From Which Love Grows 9: The Beginning
Title: From Which Loves Grows 9: The Beginning
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 3054
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson
John and Sherlock talked through the afternoon, the evening, and well into the night, Sherlock bombarding John with questions and John responding as well as he could. John knew some things seemingly by instinct but remained spectacularly ignorant of others. He could speak but didn’t know what language he was speaking or even if he knew others besides English. Sherlock tested him on several other languages and declared him to be monolingual.
He could prepare a few basic meals, but these he’d learned by watching Sherlock, who was surprised to hear that John had more than once slipped off his stem and discretely observed him in tiny form. Of course he saw me leaving cups in my room. He’d learned to make a couple of meals and to do the laundry this way. Dusting was obvious. It wasn’t until Sherlock had ground a series of dirt samples into the rug, then hoovered them up, that John had discovered that particular task and device.
Self-care was automatic. John knew just how much water he needed and to turn himself every day so he wouldn’t grow lopsided. But when Sherlock asked what variety of plant he was, John went blank.
John’s clothes were a part of him. He had adopted the design-jeans and a T-shirt-from that of passers-by below. ‘Seemed pretty standard’, he said. He’d refined the texture after finding examples in Sherlock’s closet. Sherlock presented him with other fabrics and prompted him to replicate the textures and patterns. John complied, but somehow-even when he tried to mimic a dense, woolly jumper-the results always felt cottony.
In the early evening, they were interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. ‘Mrs Hudson’, Sherlock breathed, fixing John with a sharp look. ‘Act human.’ John stared wide-eyed back at him.
Sherlock rose and opened the door to greet his landlady, her hand raised to knock.
‘Mrs Hudson’, he smiled broadly.
‘Here you are, Sherlock’, she said, raising the grocery sack in her other hand. ‘The rice and beans you wanted.’
‘Ah, yes, thank you’, he replied, taking the bag and extending his other arm behind him with a small flourish. ‘Would you like-’ he began, turning and finding no John to introduce her to. His face barely twitched and he turned back to Mrs Hudson. ‘Would you like the money for these now?’
‘Do you have the money for them now?’ She looked dubiously up at him.
‘Well…’ No. ‘Perhaps easiest just to tack it onto the rent.’ He smiled winningly.
‘Hmm-like the soup earlier this week, I suppose.’ She frowned.
‘Exactly’, he said brightly. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m right in the middle of an important experiment. Timing is crucial, you understand.’
She peered past him into the flat, noting the clothes heaped on the desk. ‘Just see you don’t set anything else on fire.’
When he heard her muted footsteps on the floor below, he closed the door the remaining inch and spun round to face the room.
‘John?’ he whispered loudly. ‘John! Where are you?’
Tiny-John stepped from behind the leg of the armchair he’d been sitting in a moment before.
‘Why did you do that?’ Sherlock complained, full-voiced. ‘You almost made me look like an idiot.’ He dropped the groceries by the kitchen table and crossed back to his chair, taking care to go wide around John.
‘Sorry’, came the faint response. ‘Should I get big again?’
‘It does help to make the conversation feel a little more normal.’ Sherlock’s face puckered in surprise. ‘But why on earth would I want that?’
John remained small, looking hesitantly up at Sherlock.
‘Yes, yes, get bigger’, Sherlock said through his annoyance. ‘No sense making things difficult.’ John complied.
‘So? …’
‘So what?’ John asked.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘I’m right he- Oh. I didn’t want her to see me.’
‘Why not? You look human enough to pass from that distance.’
John thought a moment while Sherlock studied him, hunching forward elbows to knees, hands to lips.
‘I don’t think I should let people see me.’
‘I’ve seen you-why not others?’ Sherlock settled back into the chair.
‘I was trying to stay hidden. I’m not sure even you should see me, though I am yours, I guess, aren’t I? Today was an accident.’ Sherlock’s brows rose in query. ‘I fell asleep. I get tired when I move around a lot, do too much. I think I could use some food.’
