Archive of Our Own

It’s been two weeks since Dr. John Watson moved into 221b Baker Street. For two weeks, he has enjoyed a marked lessening of the nightmares that the therapist has been completely unable to cure. The cane has been stowed in the back of the closet where it belongs—his limp has vanished. He has been engaged, interested, and motivated to write about his life, and the blog is something he is tentatively proud of already. With his arrival at Baker Street, things have started happening to John. Interesting things. And he has Sherlock Holmes to thank for this incredibly positive change in his life.

But it hasn’t all been roses. On the contrary, in fact. His new flatmate has proven to be as unbalanced as he is extraordinary, and John has a feeling that his behaviour in the past fortnight—as bizarre as it has seemed—is actually an example of the man trying to be ‘normal’. 

He is not particularly good at it.

There is no ‘neutral space’. There is Sherlock’s space, and there are places that John scrapes out temporarily to claim for himself. He has his chair, and his bedroom, and the rest is a muddle of collected detritus that is never the same from one day to the next. Sherlock does not cook and rarely eats. He does not clean, and he has little respect for basic property rights. Everything John has appears to be fair game.

With the exception of the mess, it isn’t unlike the army. With this in mind, and considering the benefits thus far, he tries to adapt.

But today, things have gone a bit too far. Today, the milk John bought this morning is already gone—half of it appears to be sitting in a pan, already curdled, with an odd plant sticking out of it. The milk he bought to replace what his flatmate used yesterday to soak a pair of socks in. The milk he specifically (and politely) asked Sherlock not to use, while mentioning he’d be glad to get two cartons if the other man wanted one. He had been soundly ignored.

John shuts the fridge smartly and turns on his heel.

“Sher—Sherlock! Is this my milk?” He pokes his head in the living room. “I told you not to touch my milk!”

 

The passing of time has always been a challenge for Sherlock Holmes. Too quickly, too slowly, the clock running down unnoticed or ticking interminably, forcing him to experience every painful, boring second. Time. It seems like there's either too much of it or not enough. After wrapping up the cab driver case he had expected the typical between-case doldrums to set in, but it's been two weeks now and somehow, even without resorting to nicotine or... other methods, he's still not bored.

Two weeks. 

It doesn't take a genius to make the connection between his new flatmate and his own relative lack of boredom. What he doesn't understand (yet) is why. Something about this Dr. John Watson makes things so... interesting, on top of his evident virtues as a flatmate. So far John's proven to be polite, helpful, and (most importantly) doesn't have enough personal effects to get in the way. Still, Sherlock's been making an effort to be the best flatmate he can be - even moved a few of his boxes out of the way, and made sure the hallway to John's room was... er, somewhat clear. Perhaps it would be easier to be accommodating if Sherlock had anything approximating a normal schedule. Sleeping and eating are annoyances at best, staved off through liberal application of caffeine and nicotine. 

But John doesn't feel the same way, and his habit of fulfilling basic human necessities can be quite irritating at times. Especially when it conflicts with violin-fueled thinking or some of his louder experiments. He also talks. A lot. That's taking a bit of getting used to, listening to him speak and paying attention and even answering when necessary. Well, sometimes answering, at least. And then there's the ongoing ritual of daily greetings and other niceties, the 'Good mornings' and 'How are yous' and other such things. So tiresome. 

“Sher—Sherlock! Is this my milk?” He pokes his head in the living room. “I told you not to touch my milk!”

The only answer John receives at first is a loud crash, the cause of which is explained when he looks into the living room. One chair (John's) overturned, and the other tilting back with Sherlock precariously balanced atop it, reaching up to extract something -- is that a rapier? -- from the ceiling. Long-fingered hands snatch the hilt just before the chair tips over and takes him with it, and he bounces off to land smartly on the floor.

His grin is wide as he dusts himself off and looks up at his flatmate. "No milk, John, but I'll take it black, two sugars."

 

Coming from a normal flatmate, this behaviour would be strange—perhaps even upsetting. John, however, has learned much during his short residence at Baker Street, and what he has learned has already forced a complete restructuring of his ‘Sense of Weird’. Pulling a rapier from the ceiling causes a blip on his radar, but it is no longer enough of an oddity to distract him from the Milk Issue. Well, not entirely, anyway. He glances once at his chair (which he rather liked upright, thank you very much), then follows the arc of Sherlock’s movement as he deigns to return both feet to the floor.

John stares at the other man, cocking his head slightly as though he hadn’t heard correctly. Then, a squint. “I wasn’t asking if you--…milk. My milk. Is gone, Sherlock, you used it all. I asked you this morning if you wanted me to get you some. I specifically asked you not to use mine. Did you even hear me when I said that?” He pauses again, then blinks. “Are you, in fact, listening to me now?”

Tiny particles of plaster are floating in the air now, thanks to the tiny new hole in the ceiling. John feels curiosity nibble at him and sighs, rubbing his face briefly with one hand. He’s going to have to learn not to ask eventually, but that day is not today.

The question is almost reluctant. “…Why was there a sword in the ceiling?”

 

He's not. Listening, that is. At least, not to John - he appears to be listening to the rapier he's now holding alongside his face. There's obviously something about the weapon that has completely captured his attention, as he stands there with his head tilted to the side and his gaze far into the distance. "... resonant frequency, yes..." he mutters, his voice trailing away, and he turns, pivoting on one heel to flourish the rapier at the far wall.

Motionless and utterly silent, Sherlock stares down the length of the blade. John may as well have been speaking to a statue for all the response he gets at first. The silence stretches on until it is broken by John's sigh, breaking Sherlock out of his fixation.

"Oh," he exclaims, whirling back around and planting the sword before him, hands folded neatly atop the pommel, "Sorry, milk? Yes, very good. Thank you for getting that. Quite helpful." Sherlock nods distractedly towards the kitchen, where the milk in question is still steeping with that plant, but his attention is still clearly upon the current problem. 

"Ceiling? Because the wall wouldn't work," he states matter-of-factly, as if the reason should be obvious. Without warning he lunges across the room towards John, brandishing the rapier. He strikes swiftly, stabbing the wall just beside his flatmate, and leaves the weapon embedded within the old plaster. And then Sherlock crouches, head tilted next to the blade as it wobbles up and down from the combined forces of impact and gravity.

"See? Useless." He shrugs, rises to his full height, and brushes the plaster dust off his shirt.

 

John clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, mentally surrendering the milk issue. Well, perhaps not a true surrender—more of a tactical retreat, really. Of the many new things he has learned about his spectacularly socially-inept flatmate, one rings true now: there is no use talking to him about Problem A when he’s concentrating on Problem B, particularly when Problem A is someone else’s problem. Oh, he could persist, certainly, but the outcome (he’s almost sure) would be beneficial for neither of them. The good doctor will wait for a calmer moment in the storm before bringing it up again.

--And then Sherlock lunges at him with a drawn weapon. Instinct is instinct, especially in a combatant so recently returned from Afghanistan. John jerks abruptly to one side, bringing an arm up to strike… at nothing, of course, because Sherlock was never aiming for him anyway. “Jesus!” The sandy-haired man huffs sharply and tugs at his jumper, straightening it in irritation as though the wool (a terrible collection of colours) was somehow the cause of all this nonsense in the first place. “That’s—that’s one of those things you don’t do. Did you know?” He watches the rapier wobble. “Have a go at your flatmate with a sword, I mean.”

But John’s curiosity is piqued now, and that is one of the things he has enjoyed most about living at Baker Street. There is always something new to learn, even if those things often seem completely inapplicable to the real world. And despite himself, he finds his brain dogging along after Sherlock’s behavioural explosion. He’ll never catch up—he’s already resigned himself to that—but he can at least keep track of him. “What, exactly, is useless about it?” He pauses. “Mrs. Hudson is going to object to the holes, Sherlock.”

 

"I wonder..." he frowns, glancing between the rapier and the floor, and then seems to think better of it. For now. No answers to John's questions are immediately forthcoming, and the admonition passes unnoticed - some nonsense about swords and flatmates. Boring. No, Sherlock's busy in his mind palace for the moment, or at least as close to it as he can get with another person nearby.

The lean man bounces lightly on his heels, tapping his fingers together in sequence while the wheels roll in his head, mental calculations performed with frightening ease and rapidity, and then he nods. "Yes, useless. Look at it. Listen to it. It's uneven. Gravity pulls the arc off-centre." He looks around, as if searching for something, and reaches out to set the sword wobbling anew. "If there was blood on the blade it would spatter. So, and so." One pale finger points above and below the point of impact, indicating that the blood would travel further on the lower side. "But if in the ceiling, or on the floor," he looks around again, perhaps there's something in the kitchen he can use to demonstrate, hm.

