Coda
part threeJohn didn't mind having some of his old privileges revoked when he put in his resignation with Scotland Yard. He didn't mind the new provisions they had to put in place for his future assistance in some of Sherlock's more interesting cases. He couldn't even really say he minded that he was flat out barred from work that came down from the Yard--though it seemed they all knew Sherlock would bring him into it if he wanted him there. No, what Captain John Hamish Watson M.D. really minded was a short blonde in heals and an A-line skirt Lestrade had assigned as Sherlock's new assistant.
'He needs an assistant', everyone had been fond of reminding him, sensing his displeasure. Sherlock had John so far as John was concerned. But Sherlock needed an assistant with full Yard clearance--a full-time gun watching his back. No room to argue there; John had found his weapon indispensible on many occasions, and Sherlock too distracted by the case to be trusted to guard himself. Self preservation was never Sherlock's strongest suit. But protecting the transport and the beautiful mind were John's duty. Guarding over Sherlock was just what he did, what he was supposed to do on an almost instinctual level. And to have some strange woman in their flat whose expressed purpose was to replace him in that aspect as well as in every other assisting capacity?
"Fantastic!"
John couldn't help but hate her just a little bit.
Billie leaned over Sherlock's shoulder as he sat at his laptop, pointing out some clue no one else had seen. Her eyes were positively beaming, one leg lifting at the knee so she stood solely on the ball of her left foot. It was ridiculously coquettish from an inspector but being a decade younger than John and no doubt aware of the way Sherlock's cheeks still colored with praise, he wasn't all that surprised she wasn't going for the curls.
"You deduced all that from just the e-mail's header?" she asked, voice rougher than one would imagine from a young girl but pleasantly husky rather than smoker's remorse.
"Hardly difficult." Sherlock leaned back, gesturing with sweeping motions that looked as though he enjoyed the swish of his own limbs as much as he did the sound of his own voice. "Anyone with a basic idea about IP addresses could tell that these e-mails were being sent from the same location. The stepfather was obviously trying to trick his stepdaughter out of her inheritance through an online dating scheme. Not entirely illegal but most certainly immoral." He smirked, closing the lid on his laptop as he stood up from his chair almost too quickly, Billie teetering with the loss of his weight to ground the chair. "All that remains is to inform the young lady that her mysterious online suitor is not in fact a missing person but quite unfortunately resides in her own home."
John cleared his throat, all but lurking in the kitchen doorway with his take-away cupped in one hand, chopsticks in the other. He caught Sherlock's eye in time to give him a look that said what words no longer really needed to. Sherlock knew better.
As though to prove this point, Sherlock frowned, his excitement dampening slightly. "Perhaps I should leave the sensitive matter to you, Inspector Bradstreet," he said.
Billie smirked, shoulders held back a bit more with pride in the new responsibility. The buttons on her blouse seemed to wince with the new stretch. "Sure, wouldn't be a problem at all." Her optimistic tone was grating on John but seemed to fly under Sherlock's radar. She collected her jacket from their wall hooks, smartly dressed in grey and pink. "Would probably be a bit easier coming from another woman, really. Do you need me to take care of closing the missing person's file with the department as well?"
"Last I checked I was still just a consultant so yes, I believe that falls under your job description."
Billie held her smile, not in the least bit put off by Sherlock's slightly abrasive personality. "I'll have it all taken care of by the end of the day. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then."
Sherlock nodded, pacing towards his tuned and ready violin sitting in his chair as though he'd known from the beginning the case was at most a three. "Tomorrow will be fine. Bring sensible shoes next time," he warned.
Billie rolled her eyes. "I told you, I can run in heals just fine."
Sherlock replied with a squeaky open 'E' pulled too close across to the bridge at an off angle. The inspector winced but continued to smirk before nodding to both men and heading back down the stairs.
John waited until he heard the door to the stoop close before taking a long, deep breath and shoveling in another drooping bite of buckwheat noodles and soy sauce.
"You're jealous."
"I am not," John said around a hardly chewed mouthful.
Sherlock ran through the G major scale to ensure the dials hadn't shifted while the instrument had waited, eyes following John as he paced from the doorway to the now vacated table. "You came home from the hospital for lunch. You hardly ever come home midday."
"Well, I wanted to see you."
"You wanted to watch me."
John cleared his throat, his face feeling rather hot. Oh, the joys of loving the second-most observant man on the planet. "Your's is getting cold," he said instead, changing the topic to the second container sitting next to the bottle of orange liquid and a beaker of spit.
Sherlock looked over at it and nodded, undeterred from his violin. He played John a simple melody instead, improvised from the sound of it and the way he repeated certain elements he liked but ignored other phrases that hadn't quite come out as he intended. John would have argued more on the hierarchal differences between food and music but it was hard to complain. He found himself forgetting to eat as he watched the dexterous fingers of his partner's sinister hand press along the strings and neck to coerce notes into a melody. His bow hand carried on with long and short strokes, multitasking to the same end result as Sherlock's eyes alternated between searching and shut. It was mesmerizing. It always had been and still was. For all his facts and logic it was all too easy to forget that the man was creative--artistic even. John eventually scrapped his carton clean, eating as quietly as possible to not disturb the frame of mind that pulled out a pleasing, lyrical tune.