‘Ah, well, rice and beans arrived just in time, then.’ Sherlock led John to the kitchen and gave a lesson in preparing a new meal, considering what other tasks John could learn. He was interrupted by John’s observation: ‘I don’t think that will compost fast enough to do me any good right now.’
Oh.
‘Right. Plant food. For your plant.’ Sherlock moved to his laptop on the desk and started typing. ‘We’ll just find a good general type for now. Later, we can try some other varieties, conduct a few experiments. I should be able to formulate something specific to your’-he glanced up and down John-‘you without much difficulty once I see how you respond to different nutrients in various ratios.’
‘That sounds great.’ John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder a bit as Sherlock browsed. Selection made, Sherlock found a nearby shop that should carry the product.
‘First thing tomorrow we’ll step out and buy it.’
John looked from Sherlock to the screen and back again, clearly impressed. ‘Can you teach me to do that?’
‘Web search? Here’, he demonstrated. ‘You just bring up your search engine, type in what you want, and press enter.’ Sherlock tapped the key and looked at John’s face as it twisted in consternation. ‘Too fast?’ He didn’t seem that stupid.
‘No. I just meant’-John pointed at the many words on the results page-‘this. How to read.’ Sherlock blinked, turned back to the computer, and typed ‘adult literacy programs London’ into the search bar.
‘Perhaps you’d better check the rice, John.’
Next morning, John resisted Sherlock’s efforts to get him to go for the plant food with him; he was determined not to be seen by anyone else. No amount of reassurances on Sherlock’s part that John was ‘quite passable’ made a difference. John eventually shrank down and reattached himself to his plant. Sherlock found this to be an irksomely effective conversation ender.
On his return, Sherlock diluted the liquid per the instructions and poured a bit over the plant.
‘Well?’ he finally asked after several moments of the flower making no move to change into John.
‘Sorry’, came the faint reply from the morphed flower. ‘Takes a while to make it up from the roots. Don’t know yet.’
‘Mm. Well, let me know how it feels.’
An hour later, John fairly bounded up to Sherlock at work in the kitchen. ‘Feels great’, he reported.
Aside from six hours spent on one private case, Sherlock spent the next several days getting to know more about John and answering his many questions. The most extraordinary aspect about John-aside from the fact that he spent approximately half of his day in the shape of a flower-was his incredible ability to learn.
Sherlock was attempting again to lure John outside by explaining that he would have to go to a school building to attend the free literacy instruction he’d signed John up for.
‘Why can’t you just teach me?’ John asked.
‘I’m sure I’d be a horrible teacher, John. I haven’t the patience for something like that.’
‘You’ve taught me how to cook, clean, sort the laundry… and you weren’t even trying for most of that’, John pointed out, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.
Sherlock sighed. ‘Those are very basic matters. They’re simple. Any idiot can sort laundry. Reading is intellectual. Humans learn-usually-as children, when our brains are most receptive to new knowledge, and still it takes years to master. And’, he added, rising from his chair and pulling down a book, ‘the English language can be particularly challenging to decipher in its written form. Some people have had very creative notions about how to spell over the years and far too many of those notions have stuck. Ought to do you a favour and teach you Bulgarian’, he mumbled, holding the book open under John’s gaze. ‘Here; look at this. It’s a phonetic alphabet. Sixty-eight characters to represent the sounds made in English.’ He turned back a page. ‘And here are the twenty-six letters that we actually use to represent those sounds. Why aren’t there sixty-eight?’ Sherlock complained, leaving the dictionary in John’s hands and stalking away.
John considered quietly for a moment. Finally he turned to Sherlock. ‘These are the basic parts, then?’
‘Yes, letters. You put them together to make words and the words go together to make sentences.’
‘That sounds simple enough.’
Sherlock turned from the window he’d been looking out. ‘Are you forgetting what I just told you about the disparity between the number of letters to represent the sounds and the numbers of sounds themselves? Take the letter “A”, the first one there. That one letter alone probably has ten different sounds. And two forms in print.’
