Chapter Text
Even after living with him for two months now, Sherlock is still amazed at just how easy it is to get along with John. The transition from 'new flatmate' to 'practically known him my whole life' seems to have crept upon them both, nearly unnoticed.
Of course, the unnaturally tumultuous time they've spent together has undoubtedly contributed to the connection they've formed. It's hard to avoid growing close to someone when there's been repeated (and reciprocal) life-saving involved, after all. Spending a night sharing a bed doesn't hurt either, even if Sherlock had his trousers on and John was recovering from hypothermia.
One of the best things about living with John, he's realized, is that the man seems to instinctively know when he should be curious about something, and when he's better off not knowing.
Taking care of the woman responsible for almost killing the doctor was one situation where John's discretion proved quite invaluable. It wasn't difficult for the detective to extract a few more details about this mystery damsel in distress during the doctor's recovery. A question here, a comment there, examining the clothing he'd been wearing. Sherlock knew who he was looking for within a couple of days-- all he needed was the time to get out of the flat and take care of it. And when the first grocery trip he went on after John was well enough to leave alone happened to take most of the afternoon instead of an hour, well... no questions were asked, no lies were told.
Sherlock's pretty sure he did notice a grin on John's face when the headline story 'Cold Case: Cracked!' ran a few days later. Seems she was found in a freezer with the stolen goods she'd been smuggling inside cow carcasses. Curious.
So why is it that after all they've shared, Sherlock actually felt a nauseating knot of pain and betrayal in his stomach when John stepped out and spoke as if he was the infamous Moriarty?
The revelation of the bomb and Moriarty's puppetry, of course, it all made sense after that. But that moment of doubt... Still, that shouldn't matter. John had thrown himself upon their assailant, offering to give his life for Sherlock's-- that's worthy of trust, that is. And the way they looked at each other when the laser sights re-appeared, the silent communication and understanding. It all fits, it all makes sense.
So why hasn't the knot in his gut unraveled yet? Sherlock is more fidgety than usual as they wait for a cab outside the pool, pacing back and forth, hands in constant motion. Avoiding eye contact.
Things haven't been quite the same since the freezer incident, though they haven't been much different on any major level. It's the little things that have changed. Eye contact which John seeks out a moment before he would otherwise have, and that lasts a second longer than it used to. Finding that he knows-- on some strange instinctual level-- when Sherlock needs to eat, and whether or not the detective can be cajoled into doing so or is best left alone regardless of nutritional intake. Finding that he does not mind the frantic violin at 3am as much as he used to. Coming to terms with the fact that milk will always, always be something he has to buy.
These are very small things, and very insignificant realizations. In the grand scheme of things, he hardly notices them. But it's part of how they fit together, and it is good.
Sherlock may have noticed that he gets an odd smile on his face now, every time he opens their freezer.
But tonight, everything went to hell. Moriarty revealed himself, and the man frightened John in a way that he has never been frightened before-- not when he was bleeding out on the desert sand, not when staring down the barrel of a gun, not when slipping unconscious in Sherlock's arms. And if he had once described Sherlock as 'mad'... well, nothing could compare that to the level of insanity John clutched in his arms tonight.
John is Sherlock's silent shadow as they leave the pool building and make their way out onto the street-- he moves his body as little as possible, as though he does not trust his legs to support him. When they stop, he locks his knees and stands stiffly in place. In the last hour, he's been abducted at gunpoint, knocked unconscious, strapped into a bomb, and forced to watch as a madman toyed with the life of the flatmate who has become his closest companion. To say that John is drained in the aftermath of this disaster is an understatement.
Unlike Sherlock, he seeks out eye contact and is disturbed when he does not find it. John has not, in fact, stopped watching Sherlock since they stepped outside. While Sherlock paces, his troubled gaze follows the detective back and forth, back and forth. He says nothing. The words won't arrange themselves properly in his mind, and he doesn't trust himself to say anything coherent.
