Chapter Text
While John was browsing the internet once, possibly years ago (possibly three years, two months, two days ago) he came across an online quiz entitled, “YOU MAY KNOW THE FIRST LINES, BUT HOW MANY OF THESE FAMOUS BOOKS CAN YOU NAME BY THEIR SECOND LINE?” which John thought he could probably do, since he’d read a lot of books in his life. But when he clicked on the link and took the quiz, he found that he was having a much harder time than he thought he would. Out of the twenty second lines, he could name only one.
After staring at these results, John began to wonder why it was that he couldn’t – why anyone couldn’t – name second lines as well as first lines. The immediate answer was obvious: the first line was the common quotation, of course. But then, why was that? Why did the quotation always end with the first line? Suddenly, still staring at his laptop in the dark, John understood. It’s because second lines are ugly. Second lines are awkward. First lines are beautiful, artfully crafted; the ending of the beginning. The second line is the awful but necessary bridge into the rest of it. Everyone loves looking at the ocean, and everyone loves swimming in it, but no one likes jumping in.
As John catches a cab to ride to 221B Baker Street (for the first time? First time of many? First and last time?) he knows, without a doubt, that this is the second line. Whatever happens next, it will be the second line. The questions is whether anything else will follow.
•
John honestly didn’t think he would ever see Sherlock again. It just didn’t seem like the universe would allow such a perfect story to be marred by continuation.
The way things were, John could keep this story perfectly preserved in his mind for years. Known once – in a perfect, brilliant blaze of light that would never lose its anecdotal value, even if John only ever told the story to himself. That was how he wanted to remember knowing Sherlock Holmes.
But there was a part of him that knew that things wouldn’t happen that way. They could, if the universe was merciful, but they probably wouldn’t. The thought made him want to cry out in anguish. No stories can ever end where they should. Every story gets a sequel, even when the ending is already perfect.
Another part of him, however, finds this thought enticing. Not just enticing, but necessary. As much as he wished that his life would follow a tasteful plot arch, he was only human in the end. He wanted to see Sherlock again more than he wanted to remember her. He had met Sherlock Holmes in a blaze of golden happening last week, and she had been the most amazing girl (most amazing person, full stop) he had ever known in either of his two decades of life. This part of him, the smaller part, knows with an almost giddy anticipation that he’ll certainly see her again. Sometimes, the universe is a much better author than we understand.
•
“You said that you used to know him?” Mrs. Hudson asks, and Sherlock finds her wording confusing.
Used to know?
Used to frequently associate with, maybe. Used to be close to, perhaps. But saying “used to know” implies no longer knowing. Even though it’s been years (lifetimes? minutes?) Sherlock never forgets details he has no reason to forget.
But this is a bit too much to explain out loud, so he says, “Yes.”
“When?”
“University.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She’s bustling around the room, all smiles. Sherlock is grateful to have company (see: distraction) as he waits for John’s arrival. Anything to take his mind off the waiting. “One of your old school friends! How nice, Sherlock, just lovely.”
“Yes, quite.”
Sherlock watches dust particles do their dances in the rectangular streams of sunlight. Dust has always been a particular interest of his – you can clean it up but you can’t make it; you can move it but you can’t put it back. He studies the edge of the light, where the dust disappears. He knows, of course, that it doesn’t actually disappear. It simply appears to do so. The entire room is full of these tiny particles (a gorgeous amalgamation of organic and non-organic matter) but only the ones with enough sunlight are visible to the naked eye. The rest, though very real, appear not to exist at all.
“What’s he like, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks as she fluffs off the curtains, which sends dust particles flying around in wild spirals. Sherlock wonders, would it be possible to deduce the movement that had occurred in a room based solely upon where the dust had settled? He’d have to look into it, later.
Later.
What’s he like, Sherlock?
Will John be there later, or not?
And what is he like?
“I suppose you’ll find out for yourself,” Sherlock says.
“Well, if you like him, Sherlock, then I’m sure I will.”
“Mm.”
John said he’d probably be two, three hours before showing up. It’s been two now, but Sherlock figures he’ll be later than he said. Still, Sherlock decides to head outside to wait for him.
You know. Just in case.
•
Upon picking up his screeching mobile, Sherlock groans. Normally, he wouldn’t even bother picking up. What does Mycroft even want, anyway?
Today, though he needs a distraction. His mind is a mess. Frankly, it’s embarrassing.
“What?” he snaps into the receiver.
“Oh, don’t be so upset, sister dear. I only meant to ask how things are going.”
Sherlock grimaces and instantly regrets picking up the phone.
“What do you mean?”
“Just checking up on you, Sherlock.”
God.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and wishes that Mycroft could see him doing so. “I don’t need you to check up on me, Mycroft.”
“I heard about your case last week.”
Sherlock moves in the manner of a ruffled bird and scowls into the phone. "That’s none of your business. How did you hear about it, anyway?”
“Oh, I have my ways. Word gets around quickly.”
“Well, it’s none of your business.” He considers hanging up, but thinks of something else to say. “I don’t want you meddling in my affairs.”
“I’m not meddling, Sherlock. Merely interested. Who was that young man, by the way?”
Sherlock goes silent for just too long.
“Sherlock?”
“His name was John,” Sherlock says. When he does, his voice sounds different. It sounds lower, quieter.
“John what?”
