Nocturne in Tempo Rubato
part five"They're playing Mahler at the Royal Albert Hall," Sherlock said, skimming his fingers across the top of his bath water to disturb the soap foam floating above the otherwise clear pool. He'd been soaking in the tub for all the time that John had needed the bathroom and seemed intent to remain in there until John no longer had a use for the facilities himself. He'd washed his hair while John shaved, rubbed himself down with a washcloth while John brushed his teeth, and now seemed content to simply soak while John sat on the closed lid of the toilet to clip his toenails into the waste-bin.
It wasn't exactly a new occurrence. It had originally taken John only three weeks to accept the fact that Sherlock was going to use the toilet when and if he had to regardless of whether John was in the shower or not. Reciprocation had been spiteful in intention but accepted as necessary by his flatmate considering the one bathroom shared between them. Long before Sherlock's faked demise it had simply been part of every day life with the bathroom door hardly ever locked though shut. It had been weird at first, John couldn't deny that, but it was hard to continue to consider it so much as awkward anymore with its regularity and mutual acceptance. John had to admit he enjoyed the domestically of having someone there to tell him if he missed a spot or had shaving foam behind his ears and to answer the really important questions like 'should I grow a mustache?' and 'does the sell-by date on mouth wash really matter?'.
Sitting in his boxers, left leg crossed with his foot against his right knee, John made sure not to get toenail clippings sailing across the room as he groomed his feet, the big toenail having bothered him most of the day at Scotland Yard as it smashed against the front of his shoe. He wasn't having any more of that on his night out. John kept his head down, looking at his own task rather than gazing up to where Sherlock reclined, facing him in shameless nudity. "Mahler?" he repeated, unfamiliar with the name but expectantly so. "Anything I'd recognize?"
"Probably not."
"Any good?"
Sherlock nodded, letting his head rest on the tile wall behind his head. "Mycroft promised to get us some good seats. He's currently working out whether balcony seating would best keep us safe from the masses or if they would make it all too easy for people like Moran."
John pursed his lips with the mention of the assassin, trying not to let concern show much in his body or face otherwise. "Right. Well, how do you think we're doing as far as keeping him entertained? Haven't exactly had any big cases yet. Not like we've been idle but... I mean, with the injuries and cases we've got, it's not like we can do much more than we've done."
"He's entertained."
There was a certainty in his voice that made John pause. He looked up, catching his friend's faraway stare with a sick feeling of apprehension. He looked back at his toes, fiddling with the clippers and the white lines of growth. "You two stay in contact, then?" he asked. The thought of Sherlock speaking casually with Mary's murderer and their mortal enemy made his skin feel tight.
"I'm kept informed," was Sherlock's less than acceptable reply. His fingers splashed against the water, a sign at least of his own annoyance. "You can read the e-mails if you'd like. He's loving the media attention."
"Does your brother know you've spoken with him?"
Sherlock shrugged. "What he doesn't know is often of more consequence than what he does. Not that it matters in this case. No, Mycroft's busy at the moment with a particularly ambitious brunette who has her sights on becoming Mrs. Mycroft Holmes." He slid down in the water, his long, pale legs sliding up against the white tile as his chin slipped to the water's crest, tilting back till it lapped at his temples.
John looked up, the sound which rose up from his throat something halfway between a choke and a cough "Not the-"
"Anthea? No, not his type." Sherlock smirked at the jealousy, curls floated on the surface of the water in close tendrils like a gorgon's writhing locks. "Taller, narrower, with a cold disposition not unlike his own. Never bothered to learn her name--it annoyed him all too nicely to have to remind me. She's an intelligent woman of genetic compatibility being of good physical and mental stock. He intends to be a father, the poor sod, and to go through with it in the socially acceptable ways befitting his station."
For all this distanced, dispassionate ways, John couldn't help but think Mycroft would make a good father. He certainly knew how to be patient when dealing with the stubborn irrationality of a child. "Didn't know Mycroft was a family man."
"He's not. The way he sees it though, it's down to either him or me to continue on the Holmes' legacy and I am not only genetically inferior but the least likely to procreate. It's now or never, really; he's certainly not getting any younger."
John scowled up at him at the 'genetically inferior' remark but said nothing. The unspoken truth of the matter was harsh enough without comment and pointless to rebuttal. John still preferred Sherlock to Mycroft regardless of flaws or brilliance so heredity be damned. There certainly was proof to the idea that genius such as theirs could be passed along the blood lines, though. That sort of altruistic approach to fatherhood suited John's idea of Mycroft very well; another Holmes mind born into the world to tear motive and reason apart for Queen and Country.
