Pantomime
part nineJohn was often thankful for Mrs. Hudson's assistance. Her fussy nature saw to the house cleaning and occasional fridge stocking despite her assurance she was no one's house keeper. With Mary about there hadn't been much need to be looking out for him but the year before Mary had come into his life had been one of shameful dependence. Mrs. Hudson has been the face at the other end of the table, the voice that said 'hello' and 'good night' from the stairs every morning and evening. Mycroft had tried to be among those allowed entry into the Baker Street address at the start but had soon moved on from speaking to John to relaying his information to or through Mrs. Hudson to avoid the tiffs and tantrums of a rage filled man in mourning. Mrs. Hudson had never harmed Sherlock or aided those who would try to. She was unique from Lestrade and Mycroft and not so dissimilar from himself. It was why, John presumed, he never really snapped at her too often when she became nosy and bothersome. It was a small price to pay on top of the sum of his lodging for someone who not only gave a damn but who in many ways understood.
It didn't mean in the slightest that the sound of her coming up to his flat didn't invoke a worn out groan or set his wits close to their ends.
"You there, dear? Was that Mary I heard leaving?"
John sighed, rubbing his face with his palms. It seemed an unwritten rule there should be an audience for everything, blog or no blog. "Yeah, she came over for breakfast," he said, not bothering to move more than the muscles it took to look up.
"Haven't seen much of her this weekend. Everything alright with you two?" Mrs. Hudson stood in his sitting room, hands clasped in front of her paisley printed blouse as she gave him the look of a worried mother. "You look worn out," she noted with a frown.
She would receive no argument from him there. John sighed and let his head fall. "Yeah, been busy with... work."
She gave his shoulder a pat. "You just stay sat right there, then. I'll fix you up a nice cuppa." There was no room for argument. She left him sitting there a second later as she walked to the kitchen to set about the making of tea. Her tutting at the sight of Sherlock's new mess was somewhat nostalgic. "You're developing more and more of his habits, I see. Usually such a tidy man."
John leaned forward to see if he could spy her in the other room. "What do you mean 'more' of his habits?" he asked.
"Oh, you know. Working yourself to death, forgetting to eat."
"That's not me taking after him, that's... shared stupidity." He wasn't going to point out the eating issue had been more related to depression at the time than any compulsory denial of food based on digestive superstition. He was still waiting for Sherlock to scientifically prove to him that starving himself was in any way beneficial to thought.
"Still, the mess in here." Mrs. Hudson turned on the tap, filling up the kettle. She sighed. "Been a while since I thought of him. Odd the things that remind you of someone. Raw beef used to remind me of my husband. You'll know all about that sort of thing, though."
He did. For the first of many months after the suicide, everything had reminded John of Sherlock. Every piece of classical music, every cab, every child he diagnosed with behavioral issues, every man in a belstaf coat, every police siren, every stupid show on telly, every single time he felt bored. John cleared his throat. Thinking about Sherlock being dead, even when knowing it was a lie, still made him feel vaguely ill. Keeping his return a secret from their friends didn't help either. Mrs. Hudson deserved to know he was alive and well and probably quietly sitting upstairs in the guest room calculating the odds between a full house and two pair. He hated not telling her, especially with Mary in on the secret as well. Sherlock was a dick.
Mrs. Husdon peeked her head in, her frown becoming more set as she took him in, silent and introverted. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't bring him up."
John knew what it must look like and forced a small smile. "No, it's.. fine, Mrs. H. It's fine."
"It's really sort of a beautiful thing, though: you still being in love with him after all this time." She waved her hand at her face as though the thought of it was a threat to her mascara. "Least you've got a new love to spend your life with now."
"We weren't-"
"I know. I know." She popped back into the kitchen, taking to the tea pot and serving tray while the water boiled on the stove. "You don't have to be together to be in love. I fell in love with plenty of young men in my day that I never got to be with. Worse that. They all ended up being the greatest relationship I never had. I've mourned a few of their marriages harder than I have some deaths. For what it's worth, I think he would have driven you up the wall with all his madness eventually." She took the milk from the fridge, sniffing the carton for freshness. "People like him are always escaping from something. Bossy, demanding, eccentric. It's people like us, John, who end up having to stick around and pick up the pieces. No reward in that. Just a loaded dustbin and a few broken hearts."
John was sure at some point in her train of thought the conversation had stopped being about him and Sherlock. The connotation that he was romantically invested in him, however, was still very much present. It never stopped. It did not seem even one person who knew them cared to listen to his protests. He wondered just how much of an asshole he must have seemed to everyone if they honestly thought all his girlfriend were just some front for his gay romance. His protests were always dismissed; Dr. John Watson had to deny it, had to pretend, bless his heart and isn't he sweet the sad, sorry poofter. If he was gay--a strong, purely hypothetical if--surely he could do better than a self-obsessed, autistic asexual who, between bouts of mania, spent his time destroying everything around him.