“I don’t know.”
“A fellow student?”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock blinks too fast until his eyes shut altogether. “He didn’t say. He seemed at university age. I don’t know if he goes here, though. He didn’t say.”
“Hm.”
Sherlock wants to punch his brother’s teeth out.
“I’ve got to study,” he says sharply. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow. Say hello to the Prime Minister for me when you’re out to tea with him.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sister, I always do.” He hears Mycroft’s smug grin in the second before he hangs up.
Sherlock tosses his phone onto the foot of his bed and falls backwards onto the mattress. His roommate is out at one of those obscure history lectures that she loves so much, which gives him the peace and quiet he so often covets. Today, though, the quiet is driving him insane. Today he’s stuck in an awful limbo between wanting to sort out his thoughts in silence and needing to drown them out with overstimulation. What he really needs is to not think at all, and that’s impossible.
Sherlock curls towards the wall as if he’s protecting something, which – in a way – he is. He’s curling up around the memory that’s taken a permanent residence in his brain. Last week, last week. Last week, he met a person, and there’s nothing interesting about that by itself, given that lots of people meet lots of people everyday. But.
Whatever it is, whatever it was that happened in his mind on that day, the memory is his. No one else is allowed to know or hold it like him. Even if he never figures out why this one encounter shines so brightly like no memory ever has, he can still cradle it like this – like he’s doing now – and feel its warmth seep into him, knowing that it belongs to him alone.
Sherlock knows he’ll see John again. Not because he wants to (this is what he tells himself) but because he needs answers. He needs solutions to this puzzle. In a standard calculator, the screen is split into two halves. The top half is where you input the problem, and the bottom half is where the calculator displays the answer; it’s like a dialogue. Question? Answer. Question? Answer. Order, cause and effect. Meeting John last week left him stranded squarely in the first row of digits (an expression waiting to become an equation). The next time they meet, Sherlock knows, they’ll be meeting on the other side of the calculation. They’ll be meeting in the second line.
•
When John arrives, he steps out to take Sherlock’s hand, and there’s a pause. It only lasts for a fraction of a second.
But it’s there.
Then it’s gone. John shakes Sherlock’s hand, and they both grin, but John is blinking too fast and Sherlock’s skin is cold.
“Mr. Holmes,” John says, nodding. He grins with a hint of grimacing, wondering if the humor of this faux-formality will come across.
“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock says, fast, too fast. He hesitates afterwards. Is John trying for some old familiarity through humor; a familiarity that may or may not still be there; or have they really become so distant that John is regressed to using professional titles?
Is that who he is now? Mr. Holmes?
Either way, he hopes desperately that he’s said the right thing.
John is hoping for the same.
“Shall we?” Sherlock says, and they walk inside.
Everything is wrong.
•
“This is… nice.” John means it. He hasn’t been in a flat this upscale since coming back to London, and he certainly hadn’t thought that he’d be facing the prospect of renting one anytime soon. “This could be very nice indeed.”
“Yes, er.” Like a slap, Sherlock notices every object out of place in the entire room. It’s a bit of a mess. A bit of a mess? The place looks like a fucking rubbish dump, you stupid man. Why didn’t you prepare better? “Of course, I can, er…” (He steps nimbly around the furniture, grabbing the first thing he sees and putting it… somewhere else.) “I can tidy things up, a bit, yes.”
John looks at him, and Sherlock sees him looking, and both of them look away.
“It’s fine,” John nearly coughs.
Mrs. Hudson comes in from the kitchen. “What do you think then, Dr. Watson? You like it well enough?”
“Yeah, well.” John scratches his neck, thinking. “It’s quite nice. Much more space than the flat I’ve got now.”
“Do you still enjoy the violin?” Sherlock asks.
John looks at him. “You still play?”
Sherlock bites his lip. “Of course.”
“Oh,” John says. He can’t think of anything else to say.
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, shouldn’t they?”
The statement is so absurd that John nearly laughs. The worst? Of all the crazy things Sherlock does, he considers his violin playing to be the worst? But John sees the look on Sherlock’s face, and he remembers. Seven years. Five months. Twenty two days.
None of the things he had known so deeply about this man are necessarily true anymore.
So he says, “I don’t mind.”
Sherlock replies, “Good.”
And they stand there with dust dancing between them, in and out of light, in and out of being, in and out. In and out and gone again.
•
John tripped over her.
He went flying towards the floor.
(Sherlock jolted as someone tripped over him and went flying towards the floor.)
Sherlock said nothing, but watched in shock as the man hit the carpet. There was a thud, and then there were more sounds – ugh, hmm, shuffle, shit. Sherlock watched.
John hands and knees stung, but he didn’t let that stop him from thinking, who the fuck? The tiniest thread of anger wove itself through his breath as he turned. Who the fuck just sits on the library floor like that, right in front of the shelves? Who the–
(It’s been two weeks now.)
Sherlock watched John rise. He knew who it was. It had been two weeks since.
Who the fuck?
John turned, and found himself faced with the second line.
•
When John arrived at 221B, he stepped out to take Sherlock’s hand, and there was a pause. It lasted a second and it lasted too long. Two hands hovered in empty air together.
When they closed upon each other, two hands became one foot, crashing down at the top of the stairs; expecting one step more but finding only air; expecting only an inch of space between them but finding seven years, five months, and twenty two days.