Now you’re just somebody that I used to know | John/Sherlock, John/Moran | Sherlock BBC | R
Title: Now you’re just somebody that I used to know
Author: poptartmuse
Words: 3500
Rating: R
Warnings: Spoilers for 2x03 "The Reichenbach Fall," as well as graphic violence, language, and angst.
Pairings: John/Moran, John/Sherlock, Moriarty/Moran.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, it merely owns my heart. Title snagged from Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know."
Summary: After the fall, John makes the acquaintance of Sebastian Moran. Similar griefs bring them together, but can one ever really escape the past?
Now and then, John goes down to The Eagle and Ward pub to forget. It’s only when it feels like the whole day has been winding him up, has been preparing him to slip up or crack under the weight of grief, that’s when he decides that, fuck it, he is going to get plastered and that maybe, maybe when he wakes up he’ll feel a little less. The pub has two floors, one ground level and one that goes down beneath the ground via a spiral staircase that had proved treacherous more than once on John’s way out. Today, the dark wood of the floor and bar seem to melt together in the shadows cast by the evening’s twilight. John gets the bartender’s attention and he’s not sure if he’s proud or ashamed when the bartender slides his usual across without a word or even a glance. John takes a sip of the familiar brew and then another. Soon enough it’s gone and he’s got a full glass in front of him, and someone’s come up from behind him: too close for a casual brush. John tenses immediately and reaches for the gun tucked into the back of his pants (he knows he shouldn’t have it on him, but the feel of it against his lower back is somehow calming and John needs all the calm he can get these days).
John lets his gaze drift backwards and he sees a tall man looking down at him, head tilted to the side slightly, like a confused animal.
“What’re you drinking?” the man asks John. He’s got a rough, low voice and John can’t remember the last time he’s had a real, proper conversation, so all he does is point at his glass and say, “Ale on tap,” and somehow the stranger takes his gesture as an invitation to sit down.
John stares down at his drink as the other man settles in. “I don’t usually barge in on people’s drinks,” the man tells him, “but you look like I feel. So. There’s that.”
John cocks his head to the side.
“John,” he finally allows, sticking out a hand to shake. The other man grasps his hand in a firm grip: his palm is calloused and worn, and the shake itself is strong and almost painful. The other man nods, and for a moment, John is certain that the stranger already knew his name.
A pause, and then: “Sebastian.” They release hands and John takes a large gulp of his drink.
“I’m going to assume that’s a Browning in your belt,” Sebastian says, rolling his shoulder in a slow, deliberate circle. John starts to make excuses, and looks toward the exits for a quick escape before Sebastian lets out a low chuckle. “Secret’s safe with me.”
John, intrigued, turns toward him. “How’d you know?”
“Ex-army,” Sebastian says shortly.
“Fifth Northumberland Fusilier,” John says, hoping for more information. “At least until I got shot.”
“Ex-army,” Sebastian repeats. John fidgets, a little uncomfortable with the interaction, because it’s clear that this man has been dishonorably discharged, and John’s not sure whether he likes that or not, what with his own fucked up relationship with the army and whatnot. “You know what’s a good way to avoid getting shot? Not being in the bloody army.”
The tension diffuses between them like the air getting let out of a balloon.
“Yeah,” John says with a laugh. Then he quiets as he remembers all the other ways a man can die.
“You said you feel how I look,” John says after a long moment and killing his ale.
“Aye,” Sebastian nods.
“So who died?” John asks frankly, because honestly, he’s seen himself in the mirror these days, and it’s not good: mostly unkempt scruff and red eyes and clothes that he hasn’t had the decency to launder. After all, it’s only been six weeks.
Sebastian looks tongue tied for a while before saying, “My boss.”
“Was he sick?” John asks.
“In some ways,” Sebastian says, the hint of a smile on his lips. “In a lot of ways, actually.” Sebastian points to his head and John understands. “But not ill in the body, not at all. At least, not until he shot himself in the head.”
John’s chest tightens and he shivers. Sebastian orders a whiskey and drains it dutifully.
“Was he a good boss?” John asks.
“In some ways,” Sebastian says distantly. “Changeable.”
The word rings around John’s head like a muffled gong, but he can’t remember the last time he heard it, and the warning bell dies like a wave cresting into the sandy shore, dissolving into the mere inkling of danger that John transforms into an audible sigh.
