Work Text:
John Watson had always thought of himself as boring.
Army doctor, blogger. What else was there to him? Before Sherlock Holmes, nothing happened to him. He wasn't interesting, he didn't have hobbies that he liked. He wasn't really living, not really. He was just sort of... alive.
Then he had met Sherlock Holmes, and his entire world had flipped around.
Sherlock Holmes was interesting. The most interesting man alive, John thought. He had created his own job- a Consulting Detective, he lived in a flat because he had secured the surety of the landlady's husband's death in Florida, he had a mind palace and he could read people in a blink of an eye. He talked to a skull, he played violin, he was an insomniac and a sociopath and utterly, utterly brilliant. His brother was the British security as well as a load of other things, he was a previous Junkie, socially inept...
The list went on, and on, and on. Sherlock Holmes was amazing. He was the darkest shades of the brightest colors that made John's boring, color(less) life so much richer. And the best thing about Sherlock, was that he thought John was the most interesting man alive.
He made John realize all he had.
Because Sherlock noticed that John had scars. He knew that John had a lesbian, alcoholic sister who he didn't get along with, he knew that John had a craving for exhilarating things, that John craved the war and yet was haunted by the stench of death, he noticed that John was short-tempered and short and stubborn and brave, and Sherlock saw that John was accomplished in the skill of medicine, does better with a deadline and under pressure, that he was intimidating and was a good cook. That he had PTSD, although it was different than most cases veterans had.
Sherlock just saw things in John that he didn't even know he had. The sociopath had found some sort of soft spot in John, because whenever they were together, John felt more human. They complemented each other. Sherlock became more human, John felt more human. And together they could do anything.
And then John realized how rare it was for Sherlock to get close to people, the way he was close to John.
(In fact, John realized there were only two people that close to Sherlock. The first was himself, and the second was Mycroft. And really, it was only John, because these days Sherlock closed up around his older brother.)
John was the only person who Sherlock would talk to during danger nights. He was the only person who saw Sherlock crying, sitting in the stairwell and sobbing, holding a syringe in one hand and a scrap of paper writing out a list of whatever was in that syringe. He was the only one who carefully took away the needle and sat next to Sherlock, made sure he hadn't taken anything, and let the detective have a full-blown panic attack. He was the one who calmed him down, dragged him to his room, put him to sleep, and made the tea for him the text morning.
John was the only person who Sherlock would trust with his life.
John was the only person who Sherlock would give a real laugh to.
It made John feel rather special, to be honest. Getting the key to Sherlock's heart wasn't easy, but John seemed to get it after the first case they had together.
(But none of that mattered, because Sherlock was his best friend, and because John was not gay. He wasn't gay. Sure, after meeting Sherlock, every woman he dated seemed boring and strangely mundane, but that didn't mean he was gay. He wasn't bisexual or anything either. No... he wasn't. Really. Really!)
And so they lived.
-=-=-=-=-
There was another case that Lestrade had recommended to Sherlock that very morning, and they had a crime scene to look at in an hour. It was supposedly a double suicide, or at least a staged suicide. Sherlock always found those interesting, in a morbid sort of way that John found both disturbing and disturbingly charming. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock.
"Gray mentioned something concerning an ex-wife. He had something to do with the matter, I'm positive."
John let out a breath of air that was probably a snort. "It's Greg, Sherlock. You've known him for years. Greg Lestrade."
"Greg?"
"Yes, Greg."
Sherlock frowned, looking up from his microscope for a moment before turning back to it, indifferent. "Greg or not, he still said it." John hid a smile and went back to the paper, taking a sip of his tea.
After a few moments, there was a light tap on the door and Mrs. Hudson came wandering in, a tray of something or other in her hands. John quickly hid his cup of tea, taking the new one she handed him. There were things that just were, around 221B. For example, Mrs. Hudson needed to feel like she was helping out or doing something, all the time, always. And if she brought tea, you pretended you never had tea in the first place and you took the tea that was offered.
"Thank you," He said honestly, sipping the new cup. It was fresher, more flavorful... a bit sweeter than John liked, but he would never let it show. She smiled brightly. "Oh, dear, it's nothing, really. Here you are, Sherlock..."
John grinned as Sherlock quickly whisked his own mug unto his gown pocket, jumping slightly as the boiling liquid scalded his thigh. Mrs. Hudson beamed and handed him a cup too, to which he just smiled tightly.
"Double suicides, isn't it? It sounds like something you'd be interested in, Sherlock."
"Already on it."
"Well, I'll leave you to it, then."
After she had walked out again, John stood up and smirked. "How bad is the burn?"
The tea had completely spilled and soaked through the garment. Sherlock sighed, laughing slightly and shrugging the over-gown off. John burst out laughing as tea poured out of the pocket. "You really are a stubborn git, you know that?"