But then Mrs. Hudson is mentioned, and some semblence of common sense takes hold of him. Sherlock knows what the spray would look like, he doesn't need to see it. Again. "Bah, holes. She'll never notice."

She may notice the sword, of course, since it's still slightly embedded in the wall. That particular detail isn't important any longer, the rapier has served its purpose. Sherlock turns away and wanders back to perch upon his chair (walking right past John's, which is still upended). That experiment has been concluded, with minimal damage to the apartment. So...

"What now."

 

"I think she will," John disagrees, eyeing the rapier. With another sigh that is more long-suffering than two weeks has the right to make it, the shorter man paces over to twist the blade out of the wall, and hefts it in hand. Where did this even come from? Who did it belong to? There is no point in asking.

He sights down the length, blows plaster powder off the blade, and then leans it gingerly against the wall. That's as good a place for it as any, especially in the tangled mess that is their flat. That done, he moves to right his abused chair. "...She always notices," John grunts. For a moment, he sees his immediate future in clear detail: himself, forever cleaning up the mess left behind after the havoc caused by Sherlock Holmes. He scowls.

John settles into the righted chair and reaches for a magazine on the side table. It's more to use as an object with which to fend off eye-contact than anything else, because even as his brain is telling him not to engage, his mouth decides otherwise.

"What now? Well, actually, I do have a few suggestions. One: you start picking up after yourself. Two: you stop stabbing things into other things, especially near me." He lowers the magazine and stares across at Sherlock. "Three: you stop giving my milk to mystery plants in the kitchen! In fact, you stop touching my milk entirely. Those things are a good place to start, don't you think?" So much for a tactical retreat. Non-chalantly, he 'reads' the magazine. "And respect for the sleep-wake schedule of other human beings who sleep directly above this room might also be worth considering." He loves the violin. Really.

Just not at 3:30am.

 

Sherlock observes his flatmate as he removes the weapon and settles down. A sigh. A scowl. Fidgeting, using props to avoid eye contact. Something is actually bothering him, but what could it possibly be-- and then John begins to speak. The detective listens in silence, brows arching higher as John's list grows longer.

"Oh," he nods, steepling his fingers before his face.

"Well, this is awkward," Sherlock confesses, gazing squarely at John while he 'reads', "that's not what I meant at all." And then he's in motion again, hands flung out to either side to prop his lean frame as he half-bounces in his chair, drawing his feet up beneath him. He's crouching upon the chair now, restless energy practically vibrating beneath the surface of his pale skin.

He waves one hand, a dismissive gesture, "None of that boring nonsense. That's not important. I meant what now. A case, an experiment. A new game. What now?!"

 

John stares. It is honestly like talking to a retarded person. Or perhaps a wall. His face screws up in momentary disbelief-- he's been using the expression a lot lately. "Sherlock, I-- yes, I do realize that isn't what you meant. I--" The magazine slaps down on his lap at the point at which he realizes how much air he's waisted on this man in the past few days. He rubs one hand over his eyes and mutters. "Oh, bollocks. Nevermind." 

John lifts his head to watch the other man wearily. The seething energy Sherlock exudes is almost palpable. It's like watching a caged lion at the zoo. He's never seen anything like it, and he's fairly certain there are medications Sherlock should probably be taking to fix it. Watching him, John feels (not for the first time) a sudden urge to refocus and calm that energy in any way he can. He doesn't know why, exactly, but the feeling is there. Luckily for both of them, this urge is more pointed than continuing to harp about housekeeping. The urge is, in fact, similar to what John imagines most people feel when they hear a baby crying: one part desire to coddle and soothe, one part desire to smother mercilessly.

"Alright, alright-- just... wait, what about that envelope that was dropped off this morning. I thought that was a case? And didn't someone ring just as I was leaving?" Leaving to go to the store and get milk you absolute clot.

 

Good, that matter is settled then. Once John abandons the nonsense about the flat (honestly, what does it matter if there's a little mess? It'll just get messy again tomorrow if he tidies today) the entire affair is shoved entirely out of Sherlock's mind, to make room for far more important things. Namely, killing the boredom that is threatening to set in now that he's done with his latest experiment.

His mind is already racing and he's turned his head to scan the room, considering other prospects and half-finished research, when John's words bring him back to the present. Oh, right. He remains still, fingers templed and head turned, but slides his gaze over to regard the doctor. Pale eyes widen, and he grins. "Oh yes, the envelope. The call as well, for that matter. Same case."

Sherlock hops down from the chair and strides into the kitchen, to poke at the plant-and-milk concoction.

"How do you feel about cows, John?"

 

"Cows." John twists his head, squinting again, to follow Sherlock's passage into the kitchen. "Cows?" Yes, John, cows. His brain helpfully supplies some facts: big, dumb animals, four stomachs, chew cud, taste excellent, from which come milk. 

Sometimes he thinks he hates this man.

Yet he's up on his feet a moment later, following along as though he has no choice in the matter. Leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, John tilts his head. "Alright, I suppose. Bit smelly." Why anyone would want to put a plant (or socks) in milk (his milk!) is beyond him, but he's certain he'll get an explanation eventually. Whether or not it will make any sense is the question. "Met one once at my grandad's farm when I was a tot. What's this all about, then?"

John's gaze flicks between the... milk plant... and the madman. "Have you eaten?" Thank you, Dr. Watson.

 

"Cows," he echoes, nodding absently while he continues to poke at the plant, and then opens the oven to glance at... actually, John doesn't want to know what it is (it appears to be a casserole of some sort, or at least it's in a casserole dish), and the smell is enough to convince Sherlock to close the oven rather more quickly than he opened it. "About? Oh, nothing yet. At least another day." Right, that's why he started in on the rapier instead of jumping into this case in the first place. Bothersome.

Well, no use fretting over that at the moment. Fortunately, John has provided another distraction. "Eaten?" Sherlock lifts his left arm and pulls back his sleeve - not to check his watch, as anyone other than himself would, but to check his nicotine patch. "I suppose I haven't." Since yesterday. "Have you?" Does he need to eat? Probably. Would he have eaten without outside prompting? Probably not. 

"Best to go out if you'd like something," Sherlock states the obvious, given the condition of the kitchen.

 

Discretion is the better part of valour, and John's very short glimpse of the monstrosity inhabiting the oven convinces him to be as discrete as it is humanly possible to be. He saw nothing. And if that isn't out of the oven by the next time he needs to use it, John and Sherlock will have what Mrs. Hudson insists on calling 'a little domestic'.

As the explanation about the cows is apparently not forthcoming, John makes a silent decision while Sherlock checks his nicotine levels. It is food time-- time to ingest food. For both of them. If Sherlock is bored, the rest of the day is going to be uncomfortable for both of them. Better to be out and find something he's interested in than to stay in the flat. The challenge is, the other man seems so uninterested in food that it isn't likely the food part of the meal will actually be engaging. Unless...

"Right," John says smartly, straightening with military precision. "Yes, grand. Good idea. We're going out. Get your coat. I know just the place." His crow's feet crinkle when he smiles. "You'll never guess."

That's as close to throwing down a gauntlet that John has gotten thus far, and he's hoping the 'mystery' will be enough to keep Sherlock occupied for at least -some- length of time. 

 

By the time John has arrived at the conclusion that they must attend to basic bodily functions, Sherlock has decided to resume his experiments with the rapier. Maybe if it's in the wall, but uneven force is applied from outside... but what force? And how deep in the wa-- "You'll never guess."

"Hm?"

He spins about sharply on one heel, and now his attention is fixed upon John with the same intensity he'd afforded the sword earlier. Pale eyes narrow, flicking downwards and up again to quickly take in the doctor's details. Nothing yet. A smile creeps onto his face - challenge accepted.

"Right then." Sherlock strides to the entranceway, grabbing his coat and flinging it (dramatically, but he'll deny that if called on it) over his shoulders. "Lead the way."

