "Of course."
Part three.
It's like being under a magnifying glass, when he does that; like someone putting a mirror to your mouth to look down your throat. To search inside. It's almost like care.
John finds Sherlock in the staff bathroom on the third floor. Not immediately; he checks all the student's bathrooms and then the rest, and there's only one that's locked, with an "out of order" sign hanging over it, and the faint sound of uncomfortable snorting coming from behind the door. John knocks, twice, and the honking noise stops. "Let me in," he says. There's a moment, and then the lock turns. John slips inside and locks it again behind him. Sherlock is standing in front of the mirrors with handfuls of bloody tissue pressed to his face. He turns to one side and then the other, considering his reflection.
"I expected more swelling," he says, through a mouthful of paper.
"Just wait," John says. He moves closer. "May I?" Sherlock doesn't answer. "It's alright. I've patched up Harry a million times. Her idea of fun is seeing if she can make the jump between her bedroom window and the neighbor's roof." Sherlock sighs and steps back and lets John pull his hand away to look at the source of the problem. He shuts his eyes when John touches the bridge. "It's not bad," he says. "It's not crooked. How's your breathing?"
"Doctor John," he says, with a slight edge. "It's functioning."
"Yeah, functioning is good, but good is better," John returns. "Do you feel like something's blocking-" Sherlock makes an irritated noise, bats his hands away and turns around, pacing over to the window. "Really mature," says John. "What was that all about, anyway? Starting a riot to gauge crowd reactions?"
"I would not-"
"It's just a joke," John cuts in, quietly. "It's fine. Tell me."
"It was childish," Sherlock says. "People don't like to be faced with the consequences of their actions. Kenneth Block is no exception." John can't help an unexpected chuckle escaping. "What's so funny?"
"The refrigerator that tried to maim you is named- Block?" John grins. "Come on." The side of Sherlock's mouth twitches upward, but that's all.
"Coincidence," he says. "If there was any fitness in names, he'd be called Kenneth Flunitrazepam."
"Gesundheit," John returns. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"It's a powerful sedative and anticonvulsant. Read the newspaper, John. You'll find it under its registered trade name. Rohypnol."
"What? Is that why-"
"Watch." Sherlock pulls him closer to the window. "I picked this bathroom for the view." Down below, there's a minor disturbance in the circle in front of the school. A pair of police cars are sitting parked with their lights off, and two uniforms are packing Kenneth Block into the back of the closest one. He's shouting at someone; probably Lestrade, considering the principal is standing and watching the whole thing with professional calm. "There was an overdose at a party in August, before you arrived. A fourteen-year-old. I traced the supply, but not to its source. I have a feeling Kenneth will be more than happy to share that information, to save his own skin," he adds. There's obvious satisfaction in his tone, bordering on glee. "They'll have found the stash in both his lockers, by now. If they've any sense, they'll pull the list of contacts from his smartphone." Sherlock seems to pause at that, then pulls his own phone out of his back pocket and types furiously on the tiny keyboard.
"Are you texting somebody?"
"Lestrade," he answers, and flips it shut. Sure enough, down below, the principal's hand goes to his breast pocket. "Just reminding him to look for a particular name."
"What name?"
"It doesn't matter." Sherlock turns around, suddenly all smiles, putting his dirty, bloodied hands onto both of John's shoulders. "Are you busy? Harry-sitting? Any plans?"
"I've got detention." John says. Sherlock blinks. "You do remember how that happened, don't you?"
"You impersonated a spider monkey."
"Sherlock," he says, and his tone makes Sherlock pause in his manic skip towards the door. "Are we going to talk about any of this?"
"About how I'm a narc?" He tilts his head. "Or your well-hidden capacity for violence?"
John sighs.
"Neither," he decides.
They end up on the path by the river, under the railroad bridge, dangling their legs over the railing and chucking Sherlock's cigarette butts into the water far below. He's been smoking one after the other and now his eyes are burning like the red tips, his hands trembling faintly with nervous energy and nicotine, and John keeps wanting to put his own palms on top of Sherlock's to keep him still. Steady. It's- distracting. John shoves his hands further into his pockets and tries to think manly, unrelated thoughts. But maybe it's useless: Sherlock is watching him, he's sure of it, even in the dark. "You're doing it again," John tells him, after a while, staring down at his shoes. They're paused in midair, toes pointed down, like they're floating above the river.
"It bothers you."
"No," says John. He turns and meets his gaze. It's steadier than his hands. "Not really." And then he reaches out and takes the fresh cigarette from between Sherlock's fingers, stubs it out and flicks it away into the air, still glowing like a spark. It arcs up and then down and falls without a splash. They watch in silence.
"Thank you," says Sherlock, at last. John looks at him. "Don't be dense. I was about to eat floor tile when you arrived."
"Oh." John smiles. "That. You're welcome."