‘A’, John repeated, looking at the letter, then back to Sherlock. ‘Is everyone else in the class going to know it’s an “A”?’
‘You’ll have one-on-one instruction to begin with. Later you’ll move on to the class format, after your instructor has taught you the basics like letters.’
John stood and crossed to stand by Sherlock at the window. ‘But will the others have started knowing their letters?’
‘Certainly some will have, probably the majority.’
‘Well’, John held the book between them, still open to the alphabet, ‘can’t you just teach me the letters before I go? So I don’t look like a complete idiot?’
Sherlock looked down at John’s pleading, hopeful face. ‘Oh, very well.’ He grabbed the book. ‘We’ll try.’
To his credit, Sherlock quickly learned John’s ability to trick him into all manner of things by beginning with a simple request and that very mix of pleading and hopeful expressions. Also to his credit, he quite often allowed John to get his way. On matters of no consequence only, of course.
As they went through the letters, John kept asking questions-‘Is this a common one? What kinds of words is it in? How many sounds does this one have?’-and Sherlock kept answering. Within an hour, John had mastered the alphabet and the sounds of most letters. Within five, he was reading aloud from the Life section of The Times with little help from his reluctant tutor.
John became aware that Sherlock had sat back in his chair and was staring in open wonder at John in the chair opposite.
‘What?’ John asked. ‘Did I get something wrong?’
Sherlock grinned. ‘Not in the last half hour. You really are extraordinary in your capacity to absorb knowledge and use it. Correctly. Fascinating.’
John smiled back, plainly pleased at Sherlock’s praise. ‘Guess you can tell those literacy folks I’m not coming, yeah?’
‘Obviously.’ Sherlock thrust himself up. ‘But don’t think that this is getting you out of stepping outside. If anything, this just makes it easier. You can read street signs and navigate just fine now. You could even do the shopping.’ Sherlock looked quite pleased at that.
John had turned his face back to the newspaper. ‘Sherlock’, he started, still looking down. He grimaced. ‘I really don’t think I should. I can read, sure, but’-he looked up, gesturing toward the window-‘I don’t know anything about all that stuff out there. Why people are doing what they’re doing or going where they’re going. What if someone speaks to me? Expects me to know something? What if someone touches me? You said I don’t feel right.’
‘We can put regular clothes on you-I’m sure I have something that will work.’
‘And my hands?’
‘Keep them in your pockets.’
‘And when people talk to me?’
‘You don’t have to respond. Just pretend you’re American.’
‘And when I get lost? There are lots of places out there, Sherlock.’
‘Don’t worry-I know London as well as I know this room.’
‘And what good is that going to do me?’
From across the room, Sherlock examined John, then let his face fall into tired exasperation. ‘I will be with you, John’, he stated slowly. ‘I won’t let you get lost.’
‘Oh.’ John’s mouth tilted to a half grin. ‘You will?’
‘You thought I would send you out there alone? You’d be eaten alive. Of course I’m going with you. Not literally’, he added as John’s eyes widened at ‘eaten alive’. ‘London isn’t that rough a town.’
John leaned forward, hands rolling and unrolling the newspaper between his knees, thinking hard. ‘You really think I can pass?’
Sherlock just stared back.
‘Right. OK. If you’re going, too.’ Sherlock blew out a breath of relief. ‘But maybe I should meet one person first. As a test? Before facing-how many people are out there?’
‘Nearly eight million residents, plus those that travel in to work. And more tourists than I care to think about.’
John looked struck. He rose and crossed to the window, peering down at Baker Street below.
‘They’re like motes of pollen’, he said quietly. ‘All on the flower of London.’
Sherlock considered the simile. ‘Well, I wouldn’t figure on a writing career, but that is a picturesque way of putting it. You can share your observation with Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock smiled quickly, moving to the flat door. John heard the street door closing below as Sherlock called out, ‘Mrs Hudson!’