 

Bingo, gotcha. It's been slow and full of false fits and starts, but so far John has enjoyed the game of learning how to manage this new variable in his life. And if 'enjoy' is sometimes too strong a word for it, it has kept him feeling alive and relevant. And it's getting easier. The best way to manage Sherlock (depending of course on mood and work) seems to be the combination of assuming one part touchy wife, two parts 5-year-old child, half a cup of Asperger's, and a good heavy sprinkling of Mad Scientist with a Death Wish. The fact that he's engaged Sherlock's attention today may not mean much in the long run, but right now it's the little things in life that count.

He wastes no time. With only the slight hint of a limp that still manifests weakly now and then, John heads down the stairs and opens the front door, looking to hail the first passing cab. It is, after all, London-- there's usually something around. They could take the tube most of the way to where he's planning on dragging Sherlock, but he doesn't want to give the great detective any hints.

The closest he gets is when he flags down the cabby, right as he gets in: "St. James' Church Garden," he says, then settles in with a smile. He avoids eye contact, but seems insufferably pleased with himself.

 

It would be all too easy for John to assume that his presence at 221B Baker Street has made little to no impact on Sherlock's life. After all, it's fairly clear that (even if he has been trying to behave) the detective has no intentions of making major changes to his somewhat eccentric behaviour just to suit a flatmate. The transition certainly hasn't been difficult for Sherlock. Oh, he's noticed a difference. But it's surprisingly easy to fit into his routine, and aside from those few times that John speaks up about trivial nonsense, it's been entirely pleasant and surprisingly interesting.

Games like this are a perfect example. He'll never guess, will he? Well. "I never guess," he reminds the doctor primly, following in his wake with surprising obedience for a man who is typically rushing ahead to blaze the trail.

After they are both settled in the cab he turns to face John, staring squarely at him and looking, really looking, for any hints or clues. Now it's his turn to play.

 

The doctor huffs a short laugh in response, getting comfortable in his seat without engaging in conversation. John, now that he's committed himself to the game, has no intention whatsoever of letting anything slip. He's looking out the window with that same benign smile almost-- yes, indeed-- as though he's completely ignoring Sherlock. He's decided the best way to give the other man a run for his money is to give him as little ammunition as possible.

Of course, there are two problems with this. The first being that John, Silent is almost as verbose as John, Speaking-- at least when it comes to evidence rooted out by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his powers of deduction. There's a piece of paper sticking up out of his jacket pocket with the beginning of a word visible, "reser--". There's a scuff on the left knee of his pants, and that slight limp he showed earlier coming down the stairs had an odd balance to it that suggests whatever caused the scuff also caused a bruise. John's expression practically screams overt cleverness (which is not something he wears well), and that probably means this isn't as casual a trip as it seems. 

The second problem: He's just too pleased with himself. John manages perhaps two complete minutes of silence before turning back to the other man with a pleased squint.

"You know what? You are going to love this place," he says rather confidently, considering their fortnight of association. "Love it. Right up your alley."

 

It's cute, really. John's trying so hard to be clever, and Sherlock can't help but be amused by it. To his credit, the doctor is more capable than the average person - he wouldn't have kept the detective's interest otherwise - but he's still just an ordinary man with an ordinary brain.

A reservation. This isn't a casual outing. A reservation implies plans which implies either a connection between two parties, or a favour being granted and shared. Given their recent conversation about... personal matters, that should preclude the former conclusion. Deduction: John's acquired a reservation as a result of some form of favour, and is sharing it with Sherlock because...

Because. Hm. The most logical explanation is that there's nobody else for John to take, which would also explain why he was so disappointed by the 'milk incident' earlier today. Which means, in turn, that the reservation was obtained very recently, possibly linking it to the scuff on John's knee and his resurgent limp.

Two seemingly unrelated facts, along with another detail: apparently he will love it. Which means that John considers it to be out of the ordinary, since he knows that Sherlock doesn't exactly have a typical relationship with food.

Out of the ordinary, and somewhere that John could have scuffed his knee and been given a discounted reservation as a result. That, combined with the general direction they're headed in, leaves only one thing to be determined, and a minor dilemma. Why was John there in the first place, and how soon should he spoil the doctor's surprise?

"Right up my alley?" he echoes, as if he thinks that phrase must have some meaning in particular that he can deduce. Sherlock will play a while longer.

 

John is, of course, oblivious. The problem, at least as far as these little games go, is that John is honest to a fault. While he is capable of a poker face when necessary, outright deception does not come naturally to him and he isn't very good at it. His entire physiology is wired to tell the truth, even when honesty is not the best (or safest) policy. Perhaps it's a military thing, but chances are it's something intrinsic in John. John's quick smile, were Sherlock still actually playing the game and not just toying with the good doctor, would immediately discount the 'alley' comment as a clue. The emotions and thoughts that flick over his face are almost transparent, and certainly easy for someone with Sherlock's unique skills to read. It's like a running commentary.

Look at me, out and about with this weird bloke-- better than staying in the flat, what the hell was that thing in the oven?-- forgot to take the laundry out-- has he guessed yet?  He hasn't guessed yet!-- getting off at the park was a bit much, you idiot, you're going to have to walk it with what you've done to your knee. What's that fellow doing th-- oh, talking on one of those hands-free bits. I hope this place has decent food. I hope I don't trip. I hope -he- doesn't trip, Christ, he'd take the whole place out with how tall he is. 

Poor Sherlock. John never stops talking, even when he says nothing at all.

"Well? Any ideas?" The doctor ruffles his hair briefly, looking back to Sherlock with a crooked smile. "Hard to gue-- sorry, deduct-- isn't it, when I haven't said anything." ...He's still learning Sherlock's methods. Be gentle.

 

Sherlock's relationship with the concept of honesty is quite different from John's. Oh, he's honest, and brutally so, when it suits him. But as the doctor has already seen, Sherlock is fully capable of lying, acting, and doing whatever he deems necessary to obtain the result he desires. Honesty is simply one tool among many in his arsenal.

Refreshing. That's what John's inherent honesty is, to Sherlock.

"Quite the contrary," he intones quietly, leaning back and pressing his hands together. "You've hardly stopped talking since we left the flat."

The detective is trying to be gentle, he truly is, but it's difficult to repress his natural urge to show off - especially to as appreciative an audience as John has proven to be in the past. Someone with basic human emotions might understand that John may not be so appreciative of having his clever surprise picked apart, of course, but this detail is lost on Sherlock.

"The reservation in your pocket. Not there this morning, so you obtained it while out at the grocery. Your finances are tight and you're not likely to spend money to take me on a date, given our recent conversation, so it was at least in part a gift. Likely recompense for the injury you sustained while touring the premises," he nods to the scuffed knee, "Although I'm not sure why you needed to go inside to 'have a look' at all." Not much to look at, is there.

Sherlock continues, he's almost done so he may as well finish. "You're very pleased with yourself and you're certain I'll enjoy it, which means that this restaurant must be something out of the ordinary. Dans le Noir." He doesn't bother asking if he's right, arrogant sod. "Although I would suggest that you ask the cabbie to take us a bit further in, you've only just gotten over your limp so it would be a shame to develop a new one."

"What I don't know yet is why you came this distance for milk, and why you went in the restaurant in the first place. Unless... Ah." Sherlock nods, answering his own questions with a logical inference, "Unless there happened to be someone you fancied working at the grocery down the street, and you were looking for an interesting restaurant to ask her to after work."

 

That inherent honesty has a secondary function: it is the thing that makes it very difficult for John to pretend he's not impressed at something when he is. And the funny thing about this game they just played is that it's a win-win situation as far as the doctor is concerned, which is part of why he he enjoys it so much. If he'd 'won', he'd certainly feel a justified glow of pride in his accomplishment. But losing is its own reward, just in getting the chance to see Sherlock's mind at work. And if a faint blush colours his cheeks at the mention of his grocery store paramour (that did not go well and he will not speak a word of it save under the influence of alcohol or torture), it's mixed with the half smile and the gentle-natured shrug of a born 'good loser'. "Brilliant," he says, and he means it.

John shakes his head with the same sort of pleased bewilderment that the mundane sometimes use in the face of genius. Not that John is entirely mundane, but his brain is certainly not wired the way Sherlock's seems to be. "Ye-- yes, of course, absolutely right. Spot on. Dans le Noir. Dinner at 5." He rubs ruefully at his knee and leans forward to instruct the cabby about the change in address, and by the time he's settled back into the seat the look on his face is more serious. "It's not a date."