"How did she die?" It's abrupt; Sherlock's train of thought jumping the tracks again before John knew they were moving. It's so unexpected that John actually asks who? And then he realizes why Sherlock is looking at him with that weird intensity. It's like being under a magnifying glass, when he does that; like someone putting a mirror to your mouth to look down your throat. To search inside. It's almost like care.
"My mother," he says. "You want to know how my mother died." John puts the heel of his hands over his eyes and rubs, frustrated. He can feel a headache starting in the back of his brain. "You probably already went through the albums in my room and looked online for her obituary."
"Yes."
"Why do you-" John stops himself. "No, I know why." He sighs and relaxes his shoulders, blinks out at the city lights beyond. "I'm not ready to tell you," he says, finally. "Alright?"
"Yes," says Sherlock. "I can wait."
Sherlock takes the pack out of his coat and crumples it, ruining the last three cigarettes. He puts it in John's pocket.
It's almost two in the morning by the time they wander back to John's neighborhood; shabby little brick duplexes in rows, blue television lights still flickering from upstairs windows. The Watsons have the one in the very middle. John's uncle owns it, and keeps promising to do something about the leak in the basement. They walk in the middle of the street, no moving cars in sight, except for one idling unexpectedly in front of John's house. They stop at the corner and John stares at the car- sleek and black and gorgeous, totally posh. Beyond posh. There's a tall young man in a really good suit leaning casually on the hood. The wheels in John's head are turning about as fast as they can manage at this hour. Beside him, Sherlock's expression goes from neutral to utterly murderous.
"Sherlock," says the man, when they've crossed the street. He's dark-haired and dark-eyed and his tie appears improbably tight. He's weirdly young to be dressed that way. He stands up and looks down at both of them. "You didn't call."
"I never call."
"Yes, well." The tall man smiles; it's as narrow as his tie. "Tonight might have been particularly important. Your presence was missed at dinner."
"I doubt that very much."
"You've made your point," he continues. "I'll take you back, now."
"I'm fully capable-"
"It's manifestly clear that you aren't-"
John clears his throat, and they both turn to stare at him. Only Sherlock has the decency to look a bit like he's been caught at something.
"There's a family resemblance," says John. "Verbally." Sherlock's furious eyes start staring daggers in two directions. The tall man looks at John and back at Sherlock, and his smile widens and warms a fraction.
"Quite."
"None at all," snaps Sherlock. "Very well, Mycroft, you can drive me home. But I'll need to stop for a few things."
"And those would be-"
"Things," he hisses, like the whole conversation is totally irrational and pointless. He stalks to the passenger-side door and flings it open. John stifles a laugh at the sullen expression on his face. This is probably not the moment; Sherlock will kill him in his sleep or between classes if he cracks up now. "John, this is my brother," he says, slightly subdued. He gives Mycroft one more homicidal glare. "He already knows who you are." He sits and slams the door behind him. The windows are too tinted for John to see clearly, but it's obvious that Sherlock is knotted up on the seat, arms folded across his chest, sulking.
"John Watson," he says suddenly, extending a hand. Mycroft takes it and shakes it for a perfectly polite amount of time. No family resemblance there. "Nice to meet you."
"Very nice to meet you, John." Mycroft glances backwards. "I won't keep his grace waiting. He has school in the morning, as do you."
"Night, then," says John.
He stands and watches as Mycroft circles the car and drops into the driver's seat. There's a brief explosion of bickering just before the door shuts and muffles the sound. They pull away from the curb and Sherlock looks back, just once, in time to see John give a little wave. It feels a bit silly. Oh, whatever. John puts his hand down and sighs and trudges around to the back door, unlocks it as quietly as he can. He takes his shoes off and sneaks through the living room. But his dad's there, asleep in his work clothes on the sofa, arm outstretched towards the coffee table. There's only the light from the street to see by. John stands and stares at him for a long minute, listening to the faint sounds of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. His face is different, younger somehow, when he's sleeping. He looks the way he used to in yellowing pictures, swinging John up by his armpits, holding him above the water, steadying him as he blew out candles. Smiling out to the person past the camera. John takes the afghan off the back of the chair and pulls it over him. His dad shifts and then settles again. "Goodnight," John murmurs. He goes upstairs. There's no sound from Harry's room except for her steady snoring. John shuts the door and changes into pajama bottoms and crawls under the covers. He falls asleep and doesn't dream at all.
It's nice.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Are you still awake?
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
Yes.
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
John?
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
Did you need something?
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Not really. Sorry to bother you.
