Chapter Text
They here running like madmen through alleyways, Sherlock claiming he knows a shortcut and based on his deductions he knows exactly where to intercept the perpetrator at the appropriate place and time, given that the perpetrator has had approximately a five minute head start.
Don’t ask John because he’d never be able to tell you how Sherlock knows that, and three months on the – John hesitates to call it a Job. Honestly, he doesn’t know how he ended up in this arrangement. One day he’s by his bland pension-money bedside, and the next he’s shot a cabbie to save a man he met just hours earlier.
So, three months on, he can’t deduce like Sherlock or solve cases by himself, but he’s a damn fine crackshot, and a bloody good doctor, and thus continues to assist Sherlock on his cases.
That’s how John found himself running blindly after Sherlock, trusting he knows the way. John does trust Sherlock, despite their short acquaintance. Living together has proven difficult at the start, what with 3 am violin shredding and odd body parts laying about the flat, but ultimately, John was drawn to the detective’s character, and the adrenaline that comes with being Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate and assistant.
John took a rough left, and he saw Sherlock crouching by a large bin. Joining him, John tried speaking but Sherlock’s hand clapped around his mouth, the other supporting his head. John received a do be quiet look. He didn’t have time to signal back a message because he was caught in Sherlock’s eyes, that deep, mesmerizing, focused gaze of his.
It was over in five seconds, as Sherlock heard the perpetrator running towards their alley, and thus jumped him from behind, with John closely following by.
The whole thing was over in a minute, John subdued the man, they secured his wrists in handcuffs and waited for lestrade to show up with the rest of scotland yard.
“You two want a ride back?” Lestrade called to them.
John and Sherlock exchanged a look. “We should take it up, it’ll probably rain,” John gestured to the police car waiting.
“If you want, go ahead, I’ll walk,” Sherlock replied, turning his coat collar up.
“We’ll walk, thanks Lestrade!” John answered.
“You’ll freeze, John! Goodluck! He never brings an umbrella even though we both know he can deduce when it’s going to rain!” Lestrade shot a look at the sky and ducked to get in the car.
“Yeah, Sherlock, is this a ‘doing the opposite of Mycroft in spite of him’ situation?” John asked, as they walked down the road, shoulder to shoulder.
“Did you deduce that from the fact that my brother always carries one and you’ve never seen me carry one?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.
“I’m taking that as a no, then.”
They continued walking in silence. And soon enough, the sky started pouring on them.
“Ah, there goes London summers, gotta love it,” John said as he tightened his jacket around him.
“No need to get dramatic, John, you can carry your own umbrella if you mind it so much. Or, accept Graham’s offer.”
“Greg.”
“Hmm?”
“Oh, nothing. And no, I’d rather…walk with you. I’m bringing that umbrella next time, though.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The next time John remembers to snatch an umbrella while going out to interview a potential suspect, and it came handy as a weapon. It goes the usual, Sherlock being blunt and John trying to cushion it, until they got what they needed. A confrontation later led them to another chase.
They apprehended the suspect, but not before John got a superficial cut on his arm while dodging the suspect’s pocket knife.
“John, are you alright?!”
“Yes, yeah, just superficial, doesn’t even need stitches,” John panted, trying to catch his breath, nudging the suspect with the umbrella, making sure he’s out cold.
“Wait, let me see,” Sherlock gripped his arm, surprisingly gentle, John thought, and turned to inspect it.
“See? I’m alright,” John said quietly, the adrenaline lowering and the pain increasing. Despite the pain, he took note of Sherlock’s worrisome expression before it was wiped clear.
“Yes, quick superficial, no stitches needed, indeed. Good hit, with the umbrel – Ah, Lestrade’s here.” Sherlock took off to get the DI.
They bid their farewells to Lestrade, promising to stop by the station tomorrow, and John once again declined the car ride. The odd look Sherlock had given him, however, wasn’t missed by John.
They took off, stopping by a place near the scene of the arrest to get some takeaway.
“We can grab a cab and head home, disinfect and treat your wound, John. And it will rain approximately…” Sherlock takes a look around him, then at the sky, then looks at John, “seven minutes from now.
Ah, John thought, so that was that odd look he gave me earlier. “What, and miss out on the opportunity to use this bad boy? Tough enough to knock out a suspect, and protective enough against hypothermia!” John joked back, making Sherlock chuckle, and God, that sound. John earned himself a few glances from nearby customers, he lowered his voice, “I’m fine, it’s wrapped enough till we get back.”
True to Sherlock, it started pouring seven minutes later. Sherlock paused, gave him a 30 second head start to open the umbrella and “viola!” he exclaimed, “safely sheltered against the drizzle,” just as the light pouring began.
Sherlock was quiet. Too quiet. John risked a look at him, and what he saw was confusing. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. We’ll take left here. Shortcut.” Sherlock answered, and walked in long strides.
John struggled to keep up after him, and had trouble covering them both with the umbrella. Not to mention the detective’s height as well. John’s straining his already tired arms.
“Oi! Hold up, you’re tall enough as it is, walk at my pace, you git, or you’ll get soaked!”
The detective paused. For a long minute. It was disconcerting. John lifted his other arm, snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock, calling his name. He shouldn’t have used the bad arm because a sting of pain shot through him, and he hissed.
Sherlock sprung to life at that. “Don’t, your arm, don’t use it until we deal with it, and give you painkillers. Here, give me that,” Sherlock took John’s umbrella, and held it above them both.
“You don’t have to –,” John began protesting before Sherlock interrupted.
“John, don’t argue with me,” he said, and kept a pace that matched John’s, who was pleasantly surprised.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, Sherlock carrying the takeaway and umbrella, and John right by his side.
It felt nice, to have someone else carry do something nice for him. Usually he holds the item for his dates or girlfriends, it’s a nice change of pace. Especially coming from Sherlock.
