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It’s Mariana’s idea to take the kids to the Natural History Museum on the last day before half term.
John certainly isn’t opposed to a field trip - he’s not a monster - but the two of them have never taken the kids out just the two of them. Stamford is out on medical leave, however, his class split evenly between the two of theirs and leaving them without their usual third. Even so, Mariana is nothing if not insistent. Whatever plan she’s come up with is shockingly easily accepted by the higher ups and they’re set to go on what has thankfully turned out to be a crisp but sunny October afternoon.
Still, wrangling a bunch of rowdy eight year olds on a journey through central London isn’t easy. They giggle and chatter and get easily distracted by pigeons—a massive struggle in a city that seems to be more pigeon than people. Mariana has taken out a long chain of coloured rings which help immensely but by the time they finally make it to the museum, both of them look slightly worse for wear. At least the kids start to settle, seemingly reverential of the large, open hall and the blue whale skeleton that hangs from the ceiling. Plus, they always behave better for strangers.
“Ah, you must be Doctor Watson and Miss Ametxazurra!”
John looks up from where he’s knelt down helping tie a shoe to see a man walking towards them. He isn’t particularly tall but he is taller than John, a wide grin splitting his face. His dark hair is neatly gelled back away from his face with a grey streak up the front, hazel eyes alight with clear joy at seeing the gaggle of children here for their tour. The clothes he wears give off the image of a tenured professor despite his youthful appearance, John’s eyes falling to the name tag adorning his knit cardigan that introduces him as Doctor Victor Trevor, Principal Curator in Charge, Insects. Oh, the kids are going to love that. They’ve taken to digging for worms in the mud before and after class, much to their parents’ - as well as John and Mariana’s - chagrin. Perhaps this will satisfy the bug itch for them.
“Yes, that’s us, hello,” John greets, matching his grin with one of his own and shaking his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Trevor,” adds Mariana as she does the same, cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink against the tan of her skin. He raises an eyebrow at her when she turns to look at him and she pokes him in the side, forcing a huff of laughter from his nose. John supposes he can’t blame her, really. Anyone with eyes can see that Victor Trevor is an attractive man.
“Please, call me Victor,” he insists, looking away only to grab the radio from his pocket whilst seemingly remaining ignorant to Mariana’s swooning. “Paging Doctor Holmes. You’re needed in Hintze Hall. Our tour group is here.”
Oh. John hadn’t realised there would be two guides. He supposes it makes sense, given the size of their group, but it piques his interest nonetheless. He stays quiet as Victor introduces himself to the children and explains his role at the museum, turning over the possibilities of how this is going to go as the little ones ooh and ahh around him. Are they going to be split up or will they be sticking together? He’s hesitant to leave Mariana with just her class and equally hesitant to go off with just his, knowing that this is a new environment and more eyes are what’s best. Four adults to thirty-six kids seems to make sense. John can’t help but shoot Marina a look, clearly indicating that she should have asked this only to get waved off. Well, at least one of them isn’t worried.
Before he even has the chance to say anything about any of this, however, he catches sight of a tall man wearing a lab coat striding out of a back room towards them. A very tall man, he mentally corrects, although he supposes that everyone is very tall when you’re a bit short. He seems exceptionally tall, however, or maybe it’s simply his lanky stature and almost too long limbs. The closer he gets, the more breathless John feels. It’s just as undeniable that this is also a very attractive man, albeit a far more dishevelled one. His dark reddish-brown curls sit askew on his head as if they’d been recently pushed back by his overlarge glasses, ones that sit high on his slightly crooked nose and cover eyes so dark the pupils can barely be seen. He looks just as young as Doctor Trevor - Victor, he mentally corrects - if not even younger, the only lines in deep olive skin the crease between his thick eyebrows.
What could have been a minute or an hour later, the man stops next to and slightly behind Victor, letting out a put upon sigh as the shorter man steps back and places a hand on his shoulder to push him forward towards the two teachers and their students.
“This is Doctor Sherlock Holmes,” Victor introduces, beaming once again as if full of pride for the man beside him. “He’s the Principal Curator in Charge for Algae, Fungi, and Plants. Sherlock, this is Doctor Watson and Miss Ametxazurra, they’re these little ones’ teachers at Eaton House Belgravia. Year four.”