“Would you believe it if I said something similar happened to me?” John asks point blank, because at this point, it’s a little ludicrous how similar their stories are.
Sebastian shrugs. “The world’s fucked up, mate. Wouldn’t be surprised. But it doesn’t bloody matter what I believe.”
“I need another drink,” John says to himself, but Sebastian is sliding over a glass of whiskey in a quick moment. John’s not much of a liquor man, but he’ll drink what he’s given. It burns on the way down, and he almost chokes.
“Vile shit, this stuff,” Sebastian nods. “But my boss loved it.” He stops talking, as if that was explanation enough, and John thinks he understands on a deeper, intrinsic level.
“It burns,” John nods.
Sebastian laughs. “That’s the best part.”
The next morning John wakes up with a devastating hangover and a contact programmed in his phone named Sebastsnhns He deletes the mashed text and replaces it with Sebastian, and then realizes that the stranger had never given him his last name, and John realizes that he never told him he was a doctor, or that Sherlock Holmes is dead.
John composes a text and sends it.
They go to a shooting range together the next day. John had been at the top of his company, a real crack shot, but two looks at Sebastian and John knew that he was… a professional. Sebastian hardly moves when the gun recoils in his hand, and every so often he rolls his shoulder, like something’s meant to be there: a scope or the butt of a rifle. Not that John is a shit shot: quite the opposite, actually. John hits the targets dead on, and if it’s not a kill shot, it’s close to it.
Sebastian’s shots always go through the head: a clean kill. A professional.
They put the guns away quietly, but John feels like he is on red alert: this man is dangerous, this man is dangerous, this goddamn stranger that I met at a fucking bar is a killer.
“You know where the word sniper comes from,” Sebastian says, and John feels like the ice is cracking beneath his feet. He knows I know.
“No, no I can’t say I do,” John says, voice smooth and delicate. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, and his fingers tingle with excitement and sheer energy. He doesn’t take his hand off his gun until Sebastian has unloaded his revolver.
“There’s this bird called a snipe,” Sebastian says, a crooked smile breaking across his face. “Bloody pain in the arse to kill. Small, quick target, great camouflage. If you could shoot it, you were a sniper.”
John doesn’t say anything as they walk out until it comes time to part ways.
“I’ll text you,” John says, but the words are false, and Sebastian has a knowing look on his face, and John isn’t sure if the sniper is proud or ashamed to be recognized. John briskly walks away from Sebastian, only looking back once.
Sebastian takes a drag on a cigarette, newly lit, and nods toward John before sauntering off in the opposite direction.
It’s been a long time since John has felt this alive.
Ran out of milk today. Pick some up, if on way home. -JW
John has texted Sherlock every day since the event: sometimes just casually, in re the groceries or imaginary heads in the refrigerator; sometimes more desperately, in the dark hours of the night, when the nightmares of a tall man falling from a taller building shake him awake in terror and anguish.
Home’s a bit empty now. -JW
John’s sister visits a few weeks after the funeral, and the visit perhaps even more awkward and terrible than John had imagined it would be.
“Have you talked to anyone about this?” Harry asks him point blank, taking a sip of lukewarm tea and looking anywhere in the room but at John.
“I’ve got a therapist, Harry,” John snaps. “And that’s none of your business, really, it’s not.”
“I don’t want to see you following after that Sherlock… that would be a real mess to clean up,” Harry says matter-of-factly, as if more concerned with the clean up than with John’s potential suicide. John looks at her as if she’s actually lost her mind until he spies the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. John looks away, abashed; he can’t remember the last time he saw Harry cry.
“I can make new friends,” John finds himself telling her, in an attempt to avert any sort of teary embrace. “Still got the old Watson charm.”
“Yes indeed,” Harry says. She stands up, and so does he, and she wraps her arms around John, strong and warm against his body. The human contact is almost enough to get John a little weepy, and he pretends that he can’t hear Harry getting a little emotional against his shoulder. The Watson siblings didn’t get along much, and they weren’t about to start now, but for now, John was touched.
Then Harry leaves and John looks at his phone contacts reflexively, breezing past Sebastian with a flickering thought to call or text. Not yet.
I met a new friend the other day. I think. -JW
He seems dangerous. -JW
Up my alley, eh? -JW
Out of beans again. Come home so we can sort it out. -JW
Come home. - JW
He doesn’t text Sebastian again until Mrs. Hudson suggests that he join her book club.