Then, with a glance that is at the same time hesitant and hopeful, John tilts his head. "You're, uh, you're still good for it?" It's not that he'd be heartbroken if the act of deducing the identity of the restauraunt was enough to make Sherlock lose interest in the outing, but John is actually looking forward to trying something new, and to doing so with another person. He's been so alone since his return from the desert, and the past two weeks have been a blessing. He enjoys-- most of the time, anyway-- Sherlock's company, and like most people who gain something after a period of having very little, he's sure on some level that he's not going to get to keep it.

All other things being equal, it's just that he'd rather not lose the company at the moment. "I mean, we don't have to, really."

 

There's always the tiniest of moments when Sherlock wonders, despite his faith in his own brilliance, if he might be wrong. It's impossible for the man to describe exactly how he feels in that instant, there's no one word to encompass every detail. And the feeling just after he knows he was right? Self-satisfaction, pleasure, relief, and even a little disappointment. Being right most of the time, while definitely something he enjoys, can get boring.

It's never boring when he's right around John, though. His reactions to even the most basic of Sherlock's deductions are always a pleasure. The detective leans back, his frame still inclined towards the other man, and smiles in satisfaction.

"Of course," Sherlock dips his head in the briefest of nods, "You've made that abundantly clear. More than once." There there, John, it's okay. We won't use the 'D' word if it makes you fidget.

A slight frown creases his brow as the doctor continues to babble. Why on earth would he have agreed to come along in the first place if he didn't want to spend time with the man? Honestly, people can be so dense sometimes. "John." He pauses for effect, straightening his collar and sleeves while waiting to be certain he has John's full and babble-free attention. "Do shut up."

 

"Right," John says immediately, and he takes the rebuke easily enough, although it's a certainty that Sherlock's keen eyes can read the subtle relaxation of very specific facial muscles for what it means: relief. "Well, good-- that's good. Because you need to eat." And that's a doctor's admonishment, not the mother-henning of Mrs. Hudson. For shame, Sherlock Holmes.

The shorter man then seems to sag in his seat and glances out the window of the cab; he appears to be more comfortable than he's been all day. It's a daily routine with him that Sherlock has undoubtedly noticed at some level, though it seems to be getting smoother as time goes on-- he goes through periods of hard-to-define tension and stress followed by periods of calm geniality. A soldier adjusting to civilian life, perhaps... or maybe a soldier learning to fight a new kind of war. Either way, when John is stressed he's clipped and precise. When he's relaxed, he's much softer. And the look on his face now, as he watches the shops spin past the cab, is soft.

"It's good to be home," he says, mostly to himself. And then (uncharacteristically, perhaps) he follows Sherlock's advice, and shuts up. And even to a detective's keen eyes, the doctor-- in mind, body, voice, and face-- is still.

 

"Mm," he smiles, not bothering to argue, "Doctor's orders." Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock is perfectly fine without eating or sleeping on a regular schedule. Caffeine, nicotine, and an interesting case are all he needs to get through the day.

The detective gazes out John's window, keeping a good measure of his attention on the other man. His patterns are interesting, the gradual change in them moreso. Bad dreams still seem to be an issue from time to time, Sherlock can always tell when the doctor's had a particularly restless night. Being busy with a case certainly helps, and it amuses him to realize just how thoroughly his flatmate has been sucked into his unique addiction. The war and John's military service has had such a huge impact on him that it's effectively re-shaped his life. Anything before that... 

Suddenly Sherlock startles slightly, brow furrowed, head tilting sharply -- he's just discovered a new mystery to uncover.  "John," he begins, inadvertantly disturbing the stillness the doctor had been enjoying, "I'd like you to tell me about your life. Before Afghanistan." He pauses, then clarifies. "Some day."

 

John's head turns mechanically at the word 'Afghanistan', his face blank, and it seems to take a moment before he process the actual request. Both brows raise, then lower in a squint, and does not answer right away.

His strange initial encounter with Mycroft Holmes did have one interesting outcome. Following his advice, John fired his therapist. Well, perhaps 'fired' is a strong word. 'Cancelled all subsequent appointments and chose not to return messages' is perhaps a better description of what he has done. After all, he seems to be doing much better. Fewer nightmares, the limp and tremors are almost gone... he's much more centred, certainly more balanced. Happier. Less lonely, more engaged.

"Trust issues," Mycroft had read from the therapist's journal. And certainly that has been true. John-- though he is at heart a nice man-- has not had many close friends in his life. And it wasn't the war that did that. Medical school, boot camp... even boarding school. For someone who constantly received "such a nice boy" comments from his elders, he certainly didn't get on closely with many of his peers. Trust issues were the core of it.

So it is perhaps understandable if Sherlock doesn't grasp the significance of the doctor's short agreement. "...Alright."  That's fine. John doesn't really grasp it either.

 

Mycroft may have read it from the therapist's journal, but Sherlock never needed to rely on someone else's diagnosis. John's trust issues are worn right out on his sleeve, at least from the detective's perspective. And, much like any other boundary he has encountered in his life, they pose a challenge.

He's not entirely sure why he wants John to trust him, to believe in him. It's important. For some reason. But that's not the sort of thing Sherlock is inclined to dwell on, so he doesn't - instead he watches the play of emotions across the doctor's face as he reacts to the (admittedly intrusive) request. It wasn't entirely fair to ask such a thing during one of John's rare moments of peace, in retrospect.

"Good," he smiles, eyes squinting in pleasure. "Right then."

What follows is the sort of silence that normal people might feel compelled to fill with awkward make-do conversation, but Sherlock is quite content to lean back and watch the world as they drive by.

 

The tension lines around John's eyes fade when it becomes obvious that Sherlock actually meant 'some day' when he said 'some day', rather than meaning 'some day would be fine, but now is better'. With a short nod, he turns back to his study of London. Silence reigns. The good doctor does not try to fill the gap...and if his posture is not quite as relaxed as it had been, the interruption doesn't seem to have done much damage.

All cab rides, good or bad, must come to an end. And when their cabby drops them off in front of the restaurant, John leans forward to slip twenty quid to the driver for the fare and the tip. It's as good a time as any to re-engage in conversation. "Apparently all the wait staff are blind," he says to Sherlock as steps up onto the curb and eyes the front of the restaurant. It should perhaps be noted that John is decidedly under-dressed for a meal of this sort... if there's such a thing, when nobody can see you anyway. "Have you--" He pauses while a pedestrian walks between them, then continues, "Have you ever done anything like this before?"

Though he generally seems to find it most comfortable to fall into step one pace behind and to the left of Sherlock (unconsciously slipping into the correct method of accompanying a superior officer), this time John forges ahead, still favouring the injured knee. "It's supposed to make the food taste different." 

John is sceptical.

 

Of course now would be better, everything is better when Sherlock doesn't have to wait for it. But as much as he's curious about John's more distant past, he's also looking forward to having the chance to infer some of it for himself as the man opens up. 'Some day' is simply a guaranteed opportunity to verify his own deductions.

He hops lightly out of the cab, glancing askance at John while he straightens his coat. "Restaurant? No. Sensory deprivation? Yes." And then the doctor is off, and the detective follows - a slight smile twitches upon his face, the change in John's behaviour is not lost on him. 

To be honest, he's quite content to let the doctor take the lead. It's possible that John will notice the slightest bit of apprehension in Sherlock's manner and bearing. Sight is one of his biggest queues, he's always seen more than most people. Willingly placing himself into a situation where that asset is rendered entirely useless does not come without its share of dread, no matter how innocent this outing may be.

"Interesting," Sherlock muses, "How much of taste is what we expect to to be, based on what we see?" But his theorycrafting is interrupted when they enter the lighted atrium of the restaurant and are greeted by the sighted attendant. Intrigued, his gaze flicks about the room, his attention wandering enough that he needs to be called back when they are given instructions. "Surprise me. Please," the detective opts for the more interesting option, of course.

He surrenders his phone reluctantly, then turns to John. One brow arches just so, as if to say 'lead the way.'

 

John has to nudge Sherlock to get his attention. The brief apologetic smile that will see frequent use in years to come (whenever Sherlock is particularly socially unaware) makes an early appearance for the sake of the restaurant's host, and he gives his phone up with significantly less worry than the detective seems to. In fact, if John were only a slightly better actor, he'd seem completely at ease with the entire situation. "Er... yes," he says, agreeing to Sherlock's dinner choice with momentary reluctance. Culinary surprises are not something he's sure he'll enjoy... but in for a penny, in for a pound. "I'll do the surprise menu as well."