Doctor Sherlock Holmes. It’s John’s turn for pink-stained cheeks, determinedly not looking at Mariana as he holds out a hand. “Please, call us John and Mariana, both of you,” he insists, heart skipping a beat as Doctor Holmes looks him up and down in a way that leaves him feeling almost entirely exposed, like he’s being seen from the inside out.
“Then I insist that you call me Sherlock,” he replies after a long moment, taking John’s offered hand before doing the same with Mariana’s. “What brought you to education after your military service?”
John can’t help but stare at the question, unable to fathom how Sherlock could possibly have a single clue about that. Before he even gets a chance to ask, however, the hem of his coat is being tugged. With an apologetic smile, John ducks, helping to tie another shoe and unzip a coat.
“Right!” Victor exclaims when John stands up again, thankfully helping him avoid having to figure out what sort of question to ask. “I know we’re a pretty big group so Sherlock and I are going to take it in turns. I’ll start us off and Sherlock will finish us out. And with that, let’s get started!”
Mariana quickly makes her way to the front of the pack, two small hands in hers as they all follow Victor down the hall to the left into the dinosaur room. John, in turn, takes the back, figuring that’s the best course of action; no one will get lost if they’re sandwiched in between them.
“Your watch and the way you stand.”
John is startled out of his thoughts at the words, turning towards them and seeing that Sherlock has made his way from where he’d been walking with Victor to his side. The children and their grabbing and tugging have distracted him, he supposes. Or maybe Sherlock is just sneaky.
“What’s that?” John asks after a moment, pulling a tissue out of his pocket to hand to the snotty child at his side.
”That’s how I know you served in the military,” Sherlock answers, shrugging slightly as his fingers tap absent patterns against his thigh. “You stand at ease without being conscious of it. Hands folded against the small of your back when not occupied by a child. You lean slightly more on your right leg which leads me to believe you were injured on your left, although you had already become a teacher before going back. You likely used some sort of military payment scheme to pay for your teacher training postgraduate course the same way they paid for you to go to medical school.”
What the hell is he supposed to say to that? John can’t help but blink up at Sherlock even as they walk deeper into the museum, Victor’s enthusiastic tour and the children’s giggles and questions a low din as he focuses so intently on everything he’s being told. It’s all exactly correct. How is that even possible?
“Did you Google me before this or something?” John can’t help but ask despite knowing that there’s no way for someone to find this level of information just off the internet. “And you didn’t say anything about the watch.”
“Well, it was your father’s,” Sherlock states casually, seemingly unaware of the way he’s just knocked all the air out of John’s lungs with such a simple phrase. “And his father’s before him. An army timepiece, clearly highly valued. Carefully cleaned and taken care of. Time not off by a single second. This isn’t just a watch to you. It’s part of your routine. Some wear on the edges of an otherwise polished face, likely from somewhat frequent contact with sand although faint enough for some time to have passed. If you look at the holes on the band for sizing, you can see where, despite currently wearing it several notches in, wear is noticeable on the very first one. In your military doctor days, you would wear your watch higher on your arm to avoid interaction with an already not quite sterile field.”
Reflexively, John lifts his wrist up to look at his watch, noting all of the things that Sherlock has just pointed out to him for what feels like the first time. He knows these things, logically, being the one who did them; he checks the time every morning, polishes the face just as regularly, remembers the frustration at seeing where sand has worn at the glass and the way knowing his father had likely felt the same had soothed him. How Sherlock has seen all this and put the pieces together is… it’s astounding. There’s no other word for it.
“You need to get a cream for your leg,” Sherlock continues before John can say anything, somehow managing to gesture to the exact portion of his calf that had been so badly burnt in the explosion. “Ammonium nitrate. A fertiliser, commonly used in the creation of homemade bombs. Surgery is a far more permanent fix but, given the already missing portion of your calf, I understand possible hesitance to return under the knife. A cream with one to one-point-five percent hydrocortisone should help with tenderness, itchiness, and swelling.”
“Will you keep your voice down?”