Finally, when one of Sherlock's passes brings him close enough, John reaches out a hand to take the other's arm and stop him. "Sherlock--"
But whatever words he would have said are lost in the glare of the cab's headlights as they turn onto the street, pulling up a moment later. With a relieved sigh, John moves around to the far side and climbs inside.
Some might interpret Sherlock's pacing and fidgeting as a nervous reaction to nearly being shot and/or blown up, but John knows the truth. He may be the only person on the planet who does.
The difference in how Sherlock and John react to near-death situations is marked, and a fair testimony to the value they place on life. The detective walks away from it fired up, mind racing, picking apart the pieces and putting it all back together into neat patterns. A puzzle, a challenge, something to make life interesting. Life is a game, and almost dying? Just another move-- a more interesting move than most. But for someone like John, who has faced death while understanding the value of life, the experience is entirely different. Sherlock can't understand why it takes so much out of the other man, because he can't value his own life in the way a normal person would.
He's aware that he's being observed, and some part of him knows that he should connect with John right now, make sure he's okay. But again, there's that missing part of him that disconnects between a rational knowledge of social protocol and actual caring and doing.
Over and over he replays the events of the past short while, watching the scene play out. The bomb, the sniper, the message John tried to send him-- clever, that, he should commend him on it later. His mind bounces back and forth, but it keeps coming to rest on that one, briefest of moments when he thought his--
He stops, caught up short both mentally and physically as John grabs his arm. As his friend grabs his arm. Sherlock's expression is a mystery. Open, unusually open for the detective, but seeming somehow confused, hurt, and happy at the same time. It only lasts a moment, and then the cab is there and he's crawling inside.
Still not quite sure what he's... feeling, the detective opts for a relatively safe topic. "How?" As in, how did John get there.
John knows what Sherlock is asking. He usually knows, even when Sherlock's question is a single word and has no real context. Not always-- sometimes the detective's brain is on such a different track that his isn't even in the same country-- but usually. So his silence isn't based on ignorance of the question, it's just not really what he wants to talk about right now.
He wants to talk about Moriarty.
John Watson is angry. Deeply angry, in a way that makes it hard to breathe. He wants to work with Sherlock on a plan to ensure that man is placed behind bars where he can't hurt anyone else. To be fair, he wants to go back in time to before the laser site appeared on Sherlock's head-- right when his arm was around Moriarty's throat-- and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the problem has solved itself. It's John's knowledge and respect for the value of human life that makes him furious, deep down inside, about what that man did to those people. To use a child like that, my god--!
Setting his jaw, John looks out the window as the cab gets moving until he's reasonably sure the rage beneath isn't radiating past the tired outer layer. "A cabby pulled up and asked if I needed a lift. He, ah... had a gun." He glances back at Sherlock, his eyes almost black in the darkened cab. "Used ether, I think-- there was someone in the back seat. I woke up in the pool, wearing--" You know. "He gave me instructions." And that, as they say, is that. Short story, quick ending. In that moment, John realizes he's still got the earpiece he received his marching orders from dangling from his collar. With a sudden, savage jerk, he rips the piece of equipment free and throws it to the cab floor as though its touch burned him.
John stares at the spot it fell. "You said you gave those plans to Mycroft." His tone is unreadable, even to the master detective.
John would undoubtedly be disappointed if he knew that Sherlock didn't quite share his fervor about putting Moriarty behind bars (or in the ground). Oh, the part of the detective who is conscious of public duty and all that wants him stopped, but that's a fairly quiet voice buried deep down. There's a louder voice who wants Moriarty stopped because of what he did to John. But the loudest voice? That part of Sherlock is busy remembering how much fun all those puzzles were.
There's a frown of disappointment creasing his brow by the time John is done his tale. "How pedestrian," he sighs, leaning forward to pluck the device from the floor of the cab. It'll be perfectly clean, like everything else has been. But this is a piece that isn't going to be locked away in an evidence locker. He tucks it safely into one pocket, then lifts his head sharply and looks askance at the doctor when he drops that particular bomb.
"Mm," is his first reply, a noncommittal noise. Yes, he did. Yes, he lied. Yes, he knows he shouldn't have. No, he's not particularly sorry. Yes, he knows he should be sorry.