John has not noticed Sherlock's apprehension-- and if he had, he would almost certainly chalk up the cause to the same awkward trepidation that he's feeling now. They are introduced to their waitress, a pretty blind girl named Kate, and when she asks him to place his hand on her shoulder, John's smile suddenly becomes more genuine. He throws Sherlock an amused look over his good shoulder.

It immediately fades when Kate chuckles at his touch; "Are you cold? You're shivering!" 

John coughs shortly, mumbles an apology, and switches hands. "Well, come on then," he says briskly to Sherlock, waiting for him to do as they've been instructed. Over Kate's shoulder, he can see the series of thick black curtains that mark the boundary between the sighted world and whatever awaits them inside.

 

Completely ignorant of John's silent apology for his erratic behaviour, Sherlock continues to examine their surroundings with all the curiousity of a child. When their waitress arrives he stops, spinning about to devote his attention to her. It's interesting to note the subconscious changes in John. He pulls himself up, straightening his shirt - as if she can see. Cute.

Sherlock is smiling vaguely when John looks back at him, then he double-takes when spoken to. "Oh, right. Yes, of course." He rests his hand lightly upon the doctor's shoulder, slender fingers fidgeting slightly. Confining his longer stride to avoid stepping on John's heels in this odd conga line is a challenge at first, he's not used to adjusting his pace to suit anyone else.

When they pass through the curtain his grip upon John's shoulder does tense, just for a brief moment, but the detective doesn't seem to be having any difficulty navigating in the darkness. He takes his seat as directed, offering a quiet apology when his feet bump up against John's shin (or so he assumes).

"So," he begins, leaning forward and letting his hands begin to explore the surface of the table. He doesn't even know where John has been seated relative to him, or how large the table is. "Love the decor."

 

John's shoulder is tense under Sherlock's hand; there's barely-healed scar tissue under there, and although it does not hurt-- not even when Sherlock's grip tightens somewhat-- even the light pressure placed on it feels strange enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. Truth be told, however, it is hard for him to distinguish the feeling of strangeness caused by Sherlock's touch from the strangeness of being sandwiched between a sociopathic detective and a lovely blind bird in the middle of a pitch dark restaurant. It all blends together.

After settling where he is directed, Kate vanishes, promising to be back soon to take their drink orders. While Sherlock's immediate reaction is to start exploring, John's is the opposite-- he sits very still and does not move at all. "Mmm," he replies to Sherlock's quip, and he listens-- to the murmur of the other diners, the clank of silverware, the noise of fabric against the table, the clink of glass as Sherlock categorizes their table setting.... only then, when it becomes obvious that his eyes are truly out of commission, does he reach out hesitantly to start feeling the table. "This is odd, hmm?" He says nervously, just to hear himself speak. 

The table is small, and John is directly across from Sherlock. Close enough, at least, that Sherlock can feel the flinch through the table when Kate's bright voice suddenly reappears close by. "Right, and what will you lads have to drink?"

 

It's interesting, how the other senses slowly kick in to make up for the lack of sight. His previous exploration in sensory deprivation has given Sherlock an idea of what to expect, of course. But the fact that he experimented with it does not mean that he liked it. Of all the senses to lose, sight is by far the most crippling. Touch, after that, closely followed by hearing. Then smell, then taste.

The ambient noise in the pitch-black room begins to sort itself in his mind. A fidgeter on the table adjacent, he-- no, she's nervous, constantly tapping her fingertips against the table. Someone further away, they need to use the restroom but have no idea how to flag down a server. John, speaking - nearby, a small table for two. How romantic. And then footsteps approaching. Ah, drinks.

He turns his face towards their waitress, instinct more than anything, and his hands cease in their exploration. For now. "Water, please, and whatever wine you suggest with the meal." He's quite happy to speak for John, unless his flatmate would like something different.

"Odd, yes. Interesting. Not exactly the sort of place I'd take someone for a first date."

 

For John, who has not frequently deprived himself of any of his senses either by accident or on purpose, this is an entirely new experience. He's not sure yet if he likes it, but he's enjoying the experience of the experience. The rest will come in time, he supposes. He, too, instinctually turns towards Kate to answer, and is privately amused that he accompanies his words with a nod that nobody else is capable of seeing. Body language: No longer useful. "Yes, that'd be lovely," he says, for the sake of convenience, and because he's truly not fussed one way or another. 

Kate (presumably) heads off a moment later after assuring them that she'll be back shortly, and John returns his attention to the table and-- somewhere in the dark space in front of him-- Sherlock. "Yes, well, that's why this isn't a date." He's busy feeling the plates up and then exploring the table edges, and so the clarification is almost by rote. In fact, it should be noted that John has never once shown anything more serious than exasperation (sometimes amused, sometimes not) on the occasions that someone has suggested that he and Sherlock are in a relationship. He is comfortable with himself and certainly isn't threatened by sexuality on the whole, although the sheer number of times it has occurred is something he's starting to wonder about. Maybe it's time to change his aftershave...?

Anyway, on to more important things. 

"When, then?" He clears his throat, pauses-- makes all the little John noises he tends to make. There's just no visual input. "You said 'sensory deprivation, yes'. When did you do that?" This is so strange. John's not even sure he's looking at Sherlock. He may be looking over his shoulder, or at his forehead, or his neck. "Why did you do that?"

 

"Naturally," he's grinning, not that John can see it, "but you had hoped it would be." With the girl from the grocery. The frequent suggestions that he and John are an 'item' haven't escaped his notice, but they've never been something he deemed important enough for a response. And they certainly aren't bothersome enough to merit a change in his behaviour.

It's easy to look 'at' John, interesting how the darkness has made all the little John noises far more apparent. Is the doctor even aware of how much noise he makes? He listens to the doctor's exploring hands with interest, mapping out their location on the table.

"When? Little over a year ago." He reaches out again, nudging John's hand aside so he can clear a space on the table for the beverages. And here's Kate, back with two bottles. Sherlock is silent while she demonstrates how to pour their drinks, then pours himself a small measure of wine and a glass of water. Without spilling a drop, of course.

After Kate departs, he continues. "As for why, it was after a difficult case. Client was blind. It posed a problem. Couldn't understand her perspective, you see." The detective pauses, lifting his wine glass to take a tentative sip. Doesn't taste any different in the dark, so far.

"So I spent a week after the case was closed, blind."

 

"Right, well--" John cuts himself off as his brain flicks back unintentionally to the grocery debacle. It wouldn't have been so bad except for the look she gave him-- pity and amusement all mingled together with a quirk of her brow that told him-- him! A decorated soldier injured in the line of duty, a doctor!-- that he hadn't a chance. With the bag girl at the grocer. Not that John considers himself an incredible catch, but he's not a complete washout. Or he didn't used to be. 

With a short, irritable, and audible huff, John leaves it lie. Kate's return and the explanation of the wine and the water effectively redirects his attention to more immediate things. Cautiously, John takes the wine after Sherlock has returned it to the table. His attempt is far more awkward, and involves a good deal of clinking glassware before he is satisfied. 

"Hrm. How did you do it?" John asks, lifting his glass with the intention of taking a cautious sip of his own wine. There's a sharp clack of enamel, and John curses quietly. Ow. He rubs at his mouth, muffling the next words. "Blind yourself, I mean. Blindfold wouldn't be practical, would it?"

The noise from the other tables in the restaurant is distracting. John sets his wine down (it slops slightly, but he doesn't notice), and 'looks' around the room. Nothing. Someone drops something heavy at a nearby table-- it hits the floor with a loud snap that makes John flinch again. The doctor begins to feel mildly uncomfortable, and the feeling translates into fidgeting with his utensils. "Did you go out at all?"

 

"The blindfold lasted for an hour," he admits ruefully, setting his glass down with care. "Then I got bored, took it off. Fancied a read. So I visited a shop and got one with a lock, mailed the key to myself." Sherlock pauses, drumming his fingers against the table. Interesting sound. "Picked the lock within the day."

Force of habit - he jerks his gaze towards the loud noise. The budget line for replacement dishes must be unusually high in this restaurant. It's quite irritating to be unable to see what fell, but he's already determined that if he tries to identify every unexplained sound tonight he'll hardly be able to keep up a conversation with John. So he turns to 'look' at his companion again, and continues.

"I considered looking into custom contact lenses, but I'd just take them out. Flash blindness wouldn't last long enough." Sherlock takes another sip of the wine. He doesn't drink, for the most part, but this isn't half bad.

"In the end, I settled on Daphne."