John uncrossed his legs and traded out, starting on his other foot. "I guess it's good luck to him, then. I take it the woman knows it'd be a marriage of convenience?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing back up into a less slouched position as his legs rolled back to bent along the tub walls. "She'll have power and prestige for life for little more than a limited sexual obligation and nine months of relative discomfort. It's mutually beneficial and I'm sure the legal paperwork will address all necessary provision." He sighed, waving dismissively towards John with a few flicks of water shedding from his fingertips. "Marriage is by practice nothing more than a business partnership, John. Not everyone preoccupies themselves with love."
John chuckled. "Yeah, they do," he said, pausing over his middle toe. "I mean, romance, no. Most people don't really care day to day about flowers and chocolate and extravagant dates. But love isn't about that stuff. Love can actually be that sense of security in knowing you're provided for for some people. I mean, I once knew a bloke who said love was being with a girl who wasn't afraid to fart in front of him and who'd pop the zits on his back."
"And was this friend the sort who's name was always preceded by an adjective like 'Shagger Jack' or 'Funky Mike'?"
"No, it was like.. Bill, or something." It was an unimportant detail but he could hardly let Sherlock get away with such oversimplified stereotypes. Not all his old mates were tossers. "But no, I mean, it sounds stupid, yeah, but when you think about it, it makes sense. It's kind of deep, really. His ideal woman was a girl who was comfortable enough with herself to just be a real person around him and who cared about him enough to accept his flaws no matter how gross. Who doesn't want that?"
Sherlock shrugged, left hand falling under the water to stroke against the uneven skin of his scar, fingers idling over the still scabbed parts where the wound had been deepest. John watched, wary of seeing him pick at the mostly healed area. He pretended he couldn't see the dark patch under the water that stood stark against the otherwise porcelain contents of the tub. Sherlock's left hand trailed back up rather than lifted, disturbing the surface with oblong ripples. "An interesting deduction from a description of stomach gases and pore puss."
"Not a deduction, just cold hard facts of life. Out there, girls don't fart, men don't scratch, and nobody sweats or shits." The bullshit look Sherlock gave him was countered quickly with raised eyebrows and a solemn nod from John, his expression mockingly grave. It was very much the truth, though, and even ridiculous as it sounded, it was hard not to give it the credit it deserved. Human beings were as terrified of their own bodies as they were of stranger's. Even as a doctor, John felt himself pulled along with the desire to conform and pretend there was never a need for a man to adjust his genitals. Biology wasn't sexy and so it just plain didn't exist outside of illness, child rearing and intercourse. He'd never really bothered to think about it before Sherlock, though. It made him feel stupid now. "It's pretty much a game," he explained, changing to terms he knew his friend could respect. "People lie all the time about who they are. People aren't themselves and you don't really know a person at all until weeks in when they sort of start to forget to be who they want you to think they are and can't help but be real."
Sherlock's eyes were darkened in their appraisal. It was impossible to believe Sherlock hadn't observed the oddities of the human courtship methods but an eyewitness account was more informative than any outside deduction. He pursed his lips for a moment, looking a bit like a lanky duck before readjusting his face into something less skewed, "And who is John Watson when he's on the prowl?" he asked.
John felt his ears ripen slightly more out of shame than embarrassment. "Understated," he said, "Funny. Depending on the girl I either play up the soldier bit or the doctor part. Not much different, really, but I definitely leave out the part where I like to spend my nights armed and ready to be solving crimes with the world's only Consulting Detective. People don't generally get that bit and it's not much of a conversation piece when you're chatting a girl up at a pub."
He ran his thumb over his toes, checking for sharp edges and harsh bits before setting his feet back on the ground, ready to stand and move on to getting dressed and ready. There was the sound of moving water, though, and the movement of something long and pale out of his peripheral vision. He looked over as the wet leg prodded against his thigh, glistened with the sheen of water. The wet made random paths over the well muscled calf and through the light hair running down his shin before pooling and dripping down to the tile floor. Sherlock wiggled his toes at him, a silent request or unspoken demand that said 'while you're there; while you have those out...'. John gave him a stern stare but didn't mind enough to say no or knock the foot back towards the tub. Instead he rested his palm against the taught tendons along the top and curled his fingers along the fleshy pads of his arch to hold his foot still as he moved the clippers to his friend's big toe and worked his way down the line.
Sherlock smiled just a tad, keeping still for him. "You don't mention me at all, then."
"Not by choice." John let his arm rest against his shin, feeling the tepidity of the water in the heat of his skin. He'd have gotten out ages ago were it him. "I mean, yeah, sometimes I get recognized and they're curious but it's not really a topic you keep on about. 'What do you do? Oh, me, I work for Scotland Yard. Really? Yeah, really. Well, I'm a waitress. That's great.' See? It's just... formalities. Like what Uni you went to or if you like dogs. No one wants to know your A levels or the name of every pet you've ever owned. It's just shit you say and if it's actually important, like they're a teacher or a veterinarian, then you go into it a bit but mostly it's just polite conversation."