“You need a hobby, dear,” she tells him knowingly. “Something to distract you.”
And it’s true: he needed it before, and it had come in the form of Sherlock Holmes and mystery and serial killers. And he needs it now, and maybe this time fate had intervened in the form of Sebastian the sniper and mutual grief. John almost rings Lestrade to ask him to run the name through his criminal database, and then he remembers that he hasn’t spoken to Lestrade in two months, and that he doesn’t even know Sebastian’s last name.
Pint, on me, 7? is what John texts Sebastian later that night.
Okay is all he gets back. It’s all he needs.
He’s pissed by the time Sebastian walks into the pub, two pints and what John thinks was three whiskeys but was in fact four, and the bartender is giving him cautious looks but John really, really doesn’t give a fuck. All he knows is that he’s taking a chance right now, and this guy could be a bloody ax murderer, but John knows two things: one, he’s had quite enough of loneliness, thank you very much, and two, danger turns him on in ways that make him feel really, truly alive. So Sebastian isn’t wholesome. Neither is Sherlock-was. Neither was Sherlock.
“You started without me,” says a familiar, bemused voice.
“Been a long week,” John says roughly, spine tingling. He fights the urge to shiver at the sound of Sebastian’s rough syllables. He pushes a pint and a whiskey toward Sebastian.
“I know the feeling,” Sebastian says, scooting into the booth that John had sequestered. He kicks back the whiskey quickly and a muted grimace.
“Got a lot-got lots of tension I need to work out, I think,” John says quietly, words slipping slightly, but he’s always been a pretty good drunk (in striking contrast with Harry). John locks eyes with Sebastian and is surprised to find the other man’s eyes bright blue lenses staring back at him just as intensely.
“I know that feeling, too,” Sebastian growls. Sebastian reminds John of a lounging tiger: lazy, relaxed, but at any moment dangerous and vicious enough to strike out at anyone, anything to get in his way.
“I’m going outside for some air,” John says.
“Air sounds good,” Sebastian smiles, a mysterious expression on his face makes John shudder in anticipation.
They fight like dogs outside: John is scrappy and quick, whereas Sebastian is slow and methodical. A small crowd gathers around them, but all John can see is Sebastian in front of him, blood running down his chin from where John clipped him on the lip and what looks like a bruised chin from one of John’s uppercuts. John is also proud to say that he landed a punch to Sebastian’s chest that very well may have broken a rib. Sebastian plods forward and then with what seems like lightning reflexes lands a heavy punch that hits John’s eye socket and cheek with a resounding thunk, and the crowd hisses and howls, and John stumbles backward. He’s too drunk to hold his own against another army-trained vet, let alone this man, who fights like he’s fought every day of his entire life and enjoyed it. Sebastian is laughing, and John wants to laugh but laughing makes his face hurt so he settles for a smirk.
“Break it up,” says a voice from the crowd, “cops are here.”
John breathes in and out, straightening up out of his fighting stance and retracting his fists.
“You look pretty fucked up right now,” Sebastian says, spitting blood into the gutter by his feet.
John laughs and it hurts his face. “You should see the other guy.”
“Come on,” Sebastian says, and John follows.
“Aren’t you a doctor?” he asks John as they walk down the sidestreet to Sebastian’s apartment.
“I have bad days,” John says quietly, and the joke isn’t funny at all to John, not anymore, but Sebastian laughs like it’s the funniest goddamn thing he’s ever heard in his entire life, and the laughter is frightening but John is beyond caring about what scares him anymore.
“You’ve got a great flat,” John says later that night.
“Shut up,” Sebastian says, nearly ripping John’s jacket off his shoulders.
“Okay,” John says. Sebastian bites John’s lip, and John is surprised to find that he kind of likes it. Then they both stop talking.
John wakes up the next day on a tiger-skin rug in the middle of Sebastian’s living room.
“Do you even have a last name?” John asks blithely. Sebastian is sprawled across John, arms crisscrossed over John’s chest and legs tangled together. His bruises have blossomed into purple marks all across his body: some from the John’s fists, and some from John’s teeth. John can’t imagine he looks any better.
“Yes,” Sebastian smirks. He nuzzles his head into John’s neck and John feels his teeth rake against his Adam’s apple. Sebastian makes his way to John’s ear.