 

Kate's cheerful voice interrupts the sputter of John's sudden indignation, and he barely grates out a "great, thanks" when she places a basket of warm and fragrant bread on the table. "Daphne?" His voice is perhaps slightly louder than it should be. "As in mezerein?" There's a moment of strained silence, and it isn't hard to extrapolate the expression on John's face. He's worn it once or twice already. "You-- you poisoned yourself on purpose just to see what it was--... Jesus, Sherlock!" 

The very idea is offensive to most of John's sensibilities, both personally and professionally. There's a sharp rustle and a thump as he leans forward to plant his elbows on the table. "That's daft. You could have died!"

 

"Thank you," he nods to the waitress, then reaches for one of the small loaves. Herbed. Rosemary, thyme, a touch of tarragon. He places it on his plate, then walks his hand along the table to find the butter. "Keep your voice down, John, it carries rather well and this is a small table."

"A decoction of the berries. Yes." His knife, freshly-buttered, scrapes against the bread, a rhythmic sound while the detective chooses his next words. "I took all the necessary precautions. Worked quite well, actually. Touch more effective than I'd expected." Sherlock takes a bite of the bread, takes his time chewing, and takes a sip of water before continuing.

"Was meant to last a couple days. I was blind for a week." He frowns at the memory, that's as close to feeling afraid as he can easily recall. "Of course I had to go out. Lestrade would have been lost without my help for an entire week."

 

John, if only for something to do, reaches abruptly for the bread basket, nearly oversets it, and then gnaws off a corner of his loaf with audible irritation. He swallows before speaking in a forcibly hushed tone. "All the nec-- completely daft," he repeats, straightening suddenly. "A week. And you went out. ...you went out to work on a case? Blind? Because you poisoned yourself?" Poor Sherlock. John does love to repeat the facts.

And here's the rub. Although John is (justifiably, in his mind) exasperated at Sherlock's ridiculously cavalier treatment of his own personal safety, the part of him that always says 'yes' when the opportunity pops up to tag along with the detective now rears its ugly head. It's like he has no choice. With the utmost reluctance, John thumps his bread down on the table in surrender and allows his curiosity to take over. "...And, ah-- did you solve it? Blind, that is?"

 

Sherlock shrugs, the subtle shift of his clothing against his skin lost amidst the rest of the noise in the restaurant. "A week," he repeats, moving the remains of his bread to a side plate. "Lestrade was... insistent. And the case was interesting."

He chuckles quietly, leaning forward. "I had him give me Donovan. She made a charming guide dog. Had her read to me, follow me around, describe things. Quite entertaining." Kate arrives then, with the appetizers. Sherlock's not quite ready to pay attention to food yet, not while he has his appreciative audience to show off for, so he thanks her quietly and steeples his hands over his plate.

"I did," he confirms smugly. John can no doubt imagine the things Sherlock would have said to the police after a blind man solved their case for them.

 

"A sniffer dog and a guide dog," John comments with a short laugh, still fidgeting with his utensils. "Lestrade's a regular kennel master, isn't he?" The doctor shakes his head, bemused, and is somewhat grateful that Sherlock can't see from his expression how quickly his interest in the outcome of the case erased his outrage at the intentional blindness. It's helping to cover a feeling of growing discomfort he hasn't yet put a finger on, although he has realized he's started to sweat. Reaching up, John loosens his collar with a short, sharp tug.

Over the appetizer, which is rather good as far as he's concerned (and which John eats with his hands), the doctor listens to Sherlock explain the details of the case. He asks pertinent questions, and makes the appropriate noises of admiration-- all the better because, as always, they're entirely genuine-- while at the same time interrupting now and then to ask Sherlock his opinion on their mystery food. "Really, really top notch," he says. "It'd make a movie, that-- nobody would believe it otherwise. Er, do you think this is chicken...?"

Someone across the room drops something else, and John squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, wondering at why his pulse is suddenly elevated. Low blood sugar? He's eating now, it should pass soon. "It doesn't taste like chicken." 

 

If John was hoping that the 'mystery' aspect of this meal would encourage the detective to eat, he'll be pleased to hear that he's right. Sherlock describes the details of the case between bites of the appetizer, and the faint clink of utensils upon his plate punctuate his tale.

"No," he takes another bite. Puff pastry? And a pate of some sort. Delicate herbs. A little over-salted for his taste, but quite good overall. A quiet grunt of irritation is Sherlock's response to the sudden noise. Honestly, how hard is it to not drop things? "Not chicken. Too mundane for a restaurant with a gimmick like this. Some other bird. Likely a game bird, bushmeat is 'in' nowadays."

Sherlock sets down his utensils, tilting his head to the side. Something's different. "I still have some of the decoction, could come in handy. It was an interesting experience." What's different. There's something that he's missing. "Going without hearing for a week was easier."

 

"It's not quail," John says slowly, thumbing another piece into his mouth. He was starving half an hour ago, but his gut is tightening and he isn't sure why. "Grouse? Mh, it's been ages since I've gone for upland birds..." He trails off, falling silent for a time. The noise from his side of the table makes it clear that he is still eating, albeit at a snail's pace. The darkness is somewhat oppressive, really.

It's a moment before he shakes the feeling off and picks up his wine, having never bothered pouring himself any water. "If I ever find out where you're storing it, I'm going to flush it down the bog," he says mildly, between sips, and it becomes suddenly apparent that Sherlock has gotten his attention again. "Easier? I'll bet it was. Half the time I think you're deaf as it is."

"How're you doing, lads?" Kate's voice is there abruptly-- loud and close beside John-- and the jump he gives this time is enough to slam his already-bruised knee into the table leg. He hisses in pain. "Och, sorry love. Happens all the time," Kate is appropriately apologetic as she reaches out to squeeze the doctor's shoulder. The bad shoulder. Perhaps noting his discomfort, Kate is already retreating. "Dinner will be right out," the waitress says cheerily, and moves away.

In her wake, there's a sudden thick silence from John's side of the table-- it is interrupted only by ragged, harsh, short breathing. 

 

Silently, Sherlock admits defeat in the matter of the Mystery Meat. Given his dietary habits, it's not surprising that he isn't exactly an expert on identifying game birds in a fancy puff pastry. He listens and makes appropriate noises while John discusses the bird, but offers no guesses of his own.

"Upset Mycroft when I ran into him, during," he chuckles quietly. "I neglected to tell him beforehand. He thought I was ignoring him." A pause, "More than usual." The detective is already turning his head towards the waitress before she speaks, alerted to her approach by her quiet footsteps. John, evidently, did not hear her.

Tempted to make a quip of his own (something along the lines of who's the deaf one now), Sherlock leans forward. And then he stops. That's different. "John?" His voice is low, quiet.

 

"Fine, M'fine..." John's voice is low and strained, and there's another hiss as he inhales through his teeth. There was artillery fire in the flash of white he saw when his knee hit the table, and he's taking a moment to shake it off. His pulse is racing and he's trembling from an adrenaline surge that nearly takes his breath away. Now he knows what it is, and now-- being the doctor that he is-- he can fight it. 

You're fine, you're home. You're fine, you're home. This is a restaurant. There is no danger. Feel the table, feel the fabric of the table cloth. You know where you are. Calm, calm, calm.

The litany helps. Most of his issues with the war manifest in the form of nightmares-- rarely has he had issues during the day, and in public no less. Then again, he's never intentionally placed himself in a completely dark room surrounded by people he doesn't know, either. The darkness is a blessing at the same time as it is a curse. It was a mistake to put himself in this situation, but at least nobody can see him. Not even Sherlock.

After a few more deep breaths, John manages to unclench his hands and is surprised to find that a butter knife clatters to the table when he does so. "Er, s-sorry about that. I, ah, may-- may need to go outside for a bit. Get some air. Won't be a minute--" And then John realizes, with an irrational fear that clutches suddenly at his chest, that he can't get outside. He can't see. He has no idea where outside is.

Awkwardly, trying to fight the sudden panic, John stands-- but his protesting knee buckles as he does so, causing him to bump the table roughly, and unknowingly tilting the water pitcher towards Sherlock. John's chair catches on a corner of the rug and tilts dangerously in the darkness. Across the room, a man gets ready to open a bottle of champagne. Someone to their left brushes their table-mate, and a knife is nudged off the table. Nearby, a man's date tells a rather off-colour joke and to show his appreciation, he brings his hands together.

