Chapter Text
The beating of my heart is a drum, and it's lost
and it's looking for a rhythm like you.
“Making Love Out of Nothing At All,” Air Supply
Blood drips from Sherlock’s forehead. He watches, in mild interest, as the blood patters in a syncopated dance on the concrete floor. He shifts his face as one droplet falls beside his shoe. Italian leather isn’t cheap to come by, after all. Besides, the shoes were a gift.
High heels click against the dirty floor. Sherlock feels her presence behind him and he sits up as straight as he can considering the zip ties around his ankles and wrists. He feels cool metal run across his cheek.
“You haven’t shaved, Sherlock,” She observes, her gun running along a scruffy cheek. “It’s a good look for you. Makes you seem more…unhinged.”
Sherlock tries not to smirk. “I have to keep some degree of sanity in my appearance. I have an international reputation to uphold, after all.” This was a truthful response, but not the reason he shaved even on days when there were no cases and he stayed in his pajamas all day. That reason could be narrowed down to a single word. “You’ve made a mistake, Mary.”
She laughs, removing the knife from his skin. “Are you kidding? You made the mistake, Sherlock. You deduced wrong. You deduced me wrong.”
“You should hardly worry yourself with my deductions at a time like this.”
Sherlock hears the sound of a gun being cocked and feels cold metal pressed against his temple. Mary steps into his line of sight and Sherlock can’t help but grin. It takes It
It takes Mary a moment to realize he’s not grinning at her, but instead, at the man pointing a gun at her back.
Mary turns and grins, stepping back so that John may see his bruised and battered friend. John locks eyes with Sherlock before turning a cold stare on Mary.
Mary raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t shoot your wife, would you, John?”
John laughs. At first, it is a surprised chuckle, but is dissolves into something harsh and determined and angry which, as it ends, makes the room feel colder. “I don’t have a wife,” John says before firing his gun.
Later, John and Sherlock sit side by side in an ambulance, both wrapped in shock blankets they don’t actually need. Lestrade stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyes showing his blatant confusion and anger.
“You shot Mary Watson?” Lestrade asks for the third time.
Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh, but John nods firmly. “Yes.”
“Your wife?”
“No.”
“I saw you marry her.”
“Yes, but it was an illegitimate marriage.”
Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose. “So you lied to everyone and had us all celebrate a fake wedding?”
“Technically, Mary didn’t know it was fake, so it was partially in earnest,” Sherlock argues.
“Yes. I invited you to my fake wedding,” John says after giving Sherlock a look. “Then again, you all seemed to enjoy it and seeing as no one came to my real wedding, I’m still glad you took the time to come.”
Lestrade stops him with a hand. “Hold it. So you’re actually married?”
John nods, giving Lestrade a barely contained grin. “Yes, I am. Have been for ten years, ten months, twenty seven days, sixteen hours,” John looks at his watch, “thirty three minutes and…”
“Twelve seconds,” Sherlock offers.
John gives him a quick smile before turning back to Lestrade. “About fifteen seconds.”
“To whom?!”
“To Sherlock Holmes.”
Lestrade turns and sits heavily beside John on the ambulance. John offers him a shock blanket which he takes mutely. “Right,” Lestrade mutters. “Right, why don’t you start at the beginning?”
“Which beginning?”
“Just…tell me everything. Tell me all the lies, Sherlock. Every single one.”
“Right,” John says, “of course, Lestrade, of course.” He pauses before beginning his story. They do not leave the ambulance until John (with frequent interruptions from Sherlock) finishes the explanation. They are silent for a moment as Lestrade absorbs everything.
“That…is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”
Sherlock smirks, “It was the case of a lifetime.”
~*~
According to John, the game began when he stepped into the lap at St. Bart’s.
Sherlock argued that, with that logic, the game had begun six weeks earlier when John had returned invalidated from Afghanistan. But for John, a game is only a game when all the pieces are in play, and that only happened when Mike Stamford brought him to Sherlock Holmes. Now, John thought, glancing at a mop of curls poking out from behind a microscope, comes the fun bit.
A pair of piercing eyes assessed him and John had to hold back his grin.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
That night, John had been woken to the sound of someone drunkenly singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ outside his door. Grimacing, John limped to the door and stepped back as a wiry hobo fell into his flat.
“John,” the man slurred, attempting to steady himself against the coffee table.
“Can I help you?” John smirked, crossing his arms and watching the man put on a show of rediscovering his legs.
A flash of familiar eyes and a wicked grin. “Not at all.” He began to look around the flat, picking up things at random and frowning. He licked the bottom of John’s lamp before turning to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
“So, what should I call you, then? Strange Scoundrel Making Tea seems a mite long,” John said, sitting at the kitchen table and watching as the hobo made tea.
“Scoundrel?” He mused, setting a mug of tea in front of John and sitting across from him, stirring sugar into his own drink. “You may call me Basil.”
John nearly chocked on his tea.
Basil grinned. “Be careful, John, the tea is still hot.”
John glared at him over his cup. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Of course not.”
“I have a letter for you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Follow the directions exactly.” Basil drew a greasy envelope from his coat