‘What-now?’ John gasped. ‘But-I’m not wearing clothes. I don’t know what to say.’ John started toward his pot, halting at Sherlock’s over-the-shoulder glare.
‘Stop worrying. You’ll do fine.’ Sherlock dashed down to the next landing and called out again. ‘Mrs Hudson, come meet John.’
Mrs Hudson climbed the stairs, wondering aloud what Sherlock was going on about now. Sherlock escorted her into the sitting room and presented her to John, who still hovered near his planter.
‘Mrs Hudson, this is John. John, Mrs Hudson, the most decent, generous landlady in London.’
Manners winning out over the worry that came with such a declaration from her trying tenant, Mrs Hudson greeted John warmly and moved as if to shake his hand. Sherlock took her by the shoulders and spun her to face him instead.
‘John’s moving in’, Sherlock announced. ‘He’s my new flatmate.’
‘Oh? Well, that’s good news, I’m sure. What do you do, John?’ she turned to ask him, calculating past due rent and grocery costs. John looked to Sherlock, eyes widening slightly as panic began to nibble at his heels.
‘He’s between jobs just now. Only been in London a short time-still getting himself sorted.’
‘Oh.’ Notions of paid bills fled. ‘Is that a good idea, Sherlock?’ she asked gently. ‘Taking on an unemployed flatmate?’
‘Not to worry, Mrs Hudson’, he declared, crossing to the kitchen. ‘John’s very handy. Makes an excellent cup of tea, don’t you, John?’
John looked mildly confused. ‘I guess so?’
‘Why don’t you make us all a cup now?’ Sherlock gestured to the kettle.
‘Sure.’ John smiled and strode to the stove.
While he waited for the water to boil and set out the cups, John listened to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson chatting. John didn’t know it then, but he was seeing Sherlock displaying his best company manners: showing Mrs Hudson to a chair, engaging her in small talk about her shopping and recent visit with Mrs Turner, all with a pleasant and interested smile at the ready. So hospitable was Sherlock as this moment that John would be stunned speechless the first time he saw Sherlock engage with Sgt Sally Donovan, furious when he first saw Sherlock lie to a suspect to trick information out of him, indignant at Sherlock’s treatment of John himself when his black moods came upon him.
But just now, with all that in an unknown future, John did just as he knew Sherlock intended him to do: he listened, he watched, he absorbed, he learned. And when he took the tea into the sitting room, he smiled at Mrs Hudson as he placed the tray on the low table, took a deep breath, and joined the conversation without a hitch.
When the tea was gone and Mrs Hudson had nearly exhausted her opinions on the BBC’s latest dramas, Sherlock brought the conversation around to the subject of John’s accommodations. ‘You won’t mind if we set up the storage room as a bedroom for John, will you, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Well, I suppose not. If you’ll be needing two bedrooms.’
‘Of course we’ll be needing two’, Sherlock replied, looking at her askance.
‘Oh, don’t worry, you know we’ve got all sorts ’round here.’ She turned and said confidingly to John, ‘Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.’ John smiled blandly, unsure of the correct response. ‘You can take the upstairs room’, she decided. ‘There’s still a bed there you can put together and you can use whatever else you like. And then move the rest downstairs to 221C-I can’t seem to get anyone interested in that place.’
With the matter settled, she took her leave and went to her supper. Sherlock lead John upstairs to show him his new room.
‘But why do I need a whole room to sleep in?’ he asked. ‘My pot hardly takes up any space.’
‘Keeping up appearances, John. What do you think?’ he asked, taking in the room with an arm’s sweep.
‘Window’s are small, but I’m sure I’ll get enough sun’, John responded. With a grin, Sherlock started sorting through the items still stored here. Within an hour they had assembled the bed, placed a small chest of drawers between the windows, and hauled the remainders out. While John dusted his meagre furnishings, Sherlock set to rummaging through his closet for clothes that would do for his new flatmate.