John doesn’t mean to snap, really he doesn’t, but talking about what had happened to him always sets him immediately on edge. What he’d done by taking a term off school to go to Ukraine as an assistant surgeon hadn’t exactly been legal, and children talked. And children also didn’t need to hear about their beloved teacher getting blown up by some Russian soldier just a few months back. Still, he feels bad when Sherlock looks slightly taken aback, even if he doesn’t quite understand how he’d think it was okay to just blurt all that out in the first place.
“You’re right, okay? And that’s… mental. Really, really mental,” John continues, not sure if ‘really, really’ is the best substitute for ‘absolutely fucking,’ but it’s all he has. “Just… time and place, yeah?”
Sherlock looks around then, as if he’d forgotten entirely that the only reason they were there together now is because of a field trip. It’d be more endearing if John didn’t feel like an exposed nerve.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replies, clearing his throat as he looks down to a child tugging at his lab coat before offering him the requested hand to hold even as he looks terribly uncomfortable to be doing so. It is a bit strange, John realises, that two men so high up in the museum hierarchy are the ones giving a massive tour to a bunch of children. It’s clear that Sherlock doesn’t spend much time around children. Much time around other people, really. Given the awkwardness that now hangs between them, John declines to ask. He looks down at his watch, stifling back a groan at the realisation that only twenty minutes have gone by.
This is going to be a long fucking day.
As suspected, things remain awkward between himself and Sherlock for the rest of the morning. John begins to wish he’d tried harder to sway Mariana away from this.
Well, no. He doesn’t, not really. The awkwardness between them isn’t for lack of trying to make things better. It just feels as if they each keep managing to say the exact wrong thing. Even so, John has a feeling that if they can get on the same footing, this could be something really good. Possibly a stupid thought to have about someone he’s known for all of three hours but one that continues to persist nonetheless.
The next time they get to have a conversation that isn’t the two of them taking turns shoving their feet in their mouths is lunch. The kids are all sitting in a large circle on the grass outside the front of the museum as they munch away on their pre-packed sandwiches and crisps, giggling and chatting and eagerly anticipating a game Victor has told them they’ll play as soon as everyone is done eating. He’s ridiculously good with the kids, although John still isn’t certain how he ended up their tour guide. Maybe it’s just a bit of fun for him, something to do that isn’t his usual job. He and Mariana sit on a bench opposite to the one he’s forced Sherlock to claim with him, having some sort of conversation that involves wildly gesticulating hands and bright laughs that can be heard across the courtyard.
John and Sherlock haven’t spoken a word to each other since they sat down.
Somehow, despite their awkward fumbling throughout the day, the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s a bit heavy with things unsaid but there’s no real tension or awkwardness. If they hadn’t stumbled so much during the day, it might even be nice.
“Look, mate, I just wanted to say that the, uh… thing. You did earlier. About… me. That. It was, uh… yeah. Pretty brilliant.”
John feels heat rise to his face as he says it, eyes turned down to the packet of crisps sitting in his lap even as he feels Sherlock’s dark eyes turn on him. Even after just a few hours of knowing him, John can see the raised eyebrow and pursed lips in his mind’s eye. Christ, he’s already being rather ridiculous about this man.
“You seemed rather uncomfortable with it,” Sherlock replies after a pause, his eyes still burning a hole in the side of John’s head.
“I just… I mean, I was,” John admits, carding a hand through sandy hair before finally turning to look up at Sherlock. “I don’t talk about my dad, or my… er. Recent service. Especially not in front of the kids. It caught me… very, very off guard. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t brilliant, cos fucking hell, it was fantastic.”
Sherlock visibly preens under the praise and John feels his shoulders sag slightly in relief. This seems like the right foot, finally, and he feels better for having actually managed to spit all of that out.
“My timing was a bit poor,” Sherlock almost begrudgingly admits, face scrunched up as if he’s annoyed to even have to admit to maybe being slightly in the wrong. “I don’t often spend time around children. I forget how they talk.”
“Why are you giving our tour?” John asks, tilting his head as he looks over at Sherlock. He can’t help the small grin at Sherlock’s immediate eye roll and huff of exasperation.
“It was entirely Victor’s idea,” he complains in earnest, tucking one leg up to his chest. “He loves kids, wants about fifty. ‘Oh, Sherlock! We never get to give tours! Won’t this just be so fun? I couldn’t possibly do it alone, you have to join me!’ Fully begged me for about a week straight until I gave in just to get him to leave me alone so I could actually get work done.”