Sherlock nodded slowly, his schooled expression slipping along with his line of sight. John half wanted to roll his eyes at the idea that Sherlock was disappointed in being an omission when he was chatting up women. He could understand it though, oddly enough. Sherlock didn't make a habit of talking to strangers but if he were asked to describe his work or life in general, John was certain he'd expect to hear mention of himself. Some things were too intertwined to be left out and a man who wrote the adventures of Sherlock Holmes in what was supposed to be his personal blog really had very little room to argue against the importance of the other man in his life.
That didn't make it an okay topic for 'prowling' as he'd put it, though. Nothing turned off a woman more than the gushings of a fanboy that could make the tabloid papers roll back the presses. No one wanted to compete against Sherlock Holmes. In all honesty, no one could.
Not in some ways.
"I envy you a bit, ya know," John said, pushing down on the knuckle of his friend's little toe to uncurl it.
Sherlock lifted his gaze to his, curious eyes looking for answers before questions. "In what way?"
"In the way that makes it so you don't have to follow these stupid rules about being out in public." John squeezed his foot before letting go, lifting his arms to let the left one slide away and make room for the right which crossed over to his thigh several inches shorter in its reach. He turned his body more towards the tub to better grasp it, the new angle keeping the toes pointed towards his belly. His heel rested snugly in the well of his thighs. "You don't care and so you only attract the kind of people who can accept you exactly the way you are," he continued, careful of the quick. "The worst true friend you'll ever have is someone who thinks they can change you enough to make everyone else understand what it is that they can see in you. Your personality weeds out fair-weather friends and acquaintances. What is it--WarGames?--that says the only way to win the game is to not play it? Well, you've won, Sherlock. The rest of us mortals are stuck treading water while you're out on the shore."
Sherlock shrugged, wiggling his toes this time while John clasped his hand more firmly around them, holding still the dancing piggies. "It's completely within your power to be the same way."
"Within my power, yeah. But I couldn't do it. I work hard at being Mr. Understanding Nice Guy. It's comfortable, it's what I'm used to. Not saying I'm not that guy but... I don't know. Being real is very intimate and most people can't handle that level of honesty on a casual level."
"Do you pretend when you're with me?"
John couldn't help but laugh. "Honestly, I'm flattered you think I could. No, Sherlock, there's really no point in filtering myself around you. You'd see through it for one and for another it's..." It was nice not to have to. It felt good to say and do almost exactly what he wanted to because the reality of the situation was so much more interesting than any fantasy. Because John had become as addicted to the pursuit of truth as he was to adrenalin and danger. Because he couldn't help but stop caring about the things that didn't really matter when it was just the two of them. "..Well, it's pointless no matter what," he said, finishing with the last toe and releasing his foot like a fish for the water.
Sherlock bent his thigh to his chest to inspect the work, a nod given in his appreciation before unraveling and sliding up to sit as John stood, slipped the clippers back into the drawer and walked out through the sliding bedroom door.
It was John's room alone once more. Sherlock's things had been returned back to the room upstairs though the speed at which his friend did his unpacking was snail-paced at best. John still found the odd belonging on a dresser or under his bed like cell phone chargers, socks and a glass microscope slides. They weren't entirely unwelcome, save when they were found underfoot. He enjoyed bemoaning them just for show. Sometimes he got the feeling Sherlock left things there just so he would.
The surging of water as John took jeans and a button up shirt from the wardrobe announced the end of Sherlock's bath, the wet pounding of his feet on the rug almost silenced by the ruffle of his towel. John shrugged into his shirt, buttoning it carefully while his jeans he plopped on the bed.
"You could just stay here tonight if you'd rather not bother with it," Sherlock called out amidst the sound of him raking a towel over his head.
John smirked, thumb pressing yet another white button through its tight hole in the khaki colored shirt. "Tempting but no. It's extremely important that we get on with the other people at Scotland Yard. We're getting a lot of preferential treatment and the last thing we need is resentment along with it from everyone else." That wasn't even the half of it, and though they both knew the full truth, it didn't go without repeating. "You had a lot of enemies before; I'd like us to try and start over and gets things smoothed over. Hopefully, after a few nights out, I can get them to just sort of roll their eyes when you're being a dick instead of take it personally. Or at least get them on my side where they can just vent about it over a pint and let it go."
"John, it's not your job to make people like me."
John looked over his shoulder, watching a toweled Sherlock watching him with straight faced candor.