"There's no offending Mrs. Hudson, John." There was a smile in his voice.
-=-=-=-=-
An hour later, Sherlock was wearing his signature coat again, and the two partners were already in a cab, heading to Scotland Yard.
"Honestly Sherlock, I'm telling the truth! I think you're wrong, this time, mate, because I specifically remember-"
"Well, freak, you sure took your sweet time."
John had to hold back a groan as Donovan interrupted him, successfully coming in between Sherlock and Scotland Yard. Instead he just scowled. "We had a time, and we're here on point, alright? Lay off."
Both Sherlock and Sally looked startled by his outburst. He was short-tempered, yes, but usually he kept it in well enough. Sgt. Donovan gaped for another moment before angrily twirling back to the building and stomping back inside.
"What was that all about?"
"Doesn't it bother you?" As soon as the words left his mouth, John snapped his jaw shut with a click. Sherlock wasn't one to let things bother him- or, rather, he wasn't one to let people see how things bothered him. It was an unspoken agreement that they didn't talk about things like that.
So, likewise, Sherlock got defensive immediately. "Why would it?"
"Nevermind." John said shortly, patting Sherlock's shoulder and leading him into the building.
-=-=-=-=-
The bodies were sickeningly grotesque, to say the least.
"First one stabbed themselves multiple times, second body they jumped off a building," Lestrade said in way of explanation. John took a breath before fully examining the two corpses, while Sherlock jumped ahead and took out his kit. Sally snorted at his enthusiasm.
The first body was male, pale skin and flaxen grey hair that had probably looked more blond canary at the time before death. He was tall and lanky- well, significantly taller than Sherlock, but not quite as lanky. He looked normal other than his chest, where there were five gaping stab-wound gashes. Whoever had stabbed him- John was still unsure about the 'suicide' theory- had dragged the knife downwards after it had been inserted, because the slashes were so deep. Some were deeper than others, but the largest was a good foot long. Tissues and muscles and hints of bone were visible, and it would have been pools of blood if it hadn't been cleaned.
The second body was female, with dark skin. She looked younger than the man, but it was hard to tell because her skull had been smashed in.
John had to stop for a second to breathe.
She had jumped off a building.
"Please, can you do this for me?"
Shaking himself out of thoughts like those, he snapped back to the present where Sherlock was rambling on about how her skull was sticking out of her head, one eye had been squashed inside, and both arms had been broken and how that was important somehow.
Christ, wasn't John supposed to be the doctor here?
"-is exactly the ex-wife? Have you spoken to her?"
Greg shrugged nonchalantly. "We haven't been able to find her. She's been missing for years, Sherlock. It's a dead end case."
"She was an alcoholic... she's in Charleston."
From the door frame, Sally gave another exasperated noise of annoyance. John couldn't fight off the smug look that he got when he looked at her. She doesn't have a goddamn clue.
"Charleston?" Lestrade asked skeptically.
"South Carolina, the States."
-=-=-=-=-
The chatter trailed on and on before Sherlock was dragging John off to another room, following Lestrade and Donovan out the door and into what looked like another lab. Molly Hooper was already inside, talking to a tall man in a suit. (All these tall people were making John feel quite short, to be blunt.)
"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, blushing. "Um, hello everyone. This is Callum Park, he's recently got a job here and I was just showing him around. Er-Callum, this is DI Lestrade, Sgt. Sally Donovan, Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. Watson."
Sherlock looked slightly put-out as he had not been given a title.
With that, Molly hurried out of the room, still red-faced.
Callum smiled brightly. John decided he already didn't like this man. He had dark charcoal hair with an undercut, a wide flat face, and shark-eyes that looked like Moriarty's. The suit didn't help, although he was taller than that psychopath.
"Hello, hello. And Mr. Holmes, I've heard so much about you!"
Without giving the man the good grace of even responding to that statement- nobody else other than Callum Park was surprised at this- Sherlock took off to the back of the room to collect samples. Lestrade's phone rang and in a minute he was whisking Sally out, signaling to Sherlock to continue the investigation.
...leaving John with Callum.
"You're Dr. Watson, yeah?"
"Yes, right. John Watson."
In all honesty the man just looked happy to finally have a response. He grinned widely, showing off bright-but-a-little-crooked teeth. "I hear you work with Mr. Sherlock Holmes over there... just be an honor, really."
Another fan of Sherlock's. Oh, brilliant. Bloody hell, he did not have the time for this. He did not have enough time in his life for this. (He was turning into Sherlock, good god. Being socially inept was that man's problem, not John's.)
"Yeah. I mean, not really, actually. He's a pain in the arse."
Callum shuffled his feet and snickered. "He's got a great arse."