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
Don't apologize unnecessarily. It's a verbal tic.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Fine, I hope it bothered you. I hope you were busy. Curing cancer. I hope you had a test tube of something disgusting in your hand and your message alarm went off and you dropped it
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
You underestimate my reflexes. But you've overestimated my pharmacological abilities. A draw.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
:)
From: do_not_ask
To: watson93
You and your unnerving little faces.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
8DDDDDD
On Sunday the Watsons go to Mike's family's house for lunch and company and obligation; Sherlock texts John obsessively the entire day, starting at nine in the morning with This is unacceptable. John rolls his eyes and turns off the ringer and endures it. His pocket buzzes in the middle of dessert. It's lemon sponge.
There is suspicious activity in the park,
come at once.
John texts back: no, but this is obviously taken as an indication of his boredom and desperate need to get texted back every ten minutes.
I have a theory about your aunt's house.
Please confirm.
He doesn't even want to know. He doesn't. But he types what is it and hits send, anyway.
It's boring and full of
Royal Doulton figurines.
Obviously. Come at once.
John glances at the mantle and the glass case in front of the fireplace and snickers into his sleeve. When he looks back up, everyone on the other side of the table, his dad and his dad's sisters and Harry, are staring at him curiously. Harry kicks him in the shin, barely, just grazing him with her toe. It's a big table. Thank goodness he still has the advantage of size on somebody.
After lunch they're sent outside with vague encouragements to 'play,' which Harry takes to heart. She careens out of the back door and flings herself up a tree while John and Mike are still shuffling awkwardly around the patio. John's not exactly happy with the situation; inside, they'll be talking about money, about the house, and it's about fucking time that he got to sit in on those conversations. He's hardly the least responsible member of their little trio. Mike starts talking about football and it's easy enough to just sit and nod in the right places. John stews and wanders mentally and agrees with everything until he suddenly realizes that Mike has just asked a very non-football-related question and is now sitting uncomfortably, waiting for a response.
"Sherlock?" John says, blinking. "What about Sherlock?"
"You spend a lot of time with him," Mike says. "I just think somebody should tell you about him, is all."
"Tell me what?"
"He's a weirdo, for starters," Mike says, and when John frowns and starts to talk over him, he puts his palms up defensively. "Yeah, and that's fine, I'm not saying that's not fine. But people don't like him. You already know that," he adds, feinting a jab at John's shoulder. "I didn't see you in the hall, but Pete did. Nice work. Kenneth was a twat." John stares at him, more than a little confused. Mike doesn't seem to notice. "Anyway, he's not unpopular because he's weird, it's because he thinks he's better than everyone else. He used to go to that public school up the hill, until he was kicked out. Pete told me he heard that he was in boarding school before that, someplace fancy, and got the boot there as well. He's always in the offices, in trouble, getting hauled in front of Lestrade. It's alright for him, because his family's stupid rich and he's just playing, but-" Mike trails off. "You don't want to get involved in whatever it is. You should just ignore him. Say you're busy with family stuff. I mean, you never see anyone else around him, right? Nobody wants to be."
John's pocket buzzes.
"Mike," he says, and his cousin looks at him expectantly. "Thanks for looking out for me." Mike beams.
"Yeah, it's nothing-"
"Would you tell my dad something?"
"-sure?"
"Tell him I had to go," John says. He stands up and walks out of the back gate, Mike calling after him, and doesn't look back. He tugs his phone out of his pocket. Missed message, again. Still in the park. I think one of the elderly chess players has poisoned the other, it says. But I'd like a second opinion.
John walks faster.
The edge of the park is quiet, past the playground, where there's a herd of knee-high people shrieking and hitting each other with plastic dump trucks. On this side there's just a handful of older men with chess sets or newspapers, and Sherlock.
John stops at the end of the sidewalk, just out of Sherlock's sight, and watches for a minute before crossing the grass. Lets himself look for once, pretends to be inside Sherlock's wandering brain for a passing second or two, noticing everything, discarding the noise. He's sitting on top of a picnic bench, wearing that ridiculous old-fashioned greatcoat that swims around him, that John always thought he stole from an older, bigger, stodgier relative. Now he knows he probably got it out of a boutique window in Covent Garden. But it doesn't change anything, not really; not the way he sits up, knees and elbows knocking together, mouth set, gaze greedy, hands fisted in his pockets for warmth. Not the way his hair is continually mutinying, the way his skin's too pale and his eyes too feverish and his fingers are always twitching for a cigarette. When he's up close, John can't do anything be get caught up in his wake, trailing the comet. But from here it's different. He looks different. He looks the way John sometimes feels. Like there's a distance between himself and everybody else, like he's not sure how it got there or how far it goes.
It goes pretty far, John guesses.
"I skipped the best part for you," John says, and Sherlock turns around. "You know what comes after the lemon sponge?"
"The antacid?"
"Ha ha," John frowns. "No. The second helping of lemon sponge."
"How deliciously petite bourgeois."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous?"
"Yes," says John, firmly. "Now tell me about this chess murder. Everybody here looks alive." He glances around; there's one elderly man in a tan overcoat with the paper spread out over his face. It's only kind of moving as he exhales. "Alright, mostly alive."
