Ginger with a Chance of Freckles - Part 7
AN: It's amazing I've manage to reach chapter 7 in such a short space of time! Thank you to everyone who sent messages of support and comments that have help to motivate me so much.
I'm off to Australia in two days so I'm very excited and also terribly nervous. I hope I will have internet there and I'll be able to keep updating - so keep your eyes peeled but I will be back in the UK by August (with a nice tan).
The wonderful warmth that John felt as his embraced Sherlock formed a protective cocoon where time ceased to exist and the entire universe was distilled into one single moment.
John was startled when Sherlock finally decided to move from his awkward position on the floor. Their shared moment of physical intimacy dissolved like a dream as Sherlock hesitantly extracted himself from John’s embrace.
“Well, John,” drawled Mycroft whilst contemplating the tip of his umbrella, “It seems that you have once again cushioned Sherlock’s fall.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mycroft?” asked John. Mycroft’s nonchalant and superior attitude was hard to tolerate even when John was emotionally stable and tonight he found Mycroft’s presence as aggravating as Sherlock did.
“On the contrary,” replied Mycroft, suddenly bending down to smile dangerously at John, “I do intend to stay for the grand finale.”
Poor Mrs Hudson interpreted the words “grand finale” as a thinly veiled sexual innuendo and suddenly turned an alarming shade of pink.
“Really, now, boys, I’m an old lady - I don’t usually judge, but that is a bit much, Mycroft.”
John glanced back at Mycroft, who simply stood perfectly still and refused to remove the smug smile that was adorning his expression. Nor did he move to correct Mrs Hudson’s assumption that Mycroft intended to be a voyeur to John and Sherlock’s intimate night ahead. Sherlock, meanwhile, was fastidiously dusting his coat and pretending not to be paying any attention to the conversation.
“No, Mrs Hudson!” snapped John, who had come to the conclusion that he was the only person willing to defend his honour, “Nothing is going on between Sherlock and I. Even if there was - Mycroft wouldn't be invited!”
Behind him, Martin made a noise resembling the squeal of a dying pig and then burst into peel of laughter. It took several moments and a deadly glare from Sherlock for Martin to finally get his laughter under control.
“S-sorry Mrs Hudson, I’m Martin, Sherlock’s younger brother,” gasped Martin, “Don’t worry, it won’t be too noisy tonight once Mycroft’s gone. I’m sleeping with Sherlock for the next few days -”
It took Martin a few seconds to work out exactly why Mrs Hudson looked completely scandalized. When the realization dawned, the poor man looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.
“No - no, that’s not what I meant!” cried Martin desperately, but Mrs Hudson had already slammed the door shut. John could hear the flustered lady muttering to herself from behind the door. It seemed that within four minutes of meeting Martin, Mrs Hudson was already severely traumatized.
It was Mrs Hudson's turn to make an inhumane noise and she managed to produce a unusual note that sounded like a small bird being strangled. The long suffering land lady, who had tolerated bullets in walls and human corpses in the fridges, looked only a few seconds away from forcibly evicting John and Sherlock.
“Well done, everyone,” said John sarcastically, “You’ve managed to make Mrs Hudson think the entire Holmes clan is incest mad and I’ve volunteered to join in!”
“Oh god!” groaned Martin, “When will I ever stop putting my foot in my mouth?”
“When you stop talking so much,” snapped Sherlock and, without bothering to see Martin’s reaction, stormed up the stairs.
John looked sympathetically at Martin and patted him gently on the knee. Throughout the whole dramatic misunderstanding, John hadn’t managed to get himself up off the floor.
“He doesn’t mean it,” said John as he clambered to his feet, “Like you said, he’s had a tough couple of days, though it would help if Mycroft wasn’t still hovering around.”
“Martin,” said Mycroft, suddenly sounding very serious, “Go and wait in the car, whilst I have a word with John in private.”
“What? No!” said Martin vehemently, “You’ll only make things worse.”
Mycroft leveled his youngest brother with what John thought of as the classic Holmesian glare. Poor Martin stuttered uncertainly and then looked towards John for direction.
“He’s not going to eat me,” responded John, suddenly feeling very weary. Being caught between two Holmes brothers was tiring enough but with Martin added to the mix, keeping the world from imploding was more than John could manage.
“Right - okay,” muttered Martin and he hesitantly opened the front door. There was a beautiful black Rolls-Royce parked immediately outside and a uniformed chauffeur quickly opened the passenger door for Martin.
“Right,” said John in his most businesslike manner once the front door had slammed shut, “Whatever it is you want to say, I don’t want to hear it.”
“John,” said Mycroft in a soft, yet deadly tone, “I suggest you put your bravery aside before it ends up being the death of you.”
