Pantomime
part threeJohn's first thought upon breaking through the first layer of sleep was that Mary had lost quite a bit of weight. His second thought was that she had also grown more than a foot taller. His third thought didn't matter. Wide eyed and wide awake, John lay frozen with his cheek pressed against black curls, his arms wrapped quite possessively around a bare chested Sherlock Holmes.
Somehow he wasn't surprised. By his own actions, oh yes, quite surprised, but that he was yet again in a somewhat compromising, easily misinterpreted position in respect to his best friend was in many regrettable ways status quo. Clothes ripped off in a darken swimming pool, holding hands on a mad escape through the streets of London. Eating by candlelight in Soho. Like christening a ship before sailing, waking up with his arms around Sherlock was just another meaningless ceremonial gesture in homage to the years before. Which did not in any way make it less awkward, weird, or unnecessary.
John lifted his head, trying to look down at Sherlock's face to see just how deep asleep he seemed. Sherlock's nose was turned towards the pillow, nothing but cheek bones and his right ear offered into John's visual range. It would have been an easy enough task in pulling his arm away had he not at some point during the night snaked his left arm underneath Sherlock's body. It was going to be a bit tricky to slide that one back without disturbing the consulting detective's slumber. And all of decent society demanded he do just that or else face the consequences of everlasting shame and embarrassment. One did not sleep in the same bed as their best mate to begin with and one most certainly did not initiate an accidental snuggle.
John wondered if chewing his own arm off to escape would be a manly enough gesture to make up for it.
"While I agree you look smart with the beard, it is a bit rough on the skin," the voice John least wanted to hear said.
The soldier closed his eyes, cursing his continued string of luck. "How long have you been awake?"
"Not long. Half an hour, perhaps?"
"Half a--?" John wriggled his arm back out from under Sherlock, no longer concerned with being careful. "Why didn't you pushed me off or move?" He hated the way his voice rose in pitch as embarrassment colored his tone as well as his face.
Sherlock rolled over just slightly, looking over his shoulder at him, stolid. "John, are you aware that you are an excellent conductor of heat?"
"Get another blanket then! Or put something else on!" John rubbed his face, already feeling a headache coming along with the early morning row. At least he didn't have to feel entirely responsible anymore what with Sherlock now guilty by proxy. "We don't cuddle, Sherlock. That's not us. We're not cuddlers."
"A cuddle? Is that what you'd call that?"
"No, no I wouldn't, because we don't do that," he reiterated, feeling defeated in the hopeless pursuit that was trying to explain 'normal' to Sherlock Holmes. The unconcerned shrug he gave as he turned back into his sleeping posture at least put things in their place, the same ole 'agree to disagree because Sherlock can't be bothered' conclusion that put an end to most rows that needed at least one of them to act like a grown up. Somehow 'one of them' always seemed to read 'John Watson'.
John slid his way off the bed, tugging at the sheets under him and the blanket above. The rug on the floor was cool under his feet but he didn't wish to bother searching for his slippers while he friend pretended to sleep. He gave his chin a good scratch with a rustling of short hairs from his stumbled beard. Maybe it was time for a shave. He certainly didn't want to give any further thought to what he'd been doing in his sleep to introduce Sherlock to beard scruff.
Rolling his shoulders, John loosened his back and neck, working out the morning cricks and crinkles from his joints and muscles. The sunlight through the window had stretched only a few degrees into the room. The clock on the wall confirmed: nearly eleven-thirty in the morning. For years his body clock had been set to rise at six. Even in living with Sherlock he'd only managed to retrain himself to sleep in as late as eight-thirty. Sleeping past that had only been a habit in his darkest times--if sleep came to him at all. High emotions were certainly exhaustive.
It was too late for breakfast but a nice brunch sounded just as good. John could think of several nice places in the area where he and Mary had enjoyed themselves. Sherlock was the one who always knew where to get the best food but he was nearly three years out of circulation now. John rather enjoyed the idea of getting to show Sherlock around to all the new bistros and gastropubs that had popped up or changed hands in that time. He'd probably have to stay in his disguise--harder still, John would probably have to refer to him as James in public--but they'd still have an opportunity to enjoy a bit of London together again. It wasn't the action packed, edge of your seat excitement he'd generally associated with the man but it was still part of what he missed. Even the still times of between-case quiet were part of the Sherlock experience. They'd have to find the violin upstairs and unpack that at least.
"Hey, Sherlock, fancy brunch or you going to sleep in more?" He asked, turning back to the bed's occupant. His face fell at a sight of his sheet clad silhouette, or rather what the sheet was no longer covering.