Master Post 8: The Discovery 10: Exchanges
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 3054
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson
John and Sherlock talked through the afternoon, the evening, and well into the night, Sherlock bombarding John with questions and John responding as well as he could. John knew some things seemingly by instinct but remained spectacularly ignorant of others. He could speak but didn’t know what language he was speaking or even if he knew others besides English. Sherlock tested him on several other languages and declared him to be monolingual.
He could prepare a few basic meals, but these he’d learned by watching Sherlock, who was surprised to hear that John had more than once slipped off his stem and discretely observed him in tiny form. Of course he saw me leaving cups in my room. He’d learned to make a couple of meals and to do the laundry this way. Dusting was obvious. It wasn’t until Sherlock had ground a series of dirt samples into the rug, then hoovered them up, that John had discovered that particular task and device.
Self-care was automatic. John knew just how much water he needed and to turn himself every day so he wouldn’t grow lopsided. But when Sherlock asked what variety of plant he was, John went blank.
John’s clothes were a part of him. He had adopted the design-jeans and a T-shirt-from that of passers-by below. ‘Seemed pretty standard’, he said. He’d refined the texture after finding examples in Sherlock’s closet. Sherlock presented him with other fabrics and prompted him to replicate the textures and patterns. John complied, but somehow-even when he tried to mimic a dense, woolly jumper-the results always felt cottony.
In the early evening, they were interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. ‘Mrs Hudson’, Sherlock breathed, fixing John with a sharp look. ‘Act human.’ John stared wide-eyed back at him.
Sherlock rose and opened the door to greet his landlady, her hand raised to knock.
‘Mrs Hudson’, he smiled broadly.
‘Here you are, Sherlock’, she said, raising the grocery sack in her other hand. ‘The rice and beans you wanted.’
‘Ah, yes, thank you’, he replied, taking the bag and extending his other arm behind him with a small flourish. ‘Would you like-’ he began, turning and finding no John to introduce her to. His face barely twitched and he turned back to Mrs Hudson. ‘Would you like the money for these now?’
‘Do you have the money for them now?’ She looked dubiously up at him.
‘Well…’ No. ‘Perhaps easiest just to tack it onto the rent.’ He smiled winningly.
‘Hmm-like the soup earlier this week, I suppose.’ She frowned.
‘Exactly’, he said brightly. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m right in the middle of an important experiment. Timing is crucial, you understand.’
She peered past him into the flat, noting the clothes heaped on the desk. ‘Just see you don’t set anything else on fire.’
When he heard her muted footsteps on the floor below, he closed the door the remaining inch and spun round to face the room.
‘John?’ he whispered loudly. ‘John! Where are you?’
Tiny-John stepped from behind the leg of the armchair he’d been sitting in a moment before.
‘Why did you do that?’ Sherlock complained, full-voiced. ‘You almost made me look like an idiot.’ He dropped the groceries by the kitchen table and crossed back to his chair, taking care to go wide around John.
‘Sorry’, came the faint response. ‘Should I get big again?’
‘It does help to make the conversation feel a little more normal.’ Sherlock’s face puckered in surprise. ‘But why on earth would I want that?’
John remained small, looking hesitantly up at Sherlock.
‘Yes, yes, get bigger’, Sherlock said through his annoyance. ‘No sense making things difficult.’ John complied.
‘So? …’
‘So what?’ John asked.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘I’m right he- Oh. I didn’t want her to see me.’
‘Why not? You look human enough to pass from that distance.’
John thought a moment while Sherlock studied him, hunching forward elbows to knees, hands to lips.
‘I don’t think I should let people see me.’
‘I’ve seen you-why not others?’ Sherlock settled back into the chair.
‘I was trying to stay hidden. I’m not sure even you should see me, though I am yours, I guess, aren’t I? Today was an accident.’ Sherlock’s brows rose in query. ‘I fell asleep. I get tired when I move around a lot, do too much. I think I could use some food.’