"It's done," Sherlock says, with a distracted wave. "A misunderstanding."
"How do you misunderstand poison?"
"Liquid vitamin supplement. A benign gesture on the part of an overbearing friend, but typically benign gestures don't end with a man rolling on the pavement, grasping his throat." John makes a concerned noise. "Don't worry. It was merely an unexpected allergy to a filler, no lasting harm done. The ambulance arrived almost immediately."
"Ah." John processes this. "You spent the afternoon watching old people slip each other spiked drinks?"
"Drink, singular."
"You know they have movie theaters, now," John says. "They're the big dark rooms with massive televisions inside."
"Hilarious."
"I thought so." John stands up. "Come on. You've got to be hungry. I don't have to be a genius to know you haven't left this bench all day. You're practically sinking into it." Sherlock scowls, if half-heartedly. "My house is empty. You can come rummage through the cupboards." He pauses, gathering ammunition. "Jaffa cakes were two for one this week."
Sherlock hops down.
"If we must," he says.
John is in the kitchen, pulling the biscuits down from the top shelf, listening to Sherlock flipping through one unsuitable channel after another and complaining about the inevitable brain-rot of the human species. "Do you want a soda?" John asks, over the noise of Connie Prince hysterically congratulating someone on changing their clothes. "We've got orange and cherry. And some of that tonic water stuff with lime in it."
"Tea!" Sherlock yells.
"You're welcome," John calls back. He puts the kettle under the tap, but the loose handle suddenly becomes the separated handle; the kettle drops into the sink and water splashes out across his shirtfront and soaks his left arm. "Shit." He turns the tap off. "Shit." He fishes the kettle out and looks at it, wondering if superglue works on metal, or if it's just for things like Harry's Barbie heads.
"Yes," says Sherlock. He's standing in the doorway, the sneak. "You could glue it." John sighs and drops it back onto the counter. His wet sleeve itches, so without thinking he unbuttons the cuff and rolls it up to his elbow. Sherlock inhales suddenly and takes a step forward, into John's space. The television blares.
"What?" John asks. Sherlock doesn't answer; instead, he reaches for John's wrist and circles it with his own long fingers, pulls it up to chest height. He tucks the end of the sleeve back. He presses a thumb to the vein in John's wrist, follows it down to the meat of his arm, above the elbow. He traces the lines there, the little white scars that dot and stutter the flesh. There are dozens of them, like freckles, in clumps and scattered constellations. They're faint, barely raised, only shadows on the skin. They can hardly be seen. Sherlock traces them in silence and John doesn't pull away. He can feel the blood in his arm, drawn to the surface.
"Glass," he says. "Auto glass. The cuts weren't deep." His gaze flickers up, to meet John's. "You crawled."
"It seemed like the thing to do."
"John-"
"It was a car accident," he says, calmly. "You know that already. Drunk driver. Somebody else. Before that, dad never-" he shuts his eyes, and inhales, and opens them again. "Harry was with the babysitter. It was just us. Out to dinner, like- I never got them all to myself. We were coming home, and it was raining." Sherlock is perfectly still, waiting. Watching every flicker, every pause and start. It should be unnerving, and it isn't. How often that seems to be happening. "I couldn't get to her, so I crawled. I held her hand. I was thirteen, my reach was shorter than it is now. If you can imagine." His arm is still in Sherlock's grip. Those pale hands are warmer than they look. "So now you know." Sherlock nods, mutely. They stare at each other, neither of them looking at the point where they are still connected. John can feel the nerves in his wrist humming. "Your turn," he says, after a while. "Tell me why you got kicked out of school."
"Eton," Sherlock corrects, uneasily. "I was expelled from Eton."
"Christ, really? You don't do anything halfway. What happened?"
"Somebody died," says Sherlock. His mouth is a thin line. John feels exhausted, like he just ran a race or forded a river. He doesn't know why. He doesn't want to let go. He is pretty sure Sherlock is the only thing holding him up.
"Me too," says John. "Go on," he says. "Go on, keep talking."
"It wasn't my fault. But I needed to understand. They wanted me to forget, and I couldn't forget. It became a problem." His frown makes a bitter little twist. "They were more concerned with bad publicity than with pursuing the truth."
"And what's the truth?"
"That it was murder," Sherlock says. "And the killer is still out there."
"Oh," says John. He is very quiet for a long moment. He remembers Sherlock telling Lestrade to look for a name. One important name. "But you know who it is. And you're going to catch him, aren't you?" Sherlock smiles at him, and there is something very cold and very beautiful in it. It's like looking at the sun through a layer of ice.
"Yes, I am," he says.
"Good." John exhales. "Let me help."
"Of course," says Sherlock. It's strangely reverent. "Of course."
Part three.