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The first time this particular morning greeted Baker Street, Sherlock had been awake hours before sunrise. And it had nothing to do with the experiment that had triumphantly conquered the kitchen.
He had often thought about John’s experience in Afghanistan and before. The man was, after all, a doctor and a soldier. So, his stint in the Middle East could not have been his only foray into what was supposed to have been a lifelong career in the military. Sherlock also wondered if John had gone on assignments that he couldn’t tell Sherlock, and only people like Mycroft were privy to.
That idea incessantly grated on Sherlock’s nerves.
Then, Sherlock heard John thumping around in his bedroom and positioned himself in the kitchen for maximum exposure. John took his shower and got dressed, which was definitely a deviation, as he usually liked to get his morning tea before starting the day.
“How is the experiment progressing?” John asked, his tone mild.
“Tediously slow,” Sherlock answered as he swiftly took in John’s form.
Dressed for a day out, definitely not appropriate enough for Church or any formal meetings with other veterans. He even has a small umbrella tucked into the right jacket pocket.
Conclusion: he neither wishes to be approached nor recognized as a former soldier.
Curious.
“I’ve got things to do, so please don’t call me unless it’s an emergency,” here john gave a sharp glance. “And I mean emergency.”
“Noted,” Sherlock said, wrapping his dressing gown around his figure as if arming himself for a long day of scientific endeavour.
“Good-o,” with that John left the flat.
It took Sherlock less than a minute to toss on a suitable disguise and follow his friend. He always kept out of sight, six people behind and to the left since John was right dominant. He also made sure John couldn’t catch his reflection whenever they passed by a large storefront.
To Sherlock’s delight, John surprised him by going to a small, abandoned park. He watched as John thoroughly studied the park and the surrounding streets. Whatever he saw seemed enough for him to relax and sit down on a bench.
Then, with a huff of breath, John pulled out a piece of paper. It neatly fit into his palm, but in spite of its diminutive size, Sherlock could see it held incredible value for his friend.
And for the next two hours, John sat on that bench alone and seemingly forgotten by all of London save for Sherlock Holmes.
Then, without warning, John stood up and began marching back home. Sherlock barely managed to change back to his morning clothes and position himself in the kitchen before John opened the door to their flat.
“You look peaked,” Sherlock said as he took in John’s bright eyes and wind-tussled hair.
“I took a walk,” John replied. “It was nice enough day with no rain and all. Heaven knows we won’t be getting many of those for the rest of the year.”
Here, Sherlock gave a grunt of agreement. “Would you like Indian or Thai for lunch?”
John looked shocked by his mentioning of food. “Umm … Indian?”
“I’ll order the usual from Gateway, if that’s acceptable.”
“More than, ta.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and poured his focus into John’s movements as he went upstairs to his bedroom.
Shoes slipped under the bed. Socks in the hamper. Watch on the desk, with the phone plugged to the charger. Rustling. The list. Three steps to the wardrobe. Left side where there are empty hangers. Ahhh … the black leather case hidden behind his dress shoes.
I should have searched it before!
Now that Sherlock knew where John had kept the all-important paper, he could relax and return his attention to the experiment.
It wasn’t until the end of December that Sherlock had gotten a chance to find that damned list. Between Moriarty’s homicidal lunacy and the slew of cases from Lestrade, Sherlock and John had barely time to eat much less lounge around until Christmas when, suddenly, everything came to a halt.
Still, not wanting to upset his friend, Sherlock waited until John was visiting Harry before making his way to John’s bedroom. As usual, it was neat to the point of severity, with the duvet tucked in tightly enough to enable a coin to bounce on it.
When Sherlock found the list, he was disappointed. It was filled with names on front and back. It was also written over a lengthy period of time, as evidenced by different writing implements and the slow change of handwriting.
Sherlock felt the paper and realized it had to have been fingered quite often, as it was exquisitely soft.
It wasn’t until Sherlock placed the paper back in the box that he realized the names must belong to fallen comrades. He froze in place, mentally recounting the names.
Thirty-nine men and women. In fact, the first had been female: Maggie Cunningham.
Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with guilt. Sherlock had touched something he had no right to even see, much less peruse over. And when John returned, Sherlock kept a sharp eye out, silently hoping that his friend wouldn’t discover Sherlock’s serious transgression.
To his relief, John never did.
Four Years Later
The day came again to Baker Street but Sherlock had long forgotten its significance. He was still coming to terms with the reality that he was once again Sherlock Holmes, a free man, vindicated of all accusations and once more London’s favorite son.
And that, against all odds, John was upstairs, in his old bedroom. It wasn’t until John came to the kitchen, fully dressed, that Sherlock realized what day it was. John wordlessly handed a second mug to Sherlock.
“When do you want to go?” he asked casually.
All Sherlock could do was blink.
“Out, with me,” John continued as Sherlock was actually participating in the conversation.
“I don’t understand…” Sherlock said clumsily.
“I know you found my list,” John said with a touch of sadness. “And what I do today.”
Sherlock felt his vision grey for a moment as shock rolled over him.
John, my friend, my faithful soldier. How is it possible you could still take me unawares like this.
He swallowed a mouthful of the tea before answering, “Let me get dressed first.”
The two men threaded their way through London, as they no longer had to worry about snipers driven by revenge or madman submerged in his obsessions.
John led Sherlock to yet another small park, tucked between two streets of little note. They found a bench and sat side by side in companionable silence.
John pulled out his list first. He thumbed the first name. “Maggie died in a training accident.”
Sherlock closed his eyes.
“We came through Barts together. She had guts of a Viking warrior and the deftest set of hands I’ve ever seen. We were coming back from … God, I’ve forgotten what it was about, but there were three trucks filled with medics. The sun was setting, but that wasn’t why the driver lost control of the wheel.
“Anyway, her truck tore through a copse of woods before hitting an embankment. She was in the back … got thrown out at impact. I was in the cab so I had the seatbelt on. I got to her in seconds but it was already too late. Her neck was broken.
“She was an only child. The news of her death just about killed her dad, and I think basically did kill her mother.”
“I wasn’t a soldier, and though it felt like a war to me…” Sherlock began weakly.
“Fuck that,” John said. “You were a soldier. Just because you didn’t have a uniform and you didn’t go through training doesn’t mean you didn’t go to war. Don’t let anybody tell you that, Sherlock.
“Today … today is your day too, not just mine.”
Sherlock looked at John and saw nothing but honesty and camaraderie he'd longed for the three years he'd been away. So, after taking two deep breaths, Sherlock pulled out his list, hastily scribbled on a napkin. On the left upper corner there was still a bloody thumbprint of his: the only evidence left of a vicious knife fight in Vancouver.
“His name was Thomas Mason. Mycroft sent him…”
The End