It was always best to remember the man's faults when claiming not to love the most amazing human being in existence.
Mrs. Hudson brought in the tray sat with him for over half an hour. She poured her heart out as she poured the tea, going on about a butcher down the corner who apparently had been sharing meaningful looks with her but was suddenly more interested in a Mrs. Davies. He drank and nodded, being polite but bored out of his mind. There was a lack in the English language for words that made it politely clear that a reading of the dictionary carried the same level of interest for the listening party. He waited for her to finish without trying to hurry her along too much. Whichever way he looked at it, he and Mrs. Hudson were certainly friends. There just wasn't much for him to say on the subject of pensioners hooking up over sirloin cuts and mince. He wondered if mundane and boring conversations like this were what every day was like for Sherlock in a world of normal people.
When she finally left, tea cleaned up and kitchen wiped down, John fell again into the comfort of the couch feeling utterly exhausted. He felt a bit like texting Mary but without the inclination to deal with any replies. He knew he should probably see that Sherlock received an all clear but didn't care much if he came down or not. It was quiet again for the first time in what felt like a long time. John crossed his arms over his face, hiding his eyes behind his elbows. With his night booked and a full week of work waiting beyond, it was nice to just lay in thoughtless quiet with nothing but the sound of traffic in his ears. It was doomed but for the moment it was pleasant.
Sherlock came into the room and closed the door behind him for the sake of secrecy. A short lived reprieve indeed.
"Mrs. Hudson sends her love to the long departed," John said, not bothering to remove his arms from his face. It was nice in the dark.
Sherlock's footsteps carried him across to a chair set along the far side of the coffee table into which he sat. "Her butcher is playing hard to get. Her current strategy will likely result in success."
John sighed. "You were listening?"
"Hardly anything else to do."
"Mastered poker already, have you?"
"In theory." Sherlock put his feet up on the table. Sherlock 2, Furniture 0. "Deducing a man's tell will be simple enough and I have an assuredly blank enough expression for the game. As far as the elements I can control are concerned, I'm well prepared."
"I'm pretty sure the way you deduce would be considered cheating. Planning to count cards as well?"
"Obviously."
John shook his head, trying not be amused by his friend's poor sportsmanship. "You're going to be thrown out," he predicted. He could already see in his minds eye, the flail of too-long limbs as he was tossed by bald bouncers onto the pavement, palms scratched and hair tousled permanently from its floppy do. John peeked through his arms at him, expecting to see his haughty countenance or smug, satisfied smile. Neither was there. Despite the matter-of-fact tone in his voice, Sherlock's face showed an emotion more often reserved for his pantomime performance of normal people: dejection. His eyes were scanning John, lingering on his chest--no, shoulder--and leg; lingering on the broken parts of him. It wasn't just sadness, it was worry, concern. John got the distinct impression Sherlock didn't know he could see him from behind his crossed arms. This cheerlessness was no meager means of manipulation but something far more rare and genuine. It was sort of beautiful in the way it softened the hard lines of his strongly contoured face. Sherlock trusted him to be by his side but still troubled over the consequences. It was this face, this part of the man, which made him take that three year fall.
Something John must have done, his breath, his posture, the length of his silence, alerted Sherlock to his nakedness. He switched over slowly and flawlessly, no jolt to signal the exchange but a simple swipe from bare to masked as he sat back in his chair, steepled fingers at his chin. Somehow John could still see the painted smile on the crying clown and let his eyes fall shut again in the dark cavern of his arms.
Sherlock cleared his throat, legs recrossing to switch out the weight bearing ankle. "Mary seemed a little.. vexed."
The dropper of many eaves indeed. "Well, she would be. Two days ago everything was normal. Now nothing is. For her, I mean." John lifted his arms, admitting a gaze in his direction. "This is just like the first time, you know? We're here, barely have enough time to get a grasp on what we're doing, and then we're swept up in some investigation."
Sherlock nodded, ash grey eyes searching the ceiling.
John breathed in deeply. The silence was nice but surprisingly awkward. "Your brother texted me."
"Oh? And what did he want?"
"To warn me."
Sherlock's eyes clouded over, his lips drawing thin above the tops of his fingertips. "What exactly did he say?"
"Read it yourself if you like." John nodded to his mobile sitting by his friend's feet. "This is the second time he's done something like this. I don't mean the part where it's my second warning, I mean that it sounds like he knows something that he's not telling us and I damn well don't want another Richard Brook surprise."