Sherlock stopped on his own eventually, tilting his head to John's finished lunch. "Hadn't you better be getting back now?"
"In a minute, yeah." John looked at his watch. His hour lunch was already looking rather extended. "You know, of all the things that I considered before taking the job, I never really factored in how much I was going to miss you."
Sherlock smirked, his violin resting once more against the arm of his chair. "I was gone for three years. I'm certain you can handle being out of my presence for nine hours."
"I said I miss you, you narcissistic git. I didn't say I was pining the hours away on oxytocin fantasies." He smirked at the raise of Sherlock's brow. He always reacted positively when John slipped in a chemical reference or two. "Since you came back it's been... well, it's been us. Just us. Morning, noon and night."
"I saw you this morning, you're here at noon, and I'm assured I'll see you tonight."
"That is not what I mean and you know it."
Sherlock shrugged theatrically as he walked to retrieve his own cooled meal and took a seat across from John. The flat was quiet without the music, hanging in the air instead an inclination for speech. Sherlock filled his mouth with food, stabbing noodles and chicken with his fork in the most inelegant manner of eating.
John rested his chin on his wrist as he watched him slurp, sauce catching on his chin. "So what are you going to be doing with the rest of your day now that Billie's dismissed?"
"I have a few experiments I'm in the middle of," he said, wiping the sauce off on his thumb before John could lean forward to assist. "Could possibly be working on them into the night if things progress as I think they should."
"Oh." It was hard not to let the slight disappointment color his words.
Sherlock kept his eyes staring down at his take-away. "My work is important, John. Second now but still important."
"As much as I love to hear you say that, It's not--I don't know, maybe we need to have a schedule to work around so dates and things don't go completely by the wayside."
"That's not how you want it."
"No, not really," John admitted. He rested his chin over interwoven fingers, leaning both elbows on the table. "I'd rather you make those sorts of choices because you want to."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, a scowl deepening in the corners of his sauce-glossed lips. "I fail to see how doing something because it makes you happy is of lesser value than doing something I want to do that only happens to make you happy."
"Sherlock, I'm not dating your impression of a good boyfriend. I'm dating you. If you'd rather do experiments through the night than get in bed with me then do that. I'm not going to tell you what to do. I mean, I'll ask you for things like having lunch with me but this isn't an obligation just because we're together now."
"So I can do some things because it will make you happy but I can't use that reasoning for all things." He spoke around his food, muffled by chicken until he swallowed and said, "You do realize that is ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous!" John rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair. It seemed like they'd had variations of this same argument time and time again. He wasn't sure how many more ways he could make himself clear. "Look, there's doing something for someone else as a special treat and then there's making yourself please someone else because you feel you have to."
"And you're against the latter."
"Yes. Adamantly."
"So why am I eating this?"
John paused, the obvious answer of 'because you're hungry' being forgotten with the lurking knowledge that no, no he was not. Sherlock had experiments to do, brain work. John swallowed, feeling himself losing ground as he sank slightly against the chair's back. "That's... that's different." Though how it was different exactly was harder to describe.
Sherlock hadn't lost any steam. He plowed on talking, stirring his meal as he did so. "Look. You don't want me to pretend to be someone I'm not. Fine; thank you. But I honestly don't even know what kind of...boyfriend I am. I haven't exactly invested a great deal of time or effort into it in the past. So ask things of me, let me try them, and if I despise it, I won't continue to oblige you. If you insist on asking me to do what I want to do, I will continue to disappoint you by doing what I know to do which hardly applies to our situation. You have had the benefit of repeated trial and error. This is my first and only attempt at a relationship with another human being. You can either leave me to my own devices or tell me what you would like me to be doing. I can tell you without ambiguity that the latter is much more efficient."
"Oh, yes, that's a fine idea," Johns scoffed, tilting his head with his sarcastic impression. "'Hey, Sherlock, if you're not too busy, why not pop a seat on the floor here and blow me?'. Yes, excellent plan. I can see how this will really help our relationship."
Sherlock's left brow arched with interest. "Would you like me to?"
John paused with his mouth hanging open, a little voice in the back of his head still capable of random outbursts of praise now rendered speechless at how Sherlock could take even a simple answer and make it completely incomprehensible. "… That is not even remotely the point," he managed not to stutter out. The back of his neck and his ears felt hot.
"John, do use your head--it's more than just something handsome the rest of us get to enjoy," Sherlock's irritation was offset only slightly by the flippant words of praise. It was still enough to keep back a fight and continue with conversation, keeping things cordial despite their disagreement. "This is really not that difficult a concept to grasp," he said.
"No, I grasp it. I'm just...not entirely comfortable with it."
"You're being impossible."
"Well, hello, Kettle."