The impression really is a startlingly accurate one, and John can’t help but laugh. That makes far more sense than anything John could have thought of, absolutely accounts for Sherlock’s utter discomfort around the kids; as if they could sense it, they had all flocked to him like tiny sheep in their little puffer coats.
“Well, I think you two are doing great,” John replies with a smile, quickly amending his words at the sharp look he gets from Sherlock. “Alright, alright. Victor is doing a great job. And you’re tolerating the clingers very well.”
“That’s more like it.”
John rolls his eyes but the smile stays on his face, affection warming his chest in a way he’d never expected. Especially not after the morning’s fumble. It’s strange but nice. Really nice.
“You never answered my question, by the way,” Sherlock continues, interrupting John’s musing. “Why did you choose education after your military service? There’s always a need for doctors, yet you chose to stray from that path to teach even though you had to receive further postgraduate education to do so.”
John frowns slightly at the question. He’s not offended by it, of course he’s not, but the words ring through his head in his mother’s voice nonetheless. None of his explanations had ever been good enough for her, but he supposes that he had never been fully honest with her either.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Sherlock continues after a beat, as if sensing that he may have crossed that line all over again. John shakes his head and waves him off, swallowing thickly.
“I was… jaded, I suppose,” he admits, thumb absentmindedly rubbing the leather band of his watch. “I mean, not towards medicine. I think that’s… y’know. A worthy endeavour or what have you. And I did go back to it, in Ukraine. But my first deployment… Even though I was a doctor, it wasn’t what I thought it would be. I thought… I dunno. I thought I’d be helping more. But while I was there, I taught English to a group of kids around this age. Was pretty obvious what I was meant to do after that.”
It feels a bit stupid, saying it out loud. Being a doctor is a noble profession, one of the most noble, and it’s likely very different being a doctor at home than it is abroad, amidst a war. Still, John had never felt as fulfilled as he had that day in a blown out warehouse with a handful of little ones, seeing the joy spark across their features as they slowly began to understand more and more of what was being said and read and written to them. Going back to school had been worth it to get this. Plus, he’d gotten Mariana out of it too. That’s something he wouldn’t change for anything.
“It was a good choice,” Sherlock replies contemplatively, head tipped in thought. “It’s plainly obvious how much the children adore you. Children’s affection is easily earned but not as easily kept. Granted, they have only been your students for one half of one term, but I find that sufficient enough time for them to have drawn their conclusions.”
Despite the frankly ridiculous formality of the language, John finds heat rushing up his neck to his face once again. “Thanks, mate,” he replies somewhat sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
It’s then that whatever game Victor has been playing with the kids concludes - John has missed it starting entirely, all wrapped up in Sherlock Holmes - and he comes bounding over to the two of them with a wide smile across his face. There’s a thin sheen of sweat across his brow, previously gelled hair now halfway to tussled, and he catches his breath with three children attached to him. John can see then how he’d want fifty kids. Mariana and the rest of the kids are all lying flat on their backs, staring up at the clouds as she spouts off some story off the top of her head. They love when she does that; John does too.
“Right! That’s our game all done, then,” Victor states cheerily, patting the top of a head that rests against his thigh. “So, we’ve got the other wing and the gardens to go through now, which should take us about the same amount of time with all the hands on bits. Sherlock, do you want to take this one?”
“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock answers simply, shrugging slightly as he does. “They like you. You carry on and I’ll chime in when I have something to say.”
Despite John’s shock at Sherlock’s brazenness, Victor looks resigned to it in a way that tells him this has been previously anticipated. He can’t help but exhale a laugh at the realisation, carefully schooling his face into a neutral expression as Victor turns to look at him in a way that makes Sherlock snort out a laugh of his own.
“Yes, alright,” Victor gives in with a put upon sigh, the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth showing that he doesn’t truly mean it. “I’ll give the rest of the tour. But you’d better interject at least once.”
“Yes, sir,” Sherlock retorts with a cheeky salute, earning another sigh and a very subtle middle finger scratch of the nose from Victor before he walks back over to Mariana to start herding the kids.