‘Ah, well, rice and beans arrived just in time, then.’ Sherlock led John to the kitchen and gave a lesson in preparing a new meal, considering what other tasks John could learn. He was interrupted by John’s observation: ‘I don’t think that will compost fast enough to do me any good right now.’
Oh.
‘Right. Plant food. For your plant.’ Sherlock moved to his laptop on the desk and started typing. ‘We’ll just find a good general type for now. Later, we can try some other varieties, conduct a few experiments. I should be able to formulate something specific to your’-he glanced up and down John-‘you without much difficulty once I see how you respond to different nutrients in various ratios.’
‘That sounds great.’ John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder a bit as Sherlock browsed. Selection made, Sherlock found a nearby shop that should carry the product.
‘First thing tomorrow we’ll step out and buy it.’
John looked from Sherlock to the screen and back again, clearly impressed. ‘Can you teach me to do that?’
‘Web search? Here’, he demonstrated. ‘You just bring up your search engine, type in what you want, and press enter.’ Sherlock tapped the key and looked at John’s face as it twisted in consternation. ‘Too fast?’ He didn’t seem that stupid.
‘No. I just meant’-John pointed at the many words on the results page-‘this. How to read.’ Sherlock blinked, turned back to the computer, and typed ‘adult literacy programs London’ into the search bar.
‘Perhaps you’d better check the rice, John.’
Next morning, John resisted Sherlock’s efforts to get him to go for the plant food with him; he was determined not to be seen by anyone else. No amount of reassurances on Sherlock’s part that John was ‘quite passable’ made a difference. John eventually shrank down and reattached himself to his plant. Sherlock found this to be an irksomely effective conversation ender.
On his return, Sherlock diluted the liquid per the instructions and poured a bit over the plant.
‘Well?’ he finally asked after several moments of the flower making no move to change into John.
‘Sorry’, came the faint reply from the morphed flower. ‘Takes a while to make it up from the roots. Don’t know yet.’
‘Mm. Well, let me know how it feels.’
An hour later, John fairly bounded up to Sherlock at work in the kitchen. ‘Feels great’, he reported.
Aside from six hours spent on one private case, Sherlock spent the next several days getting to know more about John and answering his many questions. The most extraordinary aspect about John-aside from the fact that he spent approximately half of his day in the shape of a flower-was his incredible ability to learn.
Sherlock was attempting again to lure John outside by explaining that he would have to go to a school building to attend the free literacy instruction he’d signed John up for.
‘Why can’t you just teach me?’ John asked.
‘I’m sure I’d be a horrible teacher, John. I haven’t the patience for something like that.’
‘You’ve taught me how to cook, clean, sort the laundry… and you weren’t even trying for most of that’, John pointed out, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.
Sherlock sighed. ‘Those are very basic matters. They’re simple. Any idiot can sort laundry. Reading is intellectual. Humans learn-usually-as children, when our brains are most receptive to new knowledge, and still it takes years to master. And’, he added, rising from his chair and pulling down a book, ‘the English language can be particularly challenging to decipher in its written form. Some people have had very creative notions about how to spell over the years and far too many of those notions have stuck. Ought to do you a favour and teach you Bulgarian’, he mumbled, holding the book open under John’s gaze. ‘Here; look at this. It’s a phonetic alphabet. Sixty-eight characters to represent the sounds made in English.’ He turned back a page. ‘And here are the twenty-six letters that we actually use to represent those sounds. Why aren’t there sixty-eight?’ Sherlock complained, leaving the dictionary in John’s hands and stalking away.
John considered quietly for a moment. Finally he turned to Sherlock. ‘These are the basic parts, then?’
‘Yes, letters. You put them together to make words and the words go together to make sentences.’
‘That sounds simple enough.’
Sherlock turned from the window he’d been looking out. ‘Are you forgetting what I just told you about the disparity between the number of letters to represent the sounds and the numbers of sounds themselves? Take the letter “A”, the first one there. That one letter alone probably has ten different sounds. And two forms in print.’