Bare backed he could see scars he didn't remember, instances from correspondence reminding him of where and when they'd claimed him. The scars weren't the issue. John could see the shape and shadow of his spine and ribs from years of forgetfulness and obstinance. Had no one reminded him to take care of himself? Worrying as it was, it too was not the current issue. John pursed his lips, debating whether he wanted to ask or even broach the subject, but curiosity and almost certainty won out against all other options. "Sherlock, are you naked in my bed?" he asked, eying the base of his friend's spine.
Sherlock sighed softly, as though the inquiry were tedious and dull. "I didn't exactly arrive with an overnight bag."
"Oh, for goodness sakes. Sherlock!"
"I'm sure your 800 thread count sheet well protected your masculinity."
"Oh, ha ha," John grabbed the pillow from his side of the bed and tossed it at Sherlock's head with a solid whomp. "You'll be doing panel shows next. Just because you don't have the sense to find sleeping naked beside another man awkward doesn't mean I'm wrong."
Sherlock breathed a sigh, readjusting the new pillow under his head as well for a bit of added fluff. "No, but you're making an issue out of nothing based on social standards which aren't applicable in private considering there's only the two of us here and I could care less. You're warm, I'm naked, and you're accustomed to sleeping with your girlfriend. It's not exactly an intuitive leap to deduce that you might gravitate towards me in the night and I might find the added warmth acceptable."
"I could have given you something to sleep in if you'd said something." John hated ranting at Sherlock's back but this was one instance where he would rather he didn't roll over. "Normally you just help yourself to my things anyway," he noted.
"Your clothes don't fit me."
"You are thin as a rail. They'd be too short but they'd go on." John groaned with his imminent defeat. It wasn't worth it. It really wasn't. Sherlock was going to be Sherlock regardless of what he said. John shook his head, grabbing the end of the blanket and piling it up on top of his friend till he was more than half buried. "There. Plenty warm now?"
"Adequate."
"You're impossible."
"Brunch in thirty?"
"Lunch in thirty," John corrected. At least he could still win in stating absolute fact. "Need your disguise?"
"Spirit gum's in my coat pocket. The front door just opened and there's someone coming up so I'll need it brought in here."
John hadn't heard it but it was hardly worth it to argue with Sherlock further. "Mrs. Hudson. I left it on the table; better get it before she gets a look." He paused at the door, hand closing around air instead of the handle. "So... you're not going to tell her, then? Mrs. Hudson."
"Nope."
"Right..." John shrugged it off. It was Sherlock's decision, even if he didn't agree. "Right, I'll just be back with your face, then." He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him, turning the knob so it noiselessly slid into the pocket of the jam. The footfalls on the stairs were drawing closer--was it any wonder that Sherlock had been right?
John ran through the kitchen as fast as possible on the balls of his feet, no time left with the door to the stairs nearly facing the table of false hair and accessories to do anything more than throw his body in the line of vision, crossing his legs at the ankles as he stood, arms crossed, half sitting on the table in the least convincing 'act casual' attempt he'd ever performed.
The table, feeling unhelpful, let out a squeal as his weight caused it to scoot back a tad. All casual looks needed a whistle, after all. John pursed his lips, unable to work out just what sort of smile was the least suspicious as finally he saw his visitor.
Oh, God, no.
"Mary..." John froze as his girlfriend smiled at him, her arms carrying two small bags from the grocer as she approached. The tap of her cork heals, the slight sway of her beige skirt, the pressed fit of her pink cardigan over a cream lace top, her blonde hair neatly falling to her shoulders--she looked absolutely beautiful. And she was the worst person on the planet to choose to come into his flat at that time.
"Hello, John. Still in your night clothes?" She gave him a kiss, the softness of her lips falling to the corner of his mouth. She made a soft hum as her lips tickled against his beard then left him for the kitchen, bags released on the center island as she began busying herself with the unpacking of sundry items. "How did it go last night? You and that James fellow stay out all hours at the pub?"
John felt around behind his back, trying to quickly gather up the pieces to Sherlock's disguise without calling her attention. "Uh... no. Quiet evening in. What, uh, what are you doing here?"
"Thought you boys might like something to eat," she said with a smile, unpacking a bottle of wine and some dried pasta.
John walked sideways towards the coat, keeping his back facing away as he shoved the facial scraps into a pocket. "That's.. very thoughtful," he said, joining her in the kitchen with his task mostly fulfilled. Getting the things to Sherlock had become much less important than getting Mary out. "It's just that he's... he's really tired and I think he'll probably sleep the rest of the afternoon," he lied, and hated himself for it. "He's also really shy. I think he'd sort of prefer it if he didn't meet any strangers just yet."
Mary's shoulder's sank, her cute face wrinkling into a pout. "Are you sure?"