“Sebastian Moran,” he murmurs, hovering over John, and John is already hard, good god.
“John Watson,” John says in return. Sebastian gives him a look that reads, oh please.
“I know,” is what Sebastian says in return.
John doesn’t ask why, simply flips Sebastian over and files that information into storage.
John gets a better look at himself later that evening, when the bruises have blackened and the bite marks have finally shown themselves.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters to himself, because he looks like he’s gone through the shredder. “I’m never going to hear the end of this from Mrs. Hudson.”
He doesn’t.
“I can’t imagine what kind of places you’re walking about or what kind of people you’re hanging about with, John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson admonishes after the initial shock of his appearance had at last subsided with many ice packs and kettles of tea. “I just don’t understand why you’d put yourself in that kind of situation, John, I mean, you seem like such a steady chap-” And then Mrs. Hudson quiets herself, because she knows why John is acting strangely, knows that it’s to do with Sherlock, and she smiles sadly at him in a way that makes John hate himself and want to call Sebastian simultaneously (he thinks maybe these two things are correlated).
Sebastian has got him pressed up against the wall when John’s phone rings. Sebastian takes the phone out of John’s back pocket (the feeling of his fingers against his arse over John’s jeans makes John groan) and tilts his head to the side.
“Who’s Greg and why is he calling you?” Sebastian asks. John tries to grab the phone, but suddenly Sebastian’s arm is against his throat, and John can barely breathe.
“He’s a friend, Greg Lestrade,” John chokes out. “He’s a DI. Used to work with him.”
“Not anymore,” Sebastian says, less of a question than a statement.
“I'm not much use to Scotland Yard anymore,” John hisses as Sebastian relaxes his arm against John’s windpipe. "Dunno if I ever was, really." He takes a few deep breaths and thins his eyes at Sebastian.
“You’re useful to me,” Sebastian tells him. This time when he comes forward, he doesn’t touch John at all save his lips and tongue, and when John’s ready he pulls Sebastian in toward him, all forgiven and forgotten, and John’s cell is on the floor somewhere, still ringing.
I’m alive, if convenient. -SH
If not convenient, still alive. Where are you? -SH
John feels the phone buzz rattle the nightstand next to Sebastian’s bed and throws out a hand to grab it before Sebastian can awaken from his slumber. He flicks the phone open lazily and sees two missed texts.
He reads them.
John doesn’t realize that he’s crying until the bed starts to shake and Sebastian has a hand on his arm.
“He’s alive,” John says in response to Sebastian’s confused look. Sebastian lets go of John’s arm.
“You should go,” he tells John quietly.
Looking back on that moment in the cab from Sebastian’s to Baker Street, John considers how Sebastian hasn’t gotten that same call and through his joy, John feels pity, amongst other things, for the man he left behind. He flicks out his phone and sends Sebastian a quick text:
I’ll see you Friday, yeah? -JW
John’s almost at Baker Street when he gets a reply at last:
I’ll be there. - SM
The bartender approaches the bruised man with a pint and an open ear.
“Where’s that bloke you used to come around here with?” he asks. “Funny little guy. I think you punched him once.”
“More than once,” the man says cooly, sipping his beer. It’s clear to the bartender that this particular customer does not want to talk, but there’s no one else here, and well, one has to do something to pass the time.
“Falling out, then?” the bartender asks.
“Yeah,” the man says. “You could say that.” He adjusts his jacket and the bartender almost starts to ask another question before his fight or flight (or rather, just flight) kicks in and he’s off behind the bar in the kitchen, trying to keep his heart rate down, because that guy was carrying a bloody gun, and damn, did they get some weird fucks on this side of town. The bartender almost calls the police, but when he emerges from the kitchen, the customer is gone and has left him shortchanged by two pounds fifty pence.
"Arse," the bartender mutters.
Sherlock notices that John is different now. He notices the distance between them like a gorge between two cliffs, and Sherlock's mind screams I did this for you and his heart screams I missed you I missed you please. But John is sharper now, a bit thinner and more worn. He has less patience for games, in work or in bed. Most mornings, Sherlock finds himself staring at John's naked back, considering the phrase you can't go home again over and over, until John wakes up and distracts him utterly.
Sherlock doesn’t tell John that he knows about his little dalliance with Mr. Moran, doesn’t acknowledge the bite marks on John’s neck or bruises that pop up on his wrists every so often. He says nothing because that is the price of John Watson: you don’t get to have all of him.