~~~~~~~~~~
Later that night, John sat nursing his tea by the fireplace, Sherlock opposite him, fiddling with his violin. The firelight danced across his face, casting shadows and highlighting his rather unique features.
There was something that played on his mind. Sherlock’s odd behavior while taking a walk. Sherlock’s reaction was that of utter confusion and, something else, John can’t make it out. He knew if he asked now, Sherlock wouldn’t tell him. This feels personal, and although John’s comfortable enough, Sherlock is hiding amid layers and layers, the man is an enigma. And John will let him be, for now, enjoying this March evening.
He also secretly looked forward to sharing his umbrella.
~~~~~~~~~~
Christmas is hectic and busy, not only with a murder but with hosting the dinner. Even Harriet managed to get to London and meet the man John has been talking about for so long. “Oh, he is rather dashing, John! in a weird sort of way," she had said at which case Sherlock's head whipped around so fast John wanted to kill Harry.
Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and even Mycroft popped in for a visit. Once the party left, John relished in the quiet, and some nice tea by the fireplace, mirroring so many similar nights.
Sherlock was playing a soft melody that washed over him, and John let go. When it was over, John smiled at the detective. “Sherlock?”
“John, whatever it is you’re about to say, or ask, might I advise you to think it over when you’re sober?” Sherlock pointedly looked at the empty champagne bottle they opened with dinner.
“Oh no, you aren’t escaping this time,” John said smugly, “that first night I brought my umbrella with me, you acted odd around it, and then proceeded to carry it instead of me, which makes sense given that I was more or less injured on the job. Still, twice you paused and got lost somewhere in your head. Now, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I can deduce as much that it might have been either a memory, or some other grand revelation. And the part that I can’t deduce, is what about? Because I can’t find anything significant. It was an ordinary day – well – as ordinary as our days are.”
A few moments of silence as Sherlock studied John. John, for his part, waited patiently. Trying to convey his curiosity and acceptance, in case Sherlock was hesitant about John’s reaction.
“Fair enough.” Sherlock said, and went to open another bottle, grabbing glasses and pouring them some.
“Thought we drank enough already?” John remarked in a teasing tone.
“Shut up, John, and drink,” Sherlock replied.
“Stop stalling. Go on. I can already tell there’s a story in there somewhere.”
Sherlock stared at his glass as he began, “my brother and I weren’t always like how we are now, John. In fact, we were very close when we were younger. My brother was protective, and I was weak enough that I got ill a lot as a child. Therefore, in the countryside, when we would wander out and about the forest or village, Mycroft would accompany me with an umbrella. He bought it specifically for this purpose, knowing that I either forgot to bring my own when heading out or simply not caring. It had our initial ingrained in it, we each did ours.”
Sherlock smiled a sad one, took a sip from his glass, and John kept quiet, giving him space. Some of the puzzle pieces started to slide together, but not quite.
“During school, Mycroft would walk me, and I was already….an outcast, but the –, ” Sherlock paused, worrying his lips, an unconscious habit he does around people he trusts.
“Bullying,” John supplemented quietly, barely a whisper, but audible, not wanting to break the moment. Giving the man space to welcome John in.
“Yes, the bullying. I didn’t care for it at the start but as I aged, it started to matter. Especially since Mycroft would carry the umbrella over us all the time, the rain wasn’t a condition. I remember lashing out at my brother, to stop treating me like a child. Although I must admit, I rather liked it. I didn’t have….I grew up lonely, John.
“We still went out together but Mycroft gradually stopped using the umbrella for its original purpose and instead, used it as a stick for walking. When he switched to the boarding school, I…..We didn’t part ways well. He was rarely home, and then university, and eventually the government. Our distance grew and he left me with our parents. I didn’t have anyone.
So, John, you may forgive me if a few memories were stirred that day. I haven’t used an umbrella nor has anyone….and you’re my friend, and your act was one that showed me that……..” Sherlock sighed, and John could feel the walls starting to come back up.
“I care about you?” John finished for him.
“It’s stupid, just an umbrella,” Sherlock mumbled.
“No. I mean, it’s not stupid. It’s not. I understand. And thank you for telling me.”
“And no, it’s not the same umbrella Mycroft currently uses, he has the one with our initials safely stored away, I deduced. And I don’t carry one because it reminds me of….before.”
“He still cares, you know, your brother. He could break the habit but he doesn’t, maybe it reminds him of you,” John voiced his thoughts aloud.
“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, sipping the rest of his champagne before looking John dead in the eye. “And you? What’s your story?”
John snorted. “There’s no bloody chance of anything going past you, is there? I’ve been so careful not to even think about it when you’re in the room!”
“Go on then, I noticed your demeanor, you were rather enthusiastic every time you got to use your umbrella and….” Sherlock trailed, looked away and back again, “everytime I took hold of it.”
John took a deep breath, and let the words rush out. “It’s really simple, really. I like caring for people and you’re the worst at taking care of yourself so, I like my loved ones healthy and not catching a cold. Like I used to do with Harry” He stood up, cracking his back and bid Sherlock goodnight.
John knew he wanted to say more, and knew his hasty retreat was spotted for what it was, and he realized what he may or may not have implied. John also realized that Sherlock held back, but what was left unsaid was felt in the room.
~~~~~~~~~~
For the next year, Sherlock predicted the weather and John acted accordingly, secretly ravishing while using the umbrella. And Sherlock, for his part, felt content, as far as John could tell.
Carrying that umbrella became second nature at some point. And Sherlock holding it over them when John was injured, was something John never thought he’d miss.
That is until the funeral. Everything was a blur, and tears mixed with raindrop streaks. Sherlock was busy being in a coffin several feet underground to hold the umbrella