He finished with the shirt and grabbed his jeans, stepping into them quickly and tucking his shirt down along the waist. "Yes it is," he said.
"Why?"
John shrugged. "I don't like people thinking it's okay to call you a freak. And maybe I can't get them to like you but I'm pretty sure I can get them to show you some damn respect at the very least. And if they still want to call you freak, fine, but they'll have to do it behind your back like they would to anyone else."
Sherlock chuckled, the roll of it causing John to smile as he finished with his zip and snagged a pair of socks. The clock was busy accusing him of being late with her arms bending right along the white face. Time seemed to get the best of him when he wasn't paying attention.
"You're a hero to us all, John." Sherlock mused, pulling his red dressing gown around himself as he stepped out into the hall
"Goddamn champion of justice," John joked as he found his shoes and slipped them on, following close behind Sherlock as he scraped his wallet and phone off the dresser. The wallet was fat with notes ready to splurge on a few rounds for the group. Everyone liked a generous man; he could spare the cash if it made a difference. "Want me to bring you anything back?" he asked, finding his coat on the hooks near the landing.
Sherlock leaned his head back, observing him upside down from his supine position on the couch, hair still dripping along the arm of the furniture. "No. Will you be bringing anything back for yourself? A woman perhaps?"
"Not planning on it. Not that it wouldn't probably help a bit with the tabloid gossip being what it is. It's not really what tonight is about, though."
The detective nodded, smiling just slightly. "You look very smart," he observed.
John smirked and controlled the desire to pop his collar at the compliment. "Cheers. You going to text me all night long?"
"Probably."
"Right, well, that's something to look forward to at any rate." He leaned over into the room, tussling his friend's hair shortly, only half noticing the way the ends of the curls clung to his fingers. "I'll be home late."
Sherlock nodded, relaxing down among the cushions, remote in hand with a world of crap telly available for the night. John left the door open as he hurried down the stairs, bounding out into the street to hail a cab in hopes punctuality wasn't among the traits the boys from the Yard were wont to judge him for. Of all the nights to get caught up in idleness, it was not the best he could have chosen.
Standing at the curb, John raised his hand high, waving to the boxy vehicle that veered closed, obeying his call. To his side he felt a tug on his jacket and heard the clearing of a man's throat. John turned around, seeing a smiling, well-dressed stranger with a familiar gleam in his eyes, and shook his head sternly.
"Sorry, no, no interviews," he said, waving his hands at him to help get the message across. Reporters, ironically, never seemed to understand spoken words alone. "No comments, no quotes, no anything. You want my opinions, read my blog."
The man continued to smile, inclining his head to him in greeting. "I have. I'm a huge fan of yours, Dr. Watson." The stranger offered him his hand to shake, his grip warm and firm as he accepted the gesture. "Don't worry, my presence has nothing to do with that tabloid bullshit. I can't believe they are still running with that rubbish."
"Ah.. yeah. Thanks." John put his hand against the cab as it came to a stop, not entirely comfortable in the company of strangers. "I'm sort of in a hurry but-"
"Actually, I just wanted to let you know what you and Mr. Holmes were voted for in this year's 'Men of the Year' edition of 'Man's Man' Magazine and I was hoping to see if I could arrange for a photo shoot? I'd much rather pay you and your partner and get something we can all appreciate than go to some sleazeball, bush-crawling paparazzi."
John's throat went dry, his free hand balling into a fist as the other tugged on the handle of the cab. There was something in the way he said 'partner'; something about the cream of his shirt and the lavender of his tie and the well styled fall of his hair. "We're not... we're business partners," he clarified, eyes wide with his own unspoken fears.
Th stranger put his hands up defensibly, taking a step back as he nodded slowly. "Sorry, sorry, right. Of course." He winked, lips curling into a crooked smile. "'Business' partners. Got it."
John could literally hear the air-quotes.
He stared at him in dumb silence, his brain on a temporary hiatus. He got into the cab without another word, closing the door and sitting anxiously for a moment before the need to address the cabby to get him to the bar became apparent. He felt ill. He didn't want to think of what kind of publication "Man's Man" was, didn't want to think of what was being so widely insinuated in even the more reputable papers.
He got three numbers at the first bar and two more at the second. The guys from the Yard slapped him on the back and clinked their glasses against his in toasts to his lady-magnetism and charm. Just a couple of men out winging about work, slamming down drinks, and talking about video games and women and John was one of them, just like them, no different in any way other than being the single most successful single man at the table who was going home with five numbers from five lovely women. Mr. Understanding Nice Guy Lady-killer John Watson PhD.
He ignored the text alerts and single missed call. The lives of ordinary people demanded it and John was not strong enough to go against it.