So what does he even say?
There's really no justification for his choice. "I knew you wouldn't approve if I told you what I planned to do." What, you mean John wouldn't like it if Sherlock put himself and national security in danger? Pish posh.
There is a single moment, in the wake of Sherlock's words, in which John loses himself in a wave of overwhelmingly explosive anger so violent that his breath catches in his throat and his chest refuses to unclench. He is sure, in the space of those few heartbeats, that he is about to lash out with everything he is, and everything he has, until the man beside him understands everything-- everything-- that is wrong with what he just said, and with the way he is reacting to this situation.
Two more heartbeats pass, and then a third. Perhaps six seconds in all, during which John's face flushes and pales, his heart-rate skyrockets, his pupils contract sharply and flare... and then the man swallows, hard, and the blip has passed. All stations report systems fully operational, Captain. Meltdown averted. Or delayed, at least.
He can't speak; and then, suddenly, he finds that he can. The words pour out in a sudden torrent, and he directs it at Sherlock.
"You-- you have got to be-- that I wouldn't approve? That I wouldn't-- ... How can you think that? How can you actually think--" His jaw snaps shut and John Watson stares at Sherlock as though he's never really seen him before. "You waited. You lied to me, and you waited until I left, and then you just waltzed off to meet that madman like a bloody-- like a--... and what did you think? That I wouldn't come? Is that it, you blighter? That I'd let you--... no, no, you thought I'd stop you, didn't you?" The words just keep coming; his brain supplies them, and his mouth releases them. "You lied to your brother, you lied to me--"
There is more in this vein, but if left unchecked he will eventually sputter himself into incoherence. And as John stares at the pale detective, he wonders with a sudden clarity whether he knows this man as well as he thought he did. Because in the variable and inconsistent light of the cab, the person beside him almost feels like a stranger.
He drops his eyes away.
For a few seconds, Sherlock honestly believes that John might attack him. If they'd been outside and standing instead of crammed in the back of a cab, perhaps he would have. He's furious, far angrier than the detective has ever seen. He tilts his head slightly to the side, completely unaware of just how infuriating that gesture must appear, and furrows his brows as he watches the play of emotions over John's face.
It must be so difficult, being subject to these feelings.
Honestly, it's a relief when the words begin to chase themselves from John's mouth, rich with anger and righteous indignation. Each time the doctor stumbles over an incorrect conclusion he tries to interject. "John," he tries once, mildly. Then again, firmer, "John." And then finally, before the descent into sputters, he risks physical injury and reaches out to grab the man's arm. "John! Listen to me."
He takes a deep breath, trying to sort through the things John said, to get an idea of how he feels. But he just doesn't understand, how on earth could John have leapt to so many illogical conclusions.
"Look," he lifts his hands in surrender, leaning back against the door of the cab. Poor cabby, he's getting an earful.
"I was afraid you'd try to come with me. Not that you'd stop me, or refuse to come, or whatever other crazy theories you may have." Sherlock does looks somewhat taken aback, that's about as close to 'sorry' as he gets on a usual basis. "I couldn't put you in danger." Again.
It is perhaps lucky for the both of them (and the cabby) that John Watson is not a man who can sustain rage for a long period of time. Some of the soldiers he served with were angry all the time, and capable of destructive explosions that were both emotionally and materially damaging to those around them. John certainly had his moments, but they were intermittent, mild and short in comparison. He doesn't wear rage well; the mental state does not come naturally to him, and he can't maintain the intensity of feeling required to fuel it. His anger burns hot and fast, usually sputtering out in a short burst of either noise or physicality.... and it always leaves him feeling somewhat empty in its wake. This time is no exception, and he feels the fire go out like a snuffed match when Sherlock grabs his arm.
And he listens, though he doesn't want to, and hasn't yet lifted his eyes. What other choice does he have? But Sherlock-- stupid, stupid Sherlock, insists on missing the entire point. How can a man so patently brilliant be so completely useless with things like this?