Author: poptartmuse
Words: 3500
Rating: R
Warnings: Spoilers for 2x03 "The Reichenbach Fall," as well as graphic violence, language, and angst.
Pairings: John/Moran, John/Sherlock, Moriarty/Moran.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, it merely owns my heart. Title snagged from Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know."
Summary: After the fall, John makes the acquaintance of Sebastian Moran. Similar griefs bring them together, but can one ever really escape the past?
Now and then, John goes down to The Eagle and Ward pub to forget. It’s only when it feels like the whole day has been winding him up, has been preparing him to slip up or crack under the weight of grief, that’s when he decides that, fuck it, he is going to get plastered and that maybe, maybe when he wakes up he’ll feel a little less. The pub has two floors, one ground level and one that goes down beneath the ground via a spiral staircase that had proved treacherous more than once on John’s way out. Today, the dark wood of the floor and bar seem to melt together in the shadows cast by the evening’s twilight. John gets the bartender’s attention and he’s not sure if he’s proud or ashamed when the bartender slides his usual across without a word or even a glance. John takes a sip of the familiar brew and then another. Soon enough it’s gone and he’s got a full glass in front of him, and someone’s come up from behind him: too close for a casual brush. John tenses immediately and reaches for the gun tucked into the back of his pants (he knows he shouldn’t have it on him, but the feel of it against his lower back is somehow calming and John needs all the calm he can get these days).
John lets his gaze drift backwards and he sees a tall man looking down at him, head tilted to the side slightly, like a confused animal.
“What’re you drinking?” the man asks John. He’s got a rough, low voice and John can’t remember the last time he’s had a real, proper conversation, so all he does is point at his glass and say, “Ale on tap,” and somehow the stranger takes his gesture as an invitation to sit down.
John stares down at his drink as the other man settles in. “I don’t usually barge in on people’s drinks,” the man tells him, “but you look like I feel. So. There’s that.”
John cocks his head to the side.
“John,” he finally allows, sticking out a hand to shake. The other man grasps his hand in a firm grip: his palm is calloused and worn, and the shake itself is strong and almost painful. The other man nods, and for a moment, John is certain that the stranger already knew his name.
A pause, and then: “Sebastian.” They release hands and John takes a large gulp of his drink.
“I’m going to assume that’s a Browning in your belt,” Sebastian says, rolling his shoulder in a slow, deliberate circle. John starts to make excuses, and looks toward the exits for a quick escape before Sebastian lets out a low chuckle. “Secret’s safe with me.”
John, intrigued, turns toward him. “How’d you know?”
“Ex-army,” Sebastian says shortly.
“Fifth Northumberland Fusilier,” John says, hoping for more information. “At least until I got shot.”
“Ex-army,” Sebastian repeats. John fidgets, a little uncomfortable with the interaction, because it’s clear that this man has been dishonorably discharged, and John’s not sure whether he likes that or not, what with his own fucked up relationship with the army and whatnot. “You know what’s a good way to avoid getting shot? Not being in the bloody army.”
The tension diffuses between them like the air getting let out of a balloon.
“Yeah,” John says with a laugh. Then he quiets as he remembers all the other ways a man can die.
“You said you feel how I look,” John says after a long moment and killing his ale.
“Aye,” Sebastian nods.
“So who died?” John asks frankly, because honestly, he’s seen himself in the mirror these days, and it’s not good: mostly unkempt scruff and red eyes and clothes that he hasn’t had the decency to launder. After all, it’s only been six weeks.
Sebastian looks tongue tied for a while before saying, “My boss.”
“Was he sick?” John asks.
“In some ways,” Sebastian says, the hint of a smile on his lips. “In a lot of ways, actually.” Sebastian points to his head and John understands. “But not ill in the body, not at all. At least, not until he shot himself in the head.”
John’s chest tightens and he shivers. Sebastian orders a whiskey and drains it dutifully.
“Was he a good boss?” John asks.
“In some ways,” Sebastian says distantly. “Changeable.”
The word rings around John’s head like a muffled gong, but he can’t remember the last time he heard it, and the warning bell dies like a wave cresting into the sandy shore, dissolving into the mere inkling of danger that John transforms into an audible sigh.
“Would you believe it if I said something similar happened to me?” John asks point blank, because at this point, it’s a little ludicrous how similar their stories are.
