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One of the many, many things John had been unaware of since Sherlock’s return were the rather frequent, if begrudging, visits to a therapist.
Initially, Sherlock had fought with the rage of a thousand suns in his determination to not attend the sessions, thinking them to be dull and terribly tedious. They were, in fact, largely dull and tedious. However, they were also at times emotionally exhausting, frustrating, and sometimes explosive and shocking.
It had astounded him, the seeming floodgates that opened to outpour this mess, this conglomerate of feeling and emotional pain. Most confounding of all the fact that not all of the visits were centered on Sherlock’s time on the run, dismantling Moriarty’s web. His childhood and even, to his shock considering his reticence on even acknowledging that part of his past, his history of addiction.
He should know how human psychology worked and how therapists got their people to talk, he should know the methods and therefore be…immune.
He wasn’t.
But they helped, in their terribly exhausting way, they did help. So he kept attending in order to stave off the worse of the PTSD and nightmares and giveaways that would alert John to his current state-of-mind.
It was, therefore, a surprise to find himself encouraging another in that same direction. But when the Major came around after a much needed rest at the hospital, recovering quite nicely from his attack, Sherlock felt a kinship with the man.
Just as Sherlock left the wedding early, unable to bear any longer the lack of attention he craved from the man he longed for, Sherlock knew with barely a glance, that James Sholto had experienced something similar once upon a time in an Afghan desert.
Letting John Watson go was something they both had in common, it seemed. Also, caring for him even his absence yes, they had that in common as well.
We would never do that, would we? We would never do that to John Watson.
Unfortunately for Sherlock he had done exactly that, but, well, that was in the past now.
His phone buzzed across the kitchen table and he shook himself from his reverie.
Done by 3:30. Time for a chat after? –JS
Yes. I’ll be here. – SH
The…chats they had after James’ visits to his therapist were becoming alarmingly common, Sherlock had to admit. He wasn’t prone to being social himself beyond John and the frequent interruptions of Mrs. Hudson. Here of lately Sherlock had seen, however, the benefit in social structures beyond the usual. Adding the Major to the strange line-up of pseudo friendships was almost happening by rote.
The knock was expected. The Major’s wardrobe was not.
“You’re wearing jeans,” Sherlock said, blinking in near-shock.
James, used to this behavior and general lack of social niceties, ignored this and walked in.
“Yes, well, the suits were making the whole ordeal feel like a business meeting. Never had the patience for that.”
Sherlock was still trying to shake the minor twitch in his brain at seeing the Major in something as...form-fitting as jeans. It wasn’t that the attraction wasn’t unexpected (except it was), but rather, why on earth did it need to come and go in such paralyzing bursts, Sherlock wanted to know.
“You are used to wearing a dress uniform!” He huffed and sat down, gesturing at the tea set out.
He could make tea, yes, and not just for visiting psychopaths, thank you very much.
James shot him a look, and settled back in the opposite chair (John’s chair) from Sherlock’s.
“Yes, and wouldn’t it be a brilliant idea to wear that to therapy as well?” He said, sarcasm sharp on his tongue. He looked uncomfortable for a moment.
“It felt like I was making a production of every meeting,” he confessed. “It made me uncomfortable.”
Yes, Sherlock, remind him of his lovely time being uncomfortable. Could you be any more horrifying?
“Well, at least it’s over for another week.”
Gods. Sherlock mentally slapped himself. Yes, remind him that it will be repeating.
“Yes, the trips back and forth are getting quite taxing. I’m considering cutting down the visits to every two weeks.”
“You could stay here,” Sherlock blurted out. James looked up, baffled.
“There’s an extra bedroom upstairs. It’s not currently…” Sherlock trailed off and looked away, awkward to be bringing up the John-shaped hole in their lives.
James opened his mouth to say something and then made himself stop. It was obvious he was trying to think of what to say to the rather blatant offering.
“Not to live here, obviously,” Sherlock muttered, looking anywhere but at the Major. “Just to stay the night after your visits with your therapist, so you can rest afterwards without worrying about travel.”
A fool is what you are, Sherlock Holmes. You let these feelings in once and now they just seem to be jumping about the place like errant puppies, desperate for attention.
“That’s a kind offer, Mr. Holmes,” Sholto said slowly but with obvious hesitance.
Reluctance, Sherlock thought, call it what it is.
“Expedient, is all it is really,” Sherlock said with nonchalance.
“Yes, expedient, of course it is,” the Major said, a small smirking inching up. He coughed when he realized and looked away.
“Yes, well,” he muttered, “I thank you for the offer.”
“Right,” Sherlock said, quickly clearing up the detritus of tea and making his way to the kitchen, no real goal in mind but to run away from the undesirable situation he had put himself in.
The Major followed after.
“Mr. Holmes,” he began.
“Sherlock.”
Hm. That kind of just, slipped out. First names weren’t really all that personal after all, but then again Sherlock kept getting stuck on “Major” so perhaps it was a little presumptuous.
Sholto gave a tentative, almost nervous smile and ran his hand through his hair.
“It really is a kind offer, but I thought you might be uncomfortable sharing space after only living with John for so long.
Had it been that long? It didn’t seem like it had been near long enough.
“Regardless, the offer was and is genuine.”
He stopped fiddling with the tea things and leaned against the kitchen counter while watching James stand almost at parade rest in the doorway.
Yes, this is going quite nicely. Two unsociable men trying to make…something happen anyway.
Though he’s the most unsociable, Sherlock thought half-scathingly.
“I think I shall take you up on that, then, though this time around perhaps not. I’ve no supplies with me for an overnight stay.”
“I have supplies,” Sherlock said. Oh yes, Sherlock, you do have supplies, why don’t you just get it over with and invite him to your –
“Why Mr. Holmes, sorry, Sherlock. It seems like you’d much rather I stay,” Sholto smiled at him in jest. “Prefer the company of embittered and snappish soldiers, do you?” He smiled to take the bite out of the comment.
On this inside, Sherlock was laughing almost hysterically. Why yes I do, wouldn’t you know it?
It was at that moment that he heard steps lumbering up the stairs to the flat. John, John is here, now, with the Major in my, our kitchen in casual dress, in jeans, we’re both awkwardly standing in the kitchen are we too close does it look awkward like Janine awkward –
The chaotic thoughts ground to a halt with the door to the flat swinging open.
“Sherlock, are you in?” He sounded almost half-desperate, now that Sherlock was really listening. Ah, perhaps it was time for JUDAS. They’d be a little early but Mycroft could handle it, he was sure. If Mary had set things into motion a little early, well, that could only be for the best as far as Sherlock was concerned. Well past time for John to know the truth of things anyway.
James was turning to face John, a pleasant smile on his face in anticipation of seeing an old friend.
But not just an old friend, was he? Sherlock was sure there was more to that, the body language alone was revealing. That was the thing about John Watson; he couldn’t lie or hide things to save his life. Which was a trait he needed to pick up, and soon.
Well then, into battle, Sherlock thought, mind already far from his earlier attempts to woo the Major.
Perhaps John could help with that, later.