Everything happens at once. The chair falls to the ground. The water pitcher thunks to the table. The champagne cork pops. The man claps sharply. The cutlery clatters to the floor. Bang, Bang, bang, bang, bang--

John, with a short cry that rips from him without his knowledge, dives for the ground, hitting with a solid thwack that is clearly audible and coming to rest under their table. "Get DOWN," cries the Captain, and a hand, groping in the darkness, reaches up to grab at Sherlock and wrench him roughly downwards into cover.

 

The doctor is most certainly not fine, Sherlock doesn't need his eyes to be able to deduce that much. Something is triggering him. Darkness? Not alone. And then John's knife clatters to the table, and he understands. Noise. Unexpected loud noise. And without the cue of sight to warn him, every noise is unexpected. With heightened sensitivity of hearing, every noise is loud.

"Wait, John." He curses under his breath, reaching out to try to find John's hand - too late. The other man is already rising, bumping into the table. Noises begin to fire across the room Sherlock's mapped in his mind, smaller noises that herald louder ones to follow. Shit. Where's the waitress when his flatmate needs to make a quick escape.

And then all hell breaks loose.

The water splashing onto his lap was the first unexpected surprise, but being bodily dragged off his chair and under the table by his flatmate was more than enough to earn a startled yelp. Fortunately, Sherlock's undignified utterance is largely drowned out by the screams from around the room as John's warning raises panic. He flails at first, barely registering the fact that he's bumped his head on the table and jammed his wrist a little with his awkward landing. And then the detective calms reaching out to determine the situation, to try to somehow corral John before he goes tearing off somewhere.

"Shh, shh, John, it's okay. John. Listen. Stop. Shh. It's okay."

 

It is most certainly not okay. Not for the Captain, and not for the people-- some, the men of his platoon, and the others civilian Afghanis taken by surprise-- suffering under fire. He can hear them crying out around him, amidst the clatter of heavy weapons fire and the lighter staccato pop-pop-pop of automatics, interspersed with the deeper punctuation of grenades and the thrum of air support somewhere above. The soundscape is rich, though he doesn't understand why he can't see. Wet-- wet, there's wetness on him, a body beside him-- is it blood? Someone's clawing at him, and he would check for wounds if he could just see. 

Blind? Is he concussed? Did he get caught in a blast? It doesn't matter. He's got to find cover, and he'll do it by feel if he must. The body beside him must be one of his men. Bailey. Did Bailey get shot? 

Around John, in the real world, the disaster in the dark is progressing without further assistance. One man-- a survivor of an IRA bombing-- follows the 'get down!' direction without hesitation, sending his chair flying backwards into another patron, who startles up out of his seat, trips, and falls across the next table. That's all it takes for general panic to spread. The room is full of frightened shrieks and flying silverware, broken up by the more dangerous sounds of shattering glass and smashed plates. Someone, somewhere, is bellowing-- advising patrons to stay still, to stay in their seats....

"Come on, Bailey," says the Captain roughly, hauling at Sherlock's coat to drag him closer. The voice is John's only in that it comes from the same body. "You'll be alright. We're going to get out of here. Stay close." He makes as if to move out into the darkness.

 

He's not here. Wherever John is right now, it's not here and Sherlock has no idea how to reach him. And there's noise all around. Too much noise, it's near impossible to pick out anything in the chaos. The staff have been alerted, it's only a matter of time before they turn on the lights and try to restore order. But right now, Sherlock's honestly not sure if that'll be enough to bring John back to reality.

Grasping hands find John's arms, gripping, moving up to get a firm hold of his label. When the other man yanks him closer, he uses that leverage to try to roll John onto his back, to hold him down and yell in his face. "John!" Both hands are entwined in the doctor's coat now, shaking him. "John. Snap out of it!"

Sherlock will hit John if he has to. But he'd really rather not - in the dark, it'd be hard to avoid causing undue harm.

 

There's a low wall of sandbags not far ahead, from what he remembers. If he can get Bailey there, they'll have the time they need to get out the medical gear and patch the boy up. Maybe figure out what's wrong with his eyes--... "Whhff!" he huffs, losing the last breath he took as he's knocked to his back and Bailey lands on top of him.

There's a gleam of light from somewhere off in the direction from which they entered. Someone's ripped one of the curtains down, and the others are dancing about as people push in and out through the doorway. The flicker is inconsistent and certainly doesn't illuminate the room, but it's a beacon in the darkness and hope of escape. Some of the folks near the entrance are already clearing out, but the noise level hasn't died down much yet. Staff are still struggling to find the overheads.

John's-- or rather, the Captain's-- reaction to being rolled onto his back in a combat situation is fairly predictable. He fights, of course. Uselessly at first, as he is being shaken rather violently, but then with increasing desperation. His hands fumble at his assailant, finally coming up to grasp at wiry wrists. Bailey, you fool, you absolute fool-- what are you doing?

"We don't have time for this," John snarls into the darkness, and then slams his head forward as hard as he can.

 

The wiry detective may not look it, but he's got a surprising amount of strength behind him. He's managing quite well at keeping the ex-soldier pinned beneath him, even if nothing seems to be getting through to the other man. Wrestling with John in pitch darkness isn't exactly how he thought this night would end, no matter how many times people suggest that they are a couple.

"John!" He growls, giving him another shake, and then the sudden flash of light, however inconsistent, causes Sherlock to lift his head... and then just as quickly tuck his chin and shut his eyes to avoid light blindness. That's the only thing that saves him from a broken nose. John's furious headbutt catches the detective squarely on the forehead, causing an entirely different flash of light to spark behind his eyes. He sputters, his grip falters, and he pushes himself away from the doctor - up into the table, cracking the back of his head solidly upon the underside.

He falls back, abandoning his grasp on John's coat, and reaches blindly about himself for some form of support.

 

Captain Watson, military doctor, is not one to leave a man behind-- even if that man just attacked him. Everyone panics on the battlefield, and John isn't the type to hold that against anyone. "Sorry, Bailey," he mutters as he rolls back to his hands and knees. Reaching out, he gets ahold of the other man's coat again, and starts to drag him doggedly forward. He sees the light-- it tells him that the concussive blast did no permanent damage-- and moves immediately to turn his back on it. The sandbag wall was behind him, wasn't it? Yes? No? "I'll get you out of here," he grunts, his face half crushed into Bailey's collar as he bodily drags the other man. "Don't worry. We're going to be okay."

Footsteps close by-- running-- John drops again, dragging Bailey down with him and half-covering the injured man with his body. And then up again, when the footsteps pass. There's debris everywhere-- he cuts his hand on shrapnel and ignores the pain. Bailey is heavy, and isn't cooperating. John's knee and palm and shoulder are on fire, and his head aches. It can't be much further. It can't. 

And after a minute, ten minutes, an hour-- five hours-- of crawling through a battlefield, they suddenly bump up against heavy fabric covering something smooth and metal. Something that doesn't fit with John's memory of the desert. It's the first thing that stops him cold, as he presses his injured hand against the thing barring his path, trying to make sense of it. He releases Bailey with a ragged breath that is half a sob, and tries desperately to push his way through the obstruction. He thunks his good shoulder weakly against it, then slides downwards slowly when it doesn't budge. "I'm sorry, Bailey," he grates, exhausted, and reaches out to pat the other man. "That's it for us, I think."

It's an emergency door, hidden behind a curtain. And everyone is running the other way.

 

Bailey? Of all the names John had to decide to assign to him, honestly. Sherlock isn't able to put up much of a fight at first, he's dragged along limply while in a daze from the repeated head trauma. It's only when the realization that John is taking them AWAY from the exit filters through his fogged brain that he begins to struggle, pushing against his would-be saviour.

"John," he hisses, fighting down nausea and shoving against the doctor, "You're going the wrong way." Shit, how hard did he hit his head? This doesn't feel good at all. When they finally come to a stop Sherlock props himself up against the curtained surface, trying to think past the ringing in his head. He can't help but jerk away when John pats him unexpectedly, the movement bringing him up against the doorframe.

Ahhh. "My name," he growls, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet and exploring the surface behind the curtain with trembling hands, "is Sherlock Holmes." A curtain over a doorway, metal door. Heavy push bar. Emergency exit. He reaches down to grab John's collar, squints, and shoves the door open.

 

The blast of daylight blinds John just as effectively as the darkness had, and he gasps at the onslaught as they both tumble out onto the pavement. Though it's a certainty neither of them can see it yet, the doctor is a sweaty dishevelled mess-- he raises a hand to his face and it leaves a streak of blood where it passes. The emergency door has smeared, bloody handprints on it as well. God only knows what Sherlock looks like. But all in all, looking as though they've come through a battlefield is pretty accurate.

Squinting painfully, John rolls onto his belly and gasps in the fresh air that shocks his senses. "Wh-what? Where--?" There's an uncomfortable pressure where the door is pinching his leg against the doorframe, and he drags the offending limb out. The door clicks solidly behind them.

Weakly, John gets up onto his hands and knees, weaving in place. He can barely see. It hurts to see. "Sherlock?"

 

Squinting against the expected onslaught of light helped a bit, but Sherlock's vision is still heavily compromised. Add his disorientation and the persistent ringing in his ears to the equation, and the first sight John will be able to get of the detective shows him far more vulnerable and human than he's appeared before. Weaving unsteadily on his feet, his coat covered in debris from being dragged across the floor, hair more untidy than usual (and slightly matted at the back), blood running down his forehead, where a healthy bump/bruise is already beginning to form.

"I suppose," he pants, "It's too much to hope that you gave a false name for the reservation." The detective wipes his hand across his forehead, squinting blearily at the blood, and then offers that hand to help John to his feet.

 

John is bewildered. There's no other word for it. Too bewildered to answer that quip. There's a tight feeling in his chest, and he can't quite seem to get his breath. He's confused, of course-- it's hard to translate where he is now to where he was, especially considering how real it seemed, and for a moment he shakes violently, all over, and the force of it nearly sends him back to the pavement. He braces himself against falling, and through the shaking (his teeth chatter), he sees Sherlock-- Sherlock?-- looking a right mess. Watches the man stand. The blood. These images don't make sense. What happened? 

And then, as quickly as the shaking came on, it passes and leaves him sagging in its wake. Still on hands and knees, John looks like a horse that's been run past exhaustion to the point of breakdown. 

He lifts his head again wearily and squints up at the offered, bloody hand. The squint follows the hand up to the arm up to the face. Right, again. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Bleeding? How'd that happen? He grasps the bloody hand with his own-- cut palm and all-- feeling momentarily like he's just endured some right of passage for blood-brotherhood that's gone horribly wrong, and stumbles awkwardly to his feet (blast this knee!). Then, standing there blinking in the light and feeling utterly at a loss, John takes the only recourse left to him: being a doctor. 

"You-- you hit your head," he says usefully. "Let me look." Yes. Good idea, John. Smashing.

 

"Later." Sherlock's tone is firm, regardless of how unsteady the detective appears at the moment. He maintains his grip on the doctor for a moment longer than strictly necessary, making sure that John won't tip over all of a sudden, then takes a step back to make a more thorough examination of their surroundings. Back alley. Main road nearby, reasonably busy street so they can get a taxi. Probably too bloody to not attract notice, but limited recourse for tidying up before hailing a cab. Conclusion? Move through alleys to a different main road, then mail a cheque to the restaurant to cover their losses.

"Right then, follow me." He pulls a handkerchief from one pocket, spitting on it to make it easier to wipe some of the blood from his face. "With me, John?" Something approaching concern flashes across his face, but whether he's worried for his flatmate or wary that he may relapse and give him yet another head injury isn't quite clear.

 

There's only a momentary pause before the shorter man nods stiffly and follows, though his expression is glazed and a little wild at the same time. "Yes-- yes, I'm coming." The limp this time is -not- psychosomatic, and he heaves a deep breath as he starts off after the lean detective. He does not care where he's going, and isn't entirely certain-- thanks to the the muddled thought processes jangling around in his brain-- just where he's been. But following Sherlock is an easy enough task, and he clings onto it like a life-line.

There are already sirens in the distance. This will be in the papers, certainly. And to be fair, it will probably be attributed to mass panic. Who would be able to fault a single person out of all that mess? "Danger, dans le noir!" "Blind leading the blind-- to restaurant disaster!" The press will have a field day.

John, as he stumbles along after his flatmate, pulls his own crumpled handkerchief free from a pocket and wraps his sliced palm with it. "Sherlock-- slow down, would you? Please?" His body informs him he's going to end up on his face if he doesn't take it easy. The street is nearby, and they can both rest in the cab.

 

His manic need to avoid the authorities and the press subsides when John calls out, clearly in distress. With a bit of a sigh, Sherlock pauses in his hasty retreat and turns back to watch as the doctor limps towards him. He doens't offer an apology, of course, but he does wait for John to catch up, and afterwards he adjusts his pace to suit the limping ex-soldier.

"You okay?" he asks, gaze flicking from the bloodied handkerchief to the rest of John's form, looking for any obvious sources of injury. Upon first glance it looks like Sherlock came out with the short end of the stick, but he has no idea what other injuries the doctor may have sustained in the darkness.

When they reach the street he hails a taxi, tucking the bloodied handkerchief into his pocket. The bruise upon his forehead is developed quite well, but at least he's all all over blood now.

 

John is breathing heavily when he catches up to Sherlock. "I--I don't know," he says honestly. "I think so, yes." Nothing feels broken, badly twisted, bleeding, or otherwise wounded in a way that would require a trip to A&E. The gash in his hand may need stitches, but he'll do it himself later if Sherlock is willing to assist. For now, the only damage seems to be psychological, and the look on John's face suggests he's already deep in repression mode. 

"Are you okay?" He asks the taller man, as they get into the cab. 

Interrupting, the cabby leans back. "'Ey, no bleedin' on the leather! To the hospital, mates?"

It's John that immediately shakes his head. "221b Baker Street," he rasps immediately. He assumes, of course, that Sherlock wants to go home... and even if that assumption is wrong, sod him. John wants to go home. He sits back gingerly and turns to give Sherlock a carefully thorough look. "Er, Sherlock...?" The glazed look in his eyes hasn't faded, but there's guilt there now. "I, ah... I did that, didn't I?" 

Hard to say if he's talking about the entire mess they just left behind, or specifically about the wound on Sherlock's forehead.

 

Three separate head wounds. Possible concussion. Hyper-extended wrist. A few assorted scrapes and bruises. All in a day's work, right? "Fine," he replies shortly, waving his wounds away with one careless hand. He settles into the cab with a quiet sigh, leaning back in the seat and staring up at the ceiling of the car.

Sherlock isn't entirely with it at the moment, not that it's any different from the norm - John's question seems to go entirely unnoticed at first, and then the detective double-takes and forces his attention to rest on the other man. "You may have a bit of a headache later," he explains, lifting one hand to point at the impressive bump forming on his forehead. "You certainly earned it."

It's funny, though. For all that he only met John a couple of weeks ago, Sherlock really doesn't seem too disturbed by the events of tonight.

 

John has the grace to wince, and utters the first of what is sure to become a repetitive mantra until he's told off for it: "Sorry."

And then, unless Sherlock feels the unlikely need to speak, the rest of the cab ride back to the flat is a silent one, with both of them in their own head-space and feeling their own bumps and bruises. John closes his eyes and works on controlling his breathing, purging the last of the effects of the flashback from his mind until even the tremor in his left hand has faded down to nothing. He's not quite with it enough for real embarrassment yet-- that will come later, and will undoubtedly be accompanied by an awful lot of the house chores, shopping, and cooking being done by him for the next while. And Sherlock isn't going to hear a word about milk for at least a week.

When they pull up to Baker Street, John wordlessly pays the driver, and grunts in pain as he gets out of the cab. It's only when he has padded right up behind Sherlock, waiting for the latter to get the front door open, that he speaks. "Well," he offers quietly, "I'm glad I didn't take the girl from the grocer out after all. I'd have near killed her."

There's a tiredly cheeky pause. "Lucky your head's so hard, eh?"

 

John's apology is ignored. Not because Sherlock doesn't care, but because he hardly thinks it is necessary. It's not as if the doctor could have anticipated this, nor was he in control of his actions. It would make as much sense to blame a wolf for killing its prey.

Silence is no stranger to the detective, so he's quite content to take the duration of the cab ride to centre himself and evaluate the damage. And, as he did on the way there, he allows John to take the lead and pay the cabby.

He pauses in the entrance, inadvertently blocking John from entering. With his back to John his expression is indecipherable, but a slight grin can be heard in his voice. "Not what I expected for a first date. Do you always inflict head trauma on those you care about, Dr. Watson?"

And then Sherlock makes his way up the stairs, coat billowing dramatically behind him.