John turns to ask Sherlock what that’s all about but receives an answer before the words can even come out.
“We met at Cambridge during our undergraduate days. He decided we were friends and I had no say in the matter. He followed me to London for graduate school, which was slightly more understandable than him following me here because we were dating then.”
Oh. Somehow that’s not what John expected to hear. He’d assumed they’d met here, become close as colleagues and then friends, not that they had a whole life and history together.
Sherlock seems to bristle at whatever face John has inadvertently pulled at this. “If you have an issue with that, you can—”
“No!” John exclaims quickly, cheeks hot as he shakes his head. “No issue at all! Sorry. Sorry, I was just… surprised. Sort of assumed you’d met here.”
For what it’s worth, Sherlock seems a bit sheepish at his immediate reaction, even if John can hardly blame him for it. “Most do,” he admits, hands in the pockets of his lab coat as they walk towards the group of recently gathered children. “I suppose our relationship is a rather unconventional one. He is my first and best friend, yet we were romantically entangled for three years in the middle of it all. Most friendships end after the ending of the romantic partnership but we only grew closer. As is made evident by him following me here despite a rather lucrative offer from the Science Museum across the road.”
John tilts his head in thought. “It must be nice, though,” he replies after a moment, the pair taking the rear of the group once more as Victor leads them back into the museum towards the other wing. “Having that sort of relationship with someone. I mean, I thought my ex and I were close, until… y’know.”
He gestures vaguely to his leg, absently itching his thigh at the thought. Carrie wasn’t a bad person by any means. John wouldn’t act like she was, even if her actions after his return from Ukraine had been less than kind. He’s been telling himself that everything happens for a reason, a mantra passed along from his mum that he’d never quite been able to believe. It seems to be holding pretty true now, though. Every choice he’s made has led up today. That feels significant, worthwhile.
“Anyway,” John continues after a too long pause. “Point is, it’s good. That you two are close.”
Sherlock seems to contemplate this, head tipping in thought. “It is,” he agrees slowly, a small frown coming to his face. “She left because of what happened?”
There’s no helping the heat that comes to his face at the question, hand moving to rub the back of his neck. “I… yeah,” John admits, letting out a small sigh. “Ran off with one of my mates, left me with the dog. But really, it’s… I mean, not fine. Bit of a sh—bad thing to do to someone. But it was for the best in the end, y’know? Archie and I moved in with Mari and things have been good.”
They really have been but luckily, this conversation is ended by a tug on the hem of his jumper and the following pause in their walking to help blow a nose. It’s not that John minds talking about it, really. It’s just a bit pathetic, ending up too blown up and broken for the girl he’d promised forever to. Out of nowhere too, it all had been. Fucking hell, he really was a mess.
Exhaling a sigh and offering hand sanitiser to the girl before him, John stands upright and takes her hand to lead her back over to the group, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he sees Sherlock has migrated to the front. It’s clear that Victor has insisted he lead this part of the tour and, despite looking slightly put upon, there’s a sparkle of excitement in those dark eyes as he jumps into it all.
Sherlock is utterly captivating. John can’t help but cling to every word he says, has to resist the urge to let his hand shoot into the air when a question is posed just to prove he’s been listening. Despite his earlier implication of not particularly liking children, he’s very good with them, explaining things in the plainest of ways while also keeping them exciting. He encourages questions and answers them no matter how vague or specific while going into enough detail to explain without overwhelming, their attention entirely rapt as they’re led out to the gardens. They go through the wetlands and woodlands to the ponds whilst being given a very thorough description of the varying flora of each ecosystem, all of this concluding with a smooth transition back to Victor via a demonstration of pond dipping to look at insects.
John is rendered nearly speechless by the time Sherlock returns to join him at the back. Not nearly, actually. He is speechless, in awe of the man standing at his side once more. As they walk back into the museum, John searches for something to say that expresses just how incredible he thinks Sherlock is, feeling the taller man’s eyes on him as they walk.
“I don’t understand why you were so against giving a tour.” Is what John eventually settles on when they’ve finally made it to the gift shop, the kids running amuck picking out trinkets and bits they want to buy. “You were… I mean, that was brilliant. Really, you’re… yeah. Wow.”
Shockingly enough, a flush begins to creep its way up Sherlock’s neck, his hand lifting to rub the back of it.