"Oh, yeah, sensitive bloke, really. Very insecure." John helped her put the last of the groceries away as he spoke, trying as hard to assure her as he was trying to usher her out. "I'll tell you what, though. Let me talk to him today and we can see about doing dinner together, alright? But now's just not the best time."
"Well, if you're sure," she said, her good intentions denied. It was obvious he'd disappointed her. It was a look he had once been very used to seeing in his girlfriends' faces. He felt like a dick for doing it yet again for all the same reasons.
John put his hand on her shoulder, kissing her cheek in condolence. "I promise you'll get to meet him. I want him to meet you too. No surprise visits while he's here though, okay? Makes him nervous. Call or text me and I'll let you know."
Mary nodded, smiling a bit more bravely as he lead her with an arm around her waist towards the stairs. "Well, have fun with your friend but don't forget to call me. I missed you last night."
John gave her a squeeze. No argument, no complaining; nothing but trust and selfless consideration for his own needs and life. There were so many reasons why he loved Mary and time to time he had to wonder how in the world he managed to get her to love him too. He was the luckiest man in the world.
Unfortunately, sometimes it was with the wrong type of luck.
The sound of bed springs creaking emanated from John's bedroom.
Mary looked over towards the closed door, one brow arched in consideration. "...John, what was that?"
"Hm? I didn't hear anything," he lied.
"There's someone in your room."
John hurried his pace slightly as he continued to lead her towards the stairs. "My room? No, no one in there. Why would anyone be in my room?"
Oh cue, the bed creaked again, louder and longer as someone obviously sat up or moved.
Mary pulled away from him, not as versed in deduction as Sherlock but hardly an idiot. Her brown eyes narrowed as the little vein appeared on her forehead--the one that only became visible during a row or bout of crying. She pushed past him towards the bedroom door, quick but not quick enough. Instantly John slid his way between her and the entrance, arms out, barring her way inside and keeping hidden the contents within. He had a lot of quick explaining to do if he was going to diffuse the situation.
Only, for very obvious reasons to him, he couldn't. He couldn't tell her Sherlock was in his room, retreating there from habit, and that he had to be kept a secret. And what could he possibly say to make it plausible for James to have gone to his bed instead of the guest room Mary had helped prepare? That they'd stayed up all night chatting and he'd fallen asleep in there? What were they, fourteen year old girls? And why block her entry if it was so innocent a misunderstanding? Every request for a decent lie returned a quick mental bursts of 'I am fucked' as well as a mantra of 'Propose! Distract her with something shiny! Get the ring! Divert! Divert!'.
"I knew you were too good to be true," Mary spat, eyes already beginning to water but her face pinched with rage. "Who is she? Is this one of those reverse internet horror stories where the man you've been talking to online turns out to be a woman?"
John grabbed her by the forearms, trying to make her look at the honesty in his eyes even as she fought to shake him off. "Mary, it's nothing like that."
"Oh really? Go ahead and explain then. Let's here it."
"I... can't," His voice nearly cracked again, still waiting for some spark of genius to ignite inside his brain. He hadn't been awake nearly long enough to be prepared for this. "Look, if I could, it would be a very good explanation. Most innocent, blameless explanation of all time. You would be blown away with how truly, genuinely innocent this all is."
Hands again free, Mary raised her fingers to John's shoulder, peeling off from the waffle knit of his shirt a single black hair.
John stared at it like a bullet with his name on it.
"Who. Is. She." Mary's voice was low and forced, husky with combined emotions ranging from grief to homicidal.
"Mary... I know what this looks like but I'm trying to tell you it's not-."
Mary snaked her hand in around him, beating against the door he refused to allow her through. "Get out here you bitch!" she screamed.
"Mary!" John grabbed her by the arms again, trying to calm her though she kicked his shins and the door instead.
"No, don't touch me; don't you touch me! How dare you cheat on me, John Watson!"
John let her go, as much in self defense as as an answer to her plea. "Please don't do this, Mary," He begged, "I promise you, I swear to you, I've never-"
The door opened behind him.
"John, while you're doing an excellent job of ingesting your own two feet, let's save room for lunch, shall we?" Sherlock, wrapped up in his Buckingham best, smiled at the suddenly speechless woman stuck staring at him in shock and disbelief. "Mary, was it? Sherlock Holmes. John has told me a great deal about you."
John wasn't sure if he should hang Sherlock or kiss him.
"Sherlock Holmes?" Mary's lips nearly stuttered around the name, her brown eyes fluttering. She looked at John, head shaking slightly from left to right. "John, you said the papers got it wrong between you two."
Well, certainly not kiss him, then.