Sebastian shrugs. “The world’s fucked up, mate. Wouldn’t be surprised. But it doesn’t bloody matter what I believe.”
“I need another drink,” John says to himself, but Sebastian is sliding over a glass of whiskey in a quick moment. John’s not much of a liquor man, but he’ll drink what he’s given. It burns on the way down, and he almost chokes.
“Vile shit, this stuff,” Sebastian nods. “But my boss loved it.” He stops talking, as if that was explanation enough, and John thinks he understands on a deeper, intrinsic level.
“It burns,” John nods.
Sebastian laughs. “That’s the best part.”
The next morning John wakes up with a devastating hangover and a contact programmed in his phone named Sebastsnhns He deletes the mashed text and replaces it with Sebastian, and then realizes that the stranger had never given him his last name, and John realizes that he never told him he was a doctor, or that Sherlock Holmes is dead.
John composes a text and sends it.
They go to a shooting range together the next day. John had been at the top of his company, a real crack shot, but two looks at Sebastian and John knew that he was… a professional. Sebastian hardly moves when the gun recoils in his hand, and every so often he rolls his shoulder, like something’s meant to be there: a scope or the butt of a rifle. Not that John is a shit shot: quite the opposite, actually. John hits the targets dead on, and if it’s not a kill shot, it’s close to it.
Sebastian’s shots always go through the head: a clean kill. A professional.
They put the guns away quietly, but John feels like he is on red alert: this man is dangerous, this man is dangerous, this goddamn stranger that I met at a fucking bar is a killer.
“You know where the word sniper comes from,” Sebastian says, and John feels like the ice is cracking beneath his feet. He knows I know.
“No, no I can’t say I do,” John says, voice smooth and delicate. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, and his fingers tingle with excitement and sheer energy. He doesn’t take his hand off his gun until Sebastian has unloaded his revolver.
“There’s this bird called a snipe,” Sebastian says, a crooked smile breaking across his face. “Bloody pain in the arse to kill. Small, quick target, great camouflage. If you could shoot it, you were a sniper.”
John doesn’t say anything as they walk out until it comes time to part ways.
“I’ll text you,” John says, but the words are false, and Sebastian has a knowing look on his face, and John isn’t sure if the sniper is proud or ashamed to be recognized. John briskly walks away from Sebastian, only looking back once.
Sebastian takes a drag on a cigarette, newly lit, and nods toward John before sauntering off in the opposite direction.
It’s been a long time since John has felt this alive.
Ran out of milk today. Pick some up, if on way home. -JW
John has texted Sherlock every day since the event: sometimes just casually, in re the groceries or imaginary heads in the refrigerator; sometimes more desperately, in the dark hours of the night, when the nightmares of a tall man falling from a taller building shake him awake in terror and anguish.
Home’s a bit empty now. -JW
John’s sister visits a few weeks after the funeral, and the visit perhaps even more awkward and terrible than John had imagined it would be.
“Have you talked to anyone about this?” Harry asks him point blank, taking a sip of lukewarm tea and looking anywhere in the room but at John.
“I’ve got a therapist, Harry,” John snaps. “And that’s none of your business, really, it’s not.”
“I don’t want to see you following after that Sherlock… that would be a real mess to clean up,” Harry says matter-of-factly, as if more concerned with the clean up than with John’s potential suicide. John looks at her as if she’s actually lost her mind until he spies the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. John looks away, abashed; he can’t remember the last time he saw Harry cry.
“I can make new friends,” John finds himself telling her, in an attempt to avert any sort of teary embrace. “Still got the old Watson charm.”
“Yes indeed,” Harry says. She stands up, and so does he, and she wraps her arms around John, strong and warm against his body. The human contact is almost enough to get John a little weepy, and he pretends that he can’t hear Harry getting a little emotional against his shoulder. The Watson siblings didn’t get along much, and they weren’t about to start now, but for now, John was touched.
Then Harry leaves and John looks at his phone contacts reflexively, breezing past Sebastian with a flickering thought to call or text. Not yet.
I met a new friend the other day. I think. -JW
He seems dangerous. -JW
Up my alley, eh? -JW
Out of beans again. Come home so we can sort it out. -JW
Come home. - JW
He doesn’t text Sebastian again until Mrs. Hudson suggests that he join her book club.