A sudden chill ran through John entire body as he glared furiously back at Mycroft. John felt as vulnerable as he had done back in the warehouse when he had first met Mycroft Holmes for the first time, but back then John did not know Mycroft was the most dangerous man he would ever meet.
“Are you threatening me?” demanded John, holding his ground. Adrenaline started to course through his blood as his autonomic nervous system prepared for fight or flight. He could feel his fists clenching of their own accord and his heartbeat galloping in his chest.
“Do I need to threaten you?” asked Mycroft, sounding almost pensive. “You see, John, your psychological profiles - all of which I had compiled by world experts - state that you are a practical man who does not need to create illusions to cope with the world.”
Mycroft paused and leaned forwards slightly so that he was physically looming over John.
“I don’t need to threaten you, John - the situation is quite clear to you already.”
“And what situation would that be?” asked John, trying to keep his voice level.
Mycroft had not changed at all over the course of the evening but the man looming in front of John was no longer the annoyingly condescending bureaucrat but an utterly terrifying man who wielded so much power that he could make John disappear without batting an eyelid. John knew he wasn’t physically shaking but it felt as though his entire body was vibrating with fear. He became acutely aware of a bead of cold sweat, slowly rolling down the back of his neck, causing a horrifying prickling sensation that sent shivers down his spine.
“Do you really want me to spell it out?” asked Mycroft, with a predatory smile that showed John a gleaming row of white teeth.
All the better to eat me with, thought John, trying to contain a rising tide of nauseating fear.
“You think I’m going to hurt Sherlock,” stated John evenly, despite his nervousness, “You think that I’m going to exploit your brother if we have a relationship. All of that anyone could guess, but I’ll raise you one further: you’re terrified. You’re terrified that for once in his life Sherlock will have someone other than you to depend on.”
John had expected Mycroft’s expression to twist with anger at his words but to his surprise Mycroft simply laughed.
“Oh, John,” he said as if John was a particularly stupid but adorable kitten, “I gave your intelligence too much credit.”
“What?”
“It’s not Sherlock I’m worried about,” replied Mycroft, chuckling. His smile had lost some of its predatory edge but it was still making John very uncomfortable. “We’re talking about you, John.”
“What about me?” asked John through gritted teeth.
Mycroft turned slightly and looked up the darkened staircase towards the flat.
“Have you ever wondered, John, just why Sherlock has never had any relationships?”
“He’s Sherlock.”
“No,” stated Mycroft flatly as he turned his full attention back to John, “It is because he has sociopathic traits.”
John felt his eyebrows ascending into his hairline in surprise.
Surely Mycroft, who had known Sherlock all his life, understood that his brother was not a real sociopath.
“Sherlock isn’t a sociopath - he understands human emotion, he has a conscience, he-”
“I said he has sociopathic traits,” corrected Mycroft calmly, “There is a difference, as they no doubt taught you in medical school.”
John wanted to retort but he found that there was little he could say. He had never been interested in psychiatry beyond the basic knowledge needed to pass his exams, but he distinctly remembered being told that whilst up to one percent of the world’s population could be diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder - the professionally approved term for sociopathy - a much greater proportion of the population exhibited a significant number of sociopathic traits but not enough to be medically diagnosed according to current guidelines. Diagnosing sociopathy involved ticking a long checklist of personality traits including: superficial charm, failure to learn from mistakes and manipulative behavior. The critical number seemed to be completely arbitrary because like every mental disorder there was a gradual sliding scale of sociopathy from the petty criminals with nasty dispositions to utterly inhuman monsters who committed mass genocide.
“I’m sure you have already catalogued the sociopathic traits Sherlock does exhibit: callous disregard for the rights of others, shallow emotions, lying, manipulation, exploitation of those close to him - to mention just a few. He never did reach the forty points mark but then Sherlock never did cooperate with the psychiatrist for long enough for them to finish the checklist.”
John had not given much thought to Sherlock’s proud pronouncement about being a high-functioning sociopath. He had always managed to convince himself that Sherlock’s cruel and inconsiderate behavior stemmed from a traumatic upbringing compounded by undiagnosed Asperger’s syndrome. No one wanted to believe that they were sharing a flat with a genuine sociopath, particularly one that they had become undeniably attached to.
“I never gave it much thought,” confessed John, suddenly feeling a sense of dread that had nothing to do with Mycroft’s looming presence.
“I suggest, Doctor Watson, you give as much thought as you possibly can to this subject right now, before you walk up those steps, because once you commit to a relationship with my brother...”
Mycroft trailed off and once again contemplated his umbrella with a pensive expression.
“He’s not going to hurt me, you know,” said John quietly. He stared resolutely into Mycroft’s deep grey eyes and willed the other man to understand just how much he truly, deeply, loved Sherlock: as a brother in arms, as a friend and perhaps as something much more. In the last hour, without any conscious thought, his mind had emerged from the choking fog of confusion into the bright, clear dawn of acceptance and understanding.