"You're daft. You don't understand," John grunts, falling back on his usual honesty. There, that's better. He's calmer now, even if the tension still hovers under his skin. Finally, the man lifts his gaze to squint at Sherlock. "You put me in danger anyway." And he doesn't mean because Sherlock's lies put John in a prime position for Moriarty to swoop in and use him as a tool against his new arch-rival. ...Well, he does mean that as well, a little. But mostly: "Sherlock, I would have gone after you. You know that." And if the worst had happened, and he'd arrived too late, he'd have gone running blindly after the man who had done it. And Moriarty would have killed him.
John slumps back against the taxi seat and goes back to staring out the window.
"Daft," he repeats, almost to himself.
Pale eyes watch curiously, observing John's anger as it burns itself out. Good to know, could be useful in the future. He'd bet money that the ex-soldier could do some serious damage if he lost control of himself while so incensed... but he'd also bet that John wouldn't snap that easily, which in turn explains why he made rank.
He grins wryly, relieved that John is closer to 'normal' now. And he has to admit, the doctor does have a point. "It seems that spending time with me at all puts one in danger." Sherlock admits, then his brows twitch into a frown. Especially with this Moriarty character around. Another reason to track him down and neutralize him, even if his games are entertaining.
"I suppose there's no point in asking you not to make any heroic gestures on my behalf in the future, if something were to happen?"
One unfortunate side-effect of Sherlock's reaction to danger is that their current destination doesn't hold anything of significant enough interest to occupy his freshly-restless mind. And it's past midnight, so there's little else going on about the city. Still, he's half-tempted to suggest that they go somewhere else or find something, anything to do before the cab pulls onto Baker St.
Sherlock sighs, tapping his fingers anxiously against his thigh. He could possibly look less excited to go home if he tried.
“No point in the slightest,” John response, his tone a bit sharp. He ignores the previous comment entirely; danger, and the battlefield that Sherlock represents, is not the problem. Mindlessly endangering one’s self when one has a completely competent ex-military flatmate is more of a concern at the moment. Daft, John’s brain snarls silently, one final time. His gut is twisted and the aftermath of the adrenaline in his veins has left him hollow and uncomfortable.
Suddenly, going home is the last thing John wants. Home is where he’ll make tea, and pace, and try to calm himself down so that he can go to bed and wake up in the morning and carry on like normal. But tonight was anything but normal, and pretending otherwise won’t do either of them any good. John eyes the passing streetlamps outside, then casts a sideways glance at his idiotic flatmate. Sherlock’s anxious fidgeting, he isn’t the only one who has some excess steam to blow off.
So John takes a short breath, pauses, and releases it in a short huff. He’s never extended an invitation like this to Sherlock before, and he may never again... but hell, he’s never had a bomb strapped to his chest by a consulting criminal either. Might as well make it a night of first experiences.
“Erm. Listen. I’m a bit wound up.” John turns to smile fleetingly at Sherlock. “Won’t be able to sleep for ages. I-- what do you say to a pint at the local?”
Unconcerned by John's quickly subsiding rage, the lean man shrugs as if to say that he expected as much, but at least he tried. Just another truth about Captain John H. Watson-- the army doctor is every bit the hero he seems to want Sherlock to be. Another detail to be filed away and kept under consideration in the future. Sherlock will have to be more careful, if he wishes to keep John from following him blindly into danger.
He is moments away from suggesting another destination when he makes an amusing deduction: John is about to make the same suggestion to him. So rather than expend the effort to think of an activity-- which is harder than one might think for the socially-retarded detective, apparently most people don't enjoy the same things he does and he's fairly certain that a trip to the morgue is something the soldier would balk at-- he remains silent and waits for John to speak. There's even an expression of polite interest upon his face, he almost looks like a normal person.
"Terrible idea," Sherlock dismisses the soldier's invitation instantly, with a scornful expression and a quick flip of his hand. Then he quirks a brief but genuine smile, and his voice warms. "A pint would hardly be enough after tonight. I should expect that several pints will be required."
And with that, the detective leans forward to give the driver their new destination.