Sherlock nodded, his eyes set on the messages on John's phone. "I can assure you he is in possession of a great deal of knowledge in regards to our case against Sebastian Moran."
"For fuck's sake, what's he playing at then?"
"Don't worry about it." Sherlock pocketed John's mobile as he leaned forward, feet to the floor and elbows resting against his knees. "We can be assured when the time comes, Mycroft will not disappoint."
"And in the mean time we've got snipers tailing us. Brilliant. I'm absolutely boiling over with confidence." John sat up, too annoyed to recline in idleness. Whatever lies he shared with Mary, Mycroft's concern put a chill in John's blood. He was a man of absurd power and not one for exaggeration. Warning him once was good manners, warning him twice was reason to reconsider.
So why didn't he?
John exhaled loudly, pulling his cardigan straight where Mary's body had tugged it over. "What is it about you that makes me act like a bloody fool?" he asked, more to himself than to anyone present or God.
Sherlock shrugged, passive and contemplative. "I often consider those very words." He leaned back in his chair, a small smirk parting his face. "On the subject of foolishness, however, let us return to tonight's goal. Best to keep to the lower end tables and get a feel for the place before making our way to the high stakes games. We'll need to be good to earn our stay. I know my capabilities in cards; what are yours?"
"Me? Oh, I'm rubbish," John lied for humility's sake, face exaggeratedly grave. "Worse than. Absolutely abysmal at poker and don't even get me started on pontoon."
Sherlock's brow piqued with his curiosity. "That good, are you?"
"Plenty of long nights in Afghanistan spent with a pack of fifty-two," John admitted as he pointed a steady finger at his friend. "But I am never playing against you. So you're just going to have to take my word for it."
"I'll take your earnings for it."
John laughed. "I'm sure you would take them." He leaned forward, hands clasped together at his knees, feeling a bit like a twenty-something again setting up a stag night rather than a grown man plotting espionage. "Actually, how do you feel about making a little bet? Your deductive skills verses my years of experience and well-crafted techniques."
He definitely had Sherlock's interest with that. The man's surprised half smirk lit his face momentarily before he seemed to realize how childlike and slightly dim the expression made him look. "Based on number of hands won or monetary gain?"
"Money, of course."
"Very well. But I have no interest in the income." His eyes were predatory as he leaned forward as well, meeting John's posture. "If I win our bet, you have to accompany me to the symphony, in a tux, plus dinner and drinks, no mobiles."
John shook his head. "You can't make your reward something I'd do anyway--have done even. Not that you're going to win, mind you, but you have to pick something else."
Sherlock's face fell just slightly. He tapped his fingers and pursed his lips before trying again, his tone richer as he carefully worded his thoughts. "I don't come first anymore, John," he admitted, not as blind to the fact as some of his actions seemed to indicate. "Things come up, girlfriends or wives make requests. Schedules aren't as flexible. I'm asking you to save a date for me. I want, when this is over, one more day where I am the most important thing you have planned for that evening."
John leaned away, swallowing around an awkward chuckle as his eyes found the wood-grain on the coffee table. "What did I just tell you about asking for things I'd do regardless?" He felt nervous as he rubbed the back of his neck, thoughts pulled towards Mary's growing unease in Sherlock's presence, the world's insistence they were more than just friends, and the sad face from a secret view intended for no one. A night of culture in the best clothes someone else had ever rented for him and dining in some of the classiest locations he'd ever been treated to had looked like a date three years ago and was surely going to look like one now. Unremarkably, because it was Sherlock, it didn't really matter.
He looked up to test the air to find Sherlock regarding him with a mostly amused expression. John rolled his eyes. "So am I supposed to try and win you as the Best Man at my wedding too since we're betting for stupid stuff? I'd honestly rather not waste the opportunity to win some cash."
"You don't want me as your Best Man, John. Could ruin the ceremony. I'm sure Mary has other plans as far as the attendance of the man who most people would be whispering about on her special day." Sherlock stood up, hands on his hips as he eyed the clock. "Don't worry, Mycroft will send me the surveillance footage. Cash it is then?"
John's jaw dropped. "Wait a minute; just hold on! You mean you're not only turning down the offer of being my Best Man but you won't even be there?"
"You haven't even proposed yet," Sherlock needless reminded him. He started walking towards the kitchen. "Don't get mad at me over a hypothetical scenario. You can get mad at me when you're actually in a position for me to decline."
John stared after him, speechless save for the many colorful expletives which came to mind.
He was going to win that bet no matter what now. There was no way in hell he was going to find himself indebted to that pompous ass over anything other than his own good graces.