I love Sherlock Holmes, thought John. It sounded so natural and the mere idea of saying this small sentence out loud caused a swell of pure joy in his chest.
Mycroft glanced back at John, his expression weary.
“You still don’t understand, do you, John? You are so geared towards protecting others that your own needs are always suppressed - dealt with only when absolutely necessary. I can see why Sherlock finds you so...attractive.”
“I love Sherlock,” replied John, savoring the words as they rolled off his tongue, “I love Sherlock and nothing you can say is going to change my mind.”
Mycroft turned his piercing gaze back to John and for several moments stared in silence at the resolute soldier standing before him.
“Are we done here?” demanded John as he grew ever more uncomfortable under Mycroft’s formidable stare.
“Are we?” inquired Mycroft softly, “Would you listen to anything else I have to say?”
“No.”
John glared pointedly at Mycroft and turned to go up the stairs but suddenly found his path blocked. Mycroft stood casually to one side whilst holding out his umbrella so that it obstructed the entire narrow staircase.
“Remember John, I am not your enemy. If this relationship does not...’work out’, you can always rely on me for help.”
“Don’t worry, it will work out, I will make it work out,” replied John with iron resolve.
“I can only hope you are right, for both our sakes,” muttered Mycroft, his voice suddenly filled with an emotion John could not quite name. After a long pause, during which both men refused to move, Mycroft finally relented and said quietly:
“Goodbye John, see you very soon.”
“Let Martin back out of the car first,” demanded John, suddenly remembering the young [pilot still trapped in the back seat of Mycroft’s Rolls Royce.
“You like him, don’t you?” asked Mycroft, though it was more a statement than a question, “Martin is a good man, John but he, like all men, is prone to immense lapses of judgement, particularly when it comes to Sherlock.”
“Just let him out of the car,” snapped John and turned to head upstairs to his flat and Sherlock.
Mycroft opened the front door and beckoned to the driver, who calmly opened the passenger door once again.
Either Marin despised luxury car interiors, or Mycroft’s Rolls Royce had some serious problems hitherto unnoticed by
anyone else, because the young man practically fell out of the car in his haste to leave.
Mycroft looked back at John and smiled with uncharacteristic sadness. Then the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Mycroft turned his full attention back to Martin, who merely looked puzzled at their strange exchange.
“Goodbye, Martin, I expect to see you tomorrow,” said Mycroft and promptly exited the building without bothering to hear his brother’s incoherent protests.
Martin gazed at John who was halfway up the narrow staircase and smiled uncertainly.
“So...how did it go?”
“Could have been better,” replied John nonchalantly, “Your brother could gut a man with looks alone.”
Martin grinned apologetically,
“We think he gets it from Father’s side of the family. Mummy’s side - they’re all far too French for that sort of thing.”
“Right,” said John, trying to imagine which side of the family Sherlock got his traits from, “You’d better come up and have some jam...on toast - if we have any bread.”
“Oh don’t worry, back when I was trying to pass my flight exams I used to live on jam and tea. You dissolve a spoonful of jam in some hot water and then add a tea bag,” explained Martin cheerfully as he bounded up the stairs two at a time.
The door to their living room was slightly ajar but there were no sounds of life coming from the flat. John hesitantly pushed open the door and peered into the living room. Sherlock, it appeared, had retreated into his room and left a trail of mess in his wake.
“I’ll stay out here,” said Martin kindly, “You guys have a lot to talk about."
With mounting trepidation, excitement and a strange warm feeling that John still couldn’t find a name for, he rapped lightly on Sherlock’s bedroom door.
“You don’t have to knock,” said Sherlock’s deep melodic voice, “You never did before.”
“Can - can we talk?” asked John, hating the way his words caught in his throat.
“Talk - talk is boring!” snapped Sherlock as he flung the door open and stared straight into John’s startled eyes.
“Okay, we can not talk if that’s what you’d prefer...”
To John’s surprise, Sherlock reached out and grabbed his collar before physically hauling him into the room.
What happened next would astound John for years to come.
In a blinding flash of movement Sherlock’s face was mere millimetres from his own. John could feel Sherlock’s breath fluttering against his cheek, he could smell the unique aftershave the detective wore, he could see all the fine details of Sherlock’s skin that he had previously never given any thought to. Then the detective bent down and pressed his lips against John’s open mouth and John’s mind went completely blank.
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AN: I know many people might disagree with my characterization of Sherlock at the end of this chapter. However from the actual episodes Sherlock seems incredibly at ease and comfortable with John. This, in conjunction with the fact that he never bothers to behave normally when around John, makes me think that kissing him right away is much more in character than Sherlock pretending to be shy. He isn't really the type to be coy about what he wants.
Please review! I love feedback, it keeps me motivated to write more, so please take a few seconds to type up something.