“You need a hobby, dear,” she tells him knowingly. “Something to distract you.”
And it’s true: he needed it before, and it had come in the form of Sherlock Holmes and mystery and serial killers. And he needs it now, and maybe this time fate had intervened in the form of Sebastian the sniper and mutual grief. John almost rings Lestrade to ask him to run the name through his criminal database, and then he remembers that he hasn’t spoken to Lestrade in two months, and that he doesn’t even know Sebastian’s last name.
Pint, on me, 7? is what John texts Sebastian later that night.
Okay is all he gets back. It’s all he needs.
He’s pissed by the time Sebastian walks into the pub, two pints and what John thinks was three whiskeys but was in fact four, and the bartender is giving him cautious looks but John really, really doesn’t give a fuck. All he knows is that he’s taking a chance right now, and this guy could be a bloody ax murderer, but John knows two things: one, he’s had quite enough of loneliness, thank you very much, and two, danger turns him on in ways that make him feel really, truly alive. So Sebastian isn’t wholesome. Neither is Sherlock-was. Neither was Sherlock.
“You started without me,” says a familiar, bemused voice.
“Been a long week,” John says roughly, spine tingling. He fights the urge to shiver at the sound of Sebastian’s rough syllables. He pushes a pint and a whiskey toward Sebastian.
“I know the feeling,” Sebastian says, scooting into the booth that John had sequestered. He kicks back the whiskey quickly and a muted grimace.
“Got a lot-got lots of tension I need to work out, I think,” John says quietly, words slipping slightly, but he’s always been a pretty good drunk (in striking contrast with Harry). John locks eyes with Sebastian and is surprised to find the other man’s eyes bright blue lenses staring back at him just as intensely.
“I know that feeling, too,” Sebastian growls. Sebastian reminds John of a lounging tiger: lazy, relaxed, but at any moment dangerous and vicious enough to strike out at anyone, anything to get in his way.
“I’m going outside for some air,” John says.
“Air sounds good,” Sebastian smiles, a mysterious expression on his face makes John shudder in anticipation.
They fight like dogs outside: John is scrappy and quick, whereas Sebastian is slow and methodical. A small crowd gathers around them, but all John can see is Sebastian in front of him, blood running down his chin from where John clipped him on the lip and what looks like a bruised chin from one of John’s uppercuts. John is also proud to say that he landed a punch to Sebastian’s chest that very well may have broken a rib. Sebastian plods forward and then with what seems like lightning reflexes lands a heavy punch that hits John’s eye socket and cheek with a resounding thunk, and the crowd hisses and howls, and John stumbles backward. He’s too drunk to hold his own against another army-trained vet, let alone this man, who fights like he’s fought every day of his entire life and enjoyed it. Sebastian is laughing, and John wants to laugh but laughing makes his face hurt so he settles for a smirk.
“Break it up,” says a voice from the crowd, “cops are here.”
John breathes in and out, straightening up out of his fighting stance and retracting his fists.
“You look pretty fucked up right now,” Sebastian says, spitting blood into the gutter by his feet.
John laughs and it hurts his face. “You should see the other guy.”
“Come on,” Sebastian says, and John follows.
“Aren’t you a doctor?” he asks John as they walk down the sidestreet to Sebastian’s apartment.
“I have bad days,” John says quietly, and the joke isn’t funny at all to John, not anymore, but Sebastian laughs like it’s the funniest goddamn thing he’s ever heard in his entire life, and the laughter is frightening but John is beyond caring about what scares him anymore.
“You’ve got a great flat,” John says later that night.
“Shut up,” Sebastian says, nearly ripping John’s jacket off his shoulders.
“Okay,” John says. Sebastian bites John’s lip, and John is surprised to find that he kind of likes it. Then they both stop talking.
John wakes up the next day on a tiger-skin rug in the middle of Sebastian’s living room.
“Do you even have a last name?” John asks blithely. Sebastian is sprawled across John, arms crisscrossed over John’s chest and legs tangled together. His bruises have blossomed into purple marks all across his body: some from the John’s fists, and some from John’s teeth. John can’t imagine he looks any better.
“Yes,” Sebastian smirks. He nuzzles his head into John’s neck and John feels his teeth rake against his Adam’s apple. Sebastian makes his way to John’s ear.
“Sebastian Moran,” he murmurs, hovering over John, and John is already hard, good god.