‘A’, John repeated, looking at the letter, then back to Sherlock. ‘Is everyone else in the class going to know it’s an “A”?’
‘You’ll have one-on-one instruction to begin with. Later you’ll move on to the class format, after your instructor has taught you the basics like letters.’
John stood and crossed to stand by Sherlock at the window. ‘But will the others have started knowing their letters?’
‘Certainly some will have, probably the majority.’
‘Well’, John held the book between them, still open to the alphabet, ‘can’t you just teach me the letters before I go? So I don’t look like a complete idiot?’
Sherlock looked down at John’s pleading, hopeful face. ‘Oh, very well.’ He grabbed the book. ‘We’ll try.’
To his credit, Sherlock quickly learned John’s ability to trick him into all manner of things by beginning with a simple request and that very mix of pleading and hopeful expressions. Also to his credit, he quite often allowed John to get his way. On matters of no consequence only, of course.
As they went through the letters, John kept asking questions-‘Is this a common one? What kinds of words is it in? How many sounds does this one have?’-and Sherlock kept answering. Within an hour, John had mastered the alphabet and the sounds of most letters. Within five, he was reading aloud from the Life section of The Times with little help from his reluctant tutor.
John became aware that Sherlock had sat back in his chair and was staring in open wonder at John in the chair opposite.
‘What?’ John asked. ‘Did I get something wrong?’
Sherlock grinned. ‘Not in the last half hour. You really are extraordinary in your capacity to absorb knowledge and use it. Correctly. Fascinating.’
John smiled back, plainly pleased at Sherlock’s praise. ‘Guess you can tell those literacy folks I’m not coming, yeah?’
‘Obviously.’ Sherlock thrust himself up. ‘But don’t think that this is getting you out of stepping outside. If anything, this just makes it easier. You can read street signs and navigate just fine now. You could even do the shopping.’ Sherlock looked quite pleased at that.
John had turned his face back to the newspaper. ‘Sherlock’, he started, still looking down. He grimaced. ‘I really don’t think I should. I can read, sure, but’-he looked up, gesturing toward the window-‘I don’t know anything about all that stuff out there. Why people are doing what they’re doing or going where they’re going. What if someone speaks to me? Expects me to know something? What if someone touches me? You said I don’t feel right.’
‘We can put regular clothes on you-I’m sure I have something that will work.’
‘And my hands?’
‘Keep them in your pockets.’
‘And when people talk to me?’
‘You don’t have to respond. Just pretend you’re American.’
‘And when I get lost? There are lots of places out there, Sherlock.’
‘Don’t worry-I know London as well as I know this room.’
‘And what good is that going to do me?’
From across the room, Sherlock examined John, then let his face fall into tired exasperation. ‘I will be with you, John’, he stated slowly. ‘I won’t let you get lost.’
‘Oh.’ John’s mouth tilted to a half grin. ‘You will?’
‘You thought I would send you out there alone? You’d be eaten alive. Of course I’m going with you. Not literally’, he added as John’s eyes widened at ‘eaten alive’. ‘London isn’t that rough a town.’
John leaned forward, hands rolling and unrolling the newspaper between his knees, thinking hard. ‘You really think I can pass?’
Sherlock just stared back.
‘Right. OK. If you’re going, too.’ Sherlock blew out a breath of relief. ‘But maybe I should meet one person first. As a test? Before facing-how many people are out there?’
‘Nearly eight million residents, plus those that travel in to work. And more tourists than I care to think about.’
John looked struck. He rose and crossed to the window, peering down at Baker Street below.
‘They’re like motes of pollen’, he said quietly. ‘All on the flower of London.’
Sherlock considered the simile. ‘Well, I wouldn’t figure on a writing career, but that is a picturesque way of putting it. You can share your observation with Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock smiled quickly, moving to the flat door. John heard the street door closing below as Sherlock called out, ‘Mrs Hudson!’