“It was nothing, really,” he insists as modestly as one who knows they’re impressive can pull off. “I simply enjoy my area of expertise. I would be terrible at giving a tour of everything the way Victor did.”
“Come off it,” John retorts, a grin on his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You don’t give a tour like that just cos you’re passionate about something. I mean, really.”
“I suppose I am good at capturing attention when necessary,” Sherlock begrudgingly admits even as a smug smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “And children are… well. Sometimes, I find that I prefer their company to most adults. They haven’t quite learned what they are and aren’t meant to lie about yet. Their brutal honesty is refreshing.”
John can’t help but laugh at that, his own grin widening as Sherlock’s does. “That is very fair,” he agrees easily, although his smile falters slightly as he looks down at his watch. Where had the time gone?
“Your mobile.”
“...What?”
John blinks up at Sherlock as he stands with his hand held out, trying to understand what he could possibly mean by that and getting an impatient huff in return.
“Give me your mobile,” Sherlock elaborates as if it should be obvious. It isn’t, but John does as told anyway. He watches quietly as he opens it and types something, brows furrowing at a quiet ding from Sherlock’s coat as it’s handed back to him.
“My number,” he explains, looking far less confident than he had when demanding John’s mobile. “In case you’d… like a private tour sometime.”
John can’t help but grin widely, making quick work of saving the number in his phone. This isn’t one he wants to lose.
“Be careful,” he replies teasingly, cheeks dusted pink beneath freckles. “Cos I will take you up on that. Might even insist you take me to lunch after.”
Sherlock’s confidence and smile returns then, so bright it makes John’s heart swell in his chest. Stupid, maybe, to feel so strongly about someone he’s barely known a day but this feels right somehow, feels like something incredibly meant to be finally coming to fruition. It seems as if Sherlock feels the same and he’s grateful not to be alone in it.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Sherlock says easily, eyes flitting across John’s face in a way that makes him feel as if his soul is laid bare out on the floor between them. Somehow, he doesn’t care. They make their way over to where Victor and Mariana stand by the tills, helping count money and children to make sure everything and everyone is accounted for. And then it’s over.
Victor leads them all back into Hintze Hall under that blue whale skeleton, all of the children making various noises of disappointment at the realisation that this means the day is over.
“It’s been great having all of you,” Victor insists, shaking Mariana’s hand and then John’s. He pauses for the briefest moment with a slight eyebrow raise at John, his smile turning into a grin at the way he flushes pink once again. If he and Sherlock are anything like himself and Mariana, he knows from that look alone that Sherlock is in for quite the interrogation.
“Thank you again for having us,” Mariana replies, shaking Victor’s and then Sherlock’s hands. “Really, we all learned so much. You’ll have to send me that recipe you were telling me about, although I have a feeling we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”
God, were they really that obvious? Perhaps it was less that they were obvious and more that Mariana and Victor were the people who knew them best in the world. John can at the very least hope that’s where the obviousness comes from.
“It seems as if we might be,” Sherlock replies before Victor can, eyes on John as he speaks before he turns to Mariana with a smile.
They finish their goodbyes then. John feels Sherlock’s eyes on his back as he and Mariana herd their kids out the door to the street, quickly distributing rings on a rope to each child to begin the trek back to campus. They’re far more well-behaved on this end of the field trip, all chatting about the things Doctor Trevor and Doctor Holmes had shown them, and are rewarded with a semi-related movie in Mariana’s classroom to finish the day.
“Still think we shouldn’t have gone on that field trip?” Mariana asks with a wink once all the children are settled with snacks, earning herself a shoulder shove as she laughs and moves to sit cross-legged amidst the kids. John thinks he might owe her his first born child for this one, actually.
He’s just settled at Mariana’s desk when he hears his phone ding.
There’s a new exhibition opening at the end of next week. Shall I expect to see you there?
Depends. What’s in it for me?
Dinner. Daquise on Friday at 7. And a very thorough tour.
Have it all planned out, do you?
Indeed.
John grins at his phone, feeling all of sixteen years old with a crush again as he replies:
Indeed. I’ll see you then.
See you then. Looking forward to it.
Me too.
And he is. He really bloody is.