“John Watson,” John says in return. Sebastian gives him a look that reads, oh please.
“I know,” is what Sebastian says in return.
John doesn’t ask why, simply flips Sebastian over and files that information into storage.
John gets a better look at himself later that evening, when the bruises have blackened and the bite marks have finally shown themselves.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters to himself, because he looks like he’s gone through the shredder. “I’m never going to hear the end of this from Mrs. Hudson.”
He doesn’t.
“I can’t imagine what kind of places you’re walking about or what kind of people you’re hanging about with, John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson admonishes after the initial shock of his appearance had at last subsided with many ice packs and kettles of tea. “I just don’t understand why you’d put yourself in that kind of situation, John, I mean, you seem like such a steady chap-” And then Mrs. Hudson quiets herself, because she knows why John is acting strangely, knows that it’s to do with Sherlock, and she smiles sadly at him in a way that makes John hate himself and want to call Sebastian simultaneously (he thinks maybe these two things are correlated).
Sebastian has got him pressed up against the wall when John’s phone rings. Sebastian takes the phone out of John’s back pocket (the feeling of his fingers against his arse over John’s jeans makes John groan) and tilts his head to the side.
“Who’s Greg and why is he calling you?” Sebastian asks. John tries to grab the phone, but suddenly Sebastian’s arm is against his throat, and John can barely breathe.
“He’s a friend, Greg Lestrade,” John chokes out. “He’s a DI. Used to work with him.”
“Not anymore,” Sebastian says, less of a question than a statement.
“I'm not much use to Scotland Yard anymore,” John hisses as Sebastian relaxes his arm against John’s windpipe. "Dunno if I ever was, really." He takes a few deep breaths and thins his eyes at Sebastian.
“You’re useful to me,” Sebastian tells him. This time when he comes forward, he doesn’t touch John at all save his lips and tongue, and when John’s ready he pulls Sebastian in toward him, all forgiven and forgotten, and John’s cell is on the floor somewhere, still ringing.
I’m alive, if convenient. -SH
If not convenient, still alive. Where are you? -SH
John feels the phone buzz rattle the nightstand next to Sebastian’s bed and throws out a hand to grab it before Sebastian can awaken from his slumber. He flicks the phone open lazily and sees two missed texts.
He reads them.
John doesn’t realize that he’s crying until the bed starts to shake and Sebastian has a hand on his arm.
“He’s alive,” John says in response to Sebastian’s confused look. Sebastian lets go of John’s arm.
“You should go,” he tells John quietly.
Looking back on that moment in the cab from Sebastian’s to Baker Street, John considers how Sebastian hasn’t gotten that same call and through his joy, John feels pity, amongst other things, for the man he left behind. He flicks out his phone and sends Sebastian a quick text:
I’ll see you Friday, yeah? -JW
John’s almost at Baker Street when he gets a reply at last:
I’ll be there. - SM
The bartender approaches the bruised man with a pint and an open ear.
“Where’s that bloke you used to come around here with?” he asks. “Funny little guy. I think you punched him once.”
“More than once,” the man says cooly, sipping his beer. It’s clear to the bartender that this particular customer does not want to talk, but there’s no one else here, and well, one has to do something to pass the time.
“Falling out, then?” the bartender asks.
“Yeah,” the man says. “You could say that.” He adjusts his jacket and the bartender almost starts to ask another question before his fight or flight (or rather, just flight) kicks in and he’s off behind the bar in the kitchen, trying to keep his heart rate down, because that guy was carrying a bloody gun, and damn, did they get some weird fucks on this side of town. The bartender almost calls the police, but when he emerges from the kitchen, the customer is gone and has left him shortchanged by two pounds fifty pence.
"Arse," the bartender mutters.
Sherlock notices that John is different now. He notices the distance between them like a gorge between two cliffs, and Sherlock's mind screams I did this for you and his heart screams I missed you I missed you please. But John is sharper now, a bit thinner and more worn. He has less patience for games, in work or in bed. Most mornings, Sherlock finds himself staring at John's naked back, considering the phrase you can't go home again over and over, until John wakes up and distracts him utterly.
Sherlock doesn’t tell John that he knows about his little dalliance with Mr. Moran, doesn’t acknowledge the bite marks on John’s neck or bruises that pop up on his wrists every so often. He says nothing because that is the price of John Watson: you don’t get to have all of him.