John inwardly prayed that Sherlock hadn't heard him say that. But, then again, the detective could probably just tell what he had said by a glance. And how was John-his flatmate- supposed to respond to that? Was it sarcasm? Based on how Callum had been fawning all over Sherlock a moment ago, it was probably flattery. John felt a swell of anger.
"What?!"
"I'm just saying," The other man responded, obviously not taking in John's expression. "That Sherlock Holmes is quite marvelously beautiful, don't you think? I mean, if I shared a flat with him, I'd be snogging him every chance I got."
Before John could retort, Sherlock was back with a box of chemicals.
"Socializing, are we?" He asked, irritation evident. "Come on, John, we've got a serial murderer to catch."
"Serial murderer?" Callum squeaked.
Sherlock let out a long, tired, over-exaggerated and simply annoyed breath. For once, John wasn't about to reprimand him for being rude. He loathed this man already. "Yes, a serial murderer," he said, slowly, as if talking to a child. "An ex-wife, really. Now, if you'll-"
"Can I come with?"
Groaning, Sherlock hurried out the door. "If you must."
It took another two hours for the next tests to come back from forensics, so Callum, Sherlock, and John were all stuck in one conference room to wait. They had god-awful coffee, lukewarm water, and stale biscuits, but otherwise John could feel his stomach lining turning against itself. Greg and Sally had yet to return to this case, as they had obviously gotten something a bit more dangerous to take care of, and Molly had vanished.
"Can you tell me about myself?" Callum asked suddenly, leaning forward until he was face-to-face with an extremely uncomfortable-looking Sherlock Holmes, who stumbled out a, "I'm sorry?"
"Like, you read people, don't'cha? What can you tell about me?"
That bastard. John said, clenching his fist. Sherlock would give in, obviously. He could never resist a challenge or a chance to show off his abilities.
"I know that your name is Callum Park, I know you're thirty-five and you have two white Terriers. I know you live alone because your brother is in the hospital, and I know he is there because he got into a car accident alongside your mother. I know you recently got out of school for this job because this takes time and effort and you were previously a newspaper reporter. I know that you hate socks and you used to bite your nails and you are getting tested for skin cancer."
(John stopped listening twenty minutes into Callum's following speech.)
-=-=-=-=-
It turned out that after the entire fan-thing wasn't working out for him, the man was trying a more direct approach, because soon he was handing Sherlock his personal mobile phone number and his address on a slip of paper. (And the not-so-subtle hints of asking him out on a date, that was.)
Sherlock was oblivious, as always.
"I know this rather lovely place down a few blocks. We don't have time right now, but I've got a gap tomorrow evening?"
"No, thank you."
"Saturday?"
"Busy."
"Sunday?"
"No."
"What about fish and chips?"
"Oh god!"
(Callum stopped for a while after that response.)
The thing was, Sherlock, if he wanted to, could probably date a lot of people. He was interesting, and he drew the sort of people towards him. Sometimes boring people, sometimes kind, sometimes absolute asshats, and sometimes interesting people too. But it really had no effect on him, because Sherlock didn't give the key to his true self that easily. It took trust, which he didn't give away easily. It took that spark- he had to have an interest in the said person.
Callum was not the said person.
He was more like a metaphor, honestly. Watching the two interact, John couldn't help but notice all those little things; the way Sherlock held himself. Like he was guarding something proudly, and he knew that you knew he was guarding something, but you both knew you wouldn't find out what that was because he was so collected. And the way he kept his remarks cut-off and emotionless, unless he was throwing an insult into the mix.
The way he just didn't care.
It made John feel a sick sense of happiness. That he was special, somehow, more special than Sally and Anderson and Lestrade and Callum, like he was some prized thing that Sherlock liked more than the rest. And he rather liked feeling special, because it wasn't boring or ordinary and Sherlock didn't like things that were ordinary so if Sherlock liked John, then John must be interesting.
And John had the key to his heart, and that was very interesting.
(John wasn't gay, or bisexual. Not heterosexual, either, really. Nothing like that. He was only attracted to Sherlock.)
-=-=-=-=-
Walking back into the flat, that night, John was more than pleased when Sherlock thoughtlessly threw both the phone number and the address in the bin.
He hadn't even thought twice. Not once. It was just a fact, just something that was always supposed to happen. Something Sherlock had known he would do before Callum had even given that slip of paper to him.
And when John looked over to the kitchen cabinet to the far left, the one hidden away where no one, not even Mrs. Hudson, got into, John remembered that Sherlock kept a letter in there. It was a letter to Sherlock that John had written when Sherlock was presumed dead. And Sherlock kept it.
He hadn't even thought twice. Not once. It was just a fact, just something that was always supposed to happen. Something Sherlock had known he would do before John had even written that letter to him.
Because John had the key to Sherlock Holmes' heart.