"Fine, then." Sherlock stuck his fork hard and heavy into his carton, leaning back in his chair like the petulant child he so often was. "I am sleeping in your bed tonight at the same hour as you. I enjoyed it well enough on the night I returned so repeating the experiment should produce similar results if the enjoyment was from repeatable elements and not simple relief at being welcomed home. You made it very clear you would appreciate my presence in your bed so I can hardly assume this would be an unwelcomed move. Any reservations?"
John shook his head. "None."
"Very well, then." Sherlock gave a finite nod, as though they had closed on a business deal or settled a bet. "Now that I have sufficiently made the current atmosphere awkward, I'm sure you will find returning to work to be much more inviting."
"You have successfully turned work into a refuge from relationship discussions. Which reminds me to tell you I love you." John stood and leaned across the table, kissing him for the taste of sticky, savory sauce that still lingered in the corner of his lips. He could feel Sherlock's smile as his tongue dipped in, hardly disguising his ulterior motive. John gave him a proper peck before pulling away. He needed to do that more often. If Sherlock needed instruction he most definitely needed to do that more.
He was late getting back. John was more or less given permission to do next to anything he wanted as far as his schedule went but lingering lunches still felt like a little abuse towards their generosity. He stretched, chucking his empty carton in the bin before walking to grab his jacket from the hooks by the door.
"Just so you know, it is different," Sherlock said, "The food thing." He stirred his noodles again, eyes drawn to the dwindling contents. "My boyfriend didn't tell me to be better about food; my doctor did."
John smiled softly as he shrugged his jacket over his shoulders. "Smart man."
"The best in the world." Sherlock forked another bite, staring at it for a moment before continuing with his lunch. "Well, I say best. He's a bit thick."
"Funny, I think he said the same thing about his patient."
Sherlock chuckled, his grin creasing his face with the age it usually disguised. "Go to work, John. I have a time table to finish with these experiments now, unless you want bedtime to be four in the morning."
"Eleven at the latest," John insisted, grateful for Sherlock's nod of acceptance. He smiled, feeling oddly hopeful though the heaviness from their conversation still settled below it. "I'll see you later, Sherlock."
"Mm," he said through another mouthful.
With his jacket pulled on and his wallet already safely buried in his pocket, John turned and left the flat with a passing goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as she peered out at him as he went. The weather was quite nice but as changeable as Moriarty, the threat of rain hanging in the air along with the remaining smells of Speedy's baked goods.
He felt a bit foolish for coming home just to keep an eye on Billie. Even if she was a bit more flirtatious than he liked, Sherlock had his perpetual blinders on. In all the world there were only two people who mattered in that respect: The Woman and John. With the one of them dead, John knew he shouldn't bother with feelings of jealousy. Sherlock wasn't wired in a way that made pretty faces and rather outstanding curves tempting. John was quite aware Sherlock wasn't wired in a way that made anyone a temptation. Not even John though he'd chosen John and wanted John. Like so many things, it was easier to understand when he wasn't a part of it. His own wanting of Sherlock still felt at times like that nagging voice in the back of his mind from long ago at university that wondered what the harm of experimenting was. He'd never been inclined to given the sort of mates he'd had but twenty-something seemed a lot more appropriate an age to see if you could get it up with a bloke than forty did. It wasn't exactly how he thought his life would go but he had no complaints. He was happy. He was in love. It was just... frustrating.
All the cabs seemed to already have their fares as John tried to wave one down. The lunch rush; the busy hour. He pulled his phone out, about ready to sod the cab and call in to tell them he'd be delayed a bit longer as he walked or took the tube when a sleek black car--not a cab--came to a stop in front of 221 B. John caught his reflection in the tinted glass, his confused look automatically pinching down into a grimace. Perhaps simply 'delayed' wasn't quite the term he should be using.
"Please tell me you're dropping off and not picking up," he said to the car, which had very little say in the matter.
The doors opened and a man in a black suit and tie stepped out, holding the door open as he looked John over. "Please get in, sir," he instructed. He looked every bit like an office worker, a government employee, someone who probably didn't carry a gun but knew how to use one. After the incident with the cabby, John had paid extra attention to how to pick out a civil servant. The nails, the shoes, the haircut, the details that went beyond nice clothes. This wasn't Mycroft's usual but then again Mycroft tended to pick him up in the manner that best suited the situation.
Buckingham Palace again, perhaps? Somewhere high security at any rate. He squared his shoulders. "I do have a proper job, you know. He can't just pick me up off the street whenever he feels like it."
"Your absence has been reported. Get in, please."
Just like the man to decide for him. John scowled but out of habit and curiosity he slid into the car. "Remind me to tell Mycroft this whole kidnapping thing is really getting old," he said, shifting in across the leather.
In the seat facing his was a man he'd never seen before, though, smiling with a silent chuckle. "It's so good to finally meet the infamous John Watson," the stranger said, looking all too much like the sly cat who'd caught the mouse.
The side door to the car slammed shut beside John, the lock engaged as the car rolled away down the street.