‘What-now?’ John gasped. ‘But-I’m not wearing clothes. I don’t know what to say.’ John started toward his pot, halting at Sherlock’s over-the-shoulder glare.
‘Stop worrying. You’ll do fine.’ Sherlock dashed down to the next landing and called out again. ‘Mrs Hudson, come meet John.’
Mrs Hudson climbed the stairs, wondering aloud what Sherlock was going on about now. Sherlock escorted her into the sitting room and presented her to John, who still hovered near his planter.
‘Mrs Hudson, this is John. John, Mrs Hudson, the most decent, generous landlady in London.’
Manners winning out over the worry that came with such a declaration from her trying tenant, Mrs Hudson greeted John warmly and moved as if to shake his hand. Sherlock took her by the shoulders and spun her to face him instead.
‘John’s moving in’, Sherlock announced. ‘He’s my new flatmate.’
‘Oh? Well, that’s good news, I’m sure. What do you do, John?’ she turned to ask him, calculating past due rent and grocery costs. John looked to Sherlock, eyes widening slightly as panic began to nibble at his heels.
‘He’s between jobs just now. Only been in London a short time-still getting himself sorted.’
‘Oh.’ Notions of paid bills fled. ‘Is that a good idea, Sherlock?’ she asked gently. ‘Taking on an unemployed flatmate?’
‘Not to worry, Mrs Hudson’, he declared, crossing to the kitchen. ‘John’s very handy. Makes an excellent cup of tea, don’t you, John?’
John looked mildly confused. ‘I guess so?’
‘Why don’t you make us all a cup now?’ Sherlock gestured to the kettle.
‘Sure.’ John smiled and strode to the stove.
While he waited for the water to boil and set out the cups, John listened to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson chatting. John didn’t know it then, but he was seeing Sherlock displaying his best company manners: showing Mrs Hudson to a chair, engaging her in small talk about her shopping and recent visit with Mrs Turner, all with a pleasant and interested smile at the ready. So hospitable was Sherlock as this moment that John would be stunned speechless the first time he saw Sherlock engage with Sgt Sally Donovan, furious when he first saw Sherlock lie to a suspect to trick information out of him, indignant at Sherlock’s treatment of John himself when his black moods came upon him.
But just now, with all that in an unknown future, John did just as he knew Sherlock intended him to do: he listened, he watched, he absorbed, he learned. And when he took the tea into the sitting room, he smiled at Mrs Hudson as he placed the tray on the low table, took a deep breath, and joined the conversation without a hitch.
When the tea was gone and Mrs Hudson had nearly exhausted her opinions on the BBC’s latest dramas, Sherlock brought the conversation around to the subject of John’s accommodations. ‘You won’t mind if we set up the storage room as a bedroom for John, will you, Mrs Hudson?’
‘Well, I suppose not. If you’ll be needing two bedrooms.’
‘Of course we’ll be needing two’, Sherlock replied, looking at her askance.
‘Oh, don’t worry, you know we’ve got all sorts ’round here.’ She turned and said confidingly to John, ‘Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.’ John smiled blandly, unsure of the correct response. ‘You can take the upstairs room’, she decided. ‘There’s still a bed there you can put together and you can use whatever else you like. And then move the rest downstairs to 221C-I can’t seem to get anyone interested in that place.’
With the matter settled, she took her leave and went to her supper. Sherlock lead John upstairs to show him his new room.
‘But why do I need a whole room to sleep in?’ he asked. ‘My pot hardly takes up any space.’
‘Keeping up appearances, John. What do you think?’ he asked, taking in the room with an arm’s sweep.
‘Window’s are small, but I’m sure I’ll get enough sun’, John responded. With a grin, Sherlock started sorting through the items still stored here. Within an hour they had assembled the bed, placed a small chest of drawers between the windows, and hauled the remainders out. While John dusted his meagre furnishings, Sherlock set to rummaging through his closet for clothes that would do for his new flatmate.
Master Post 8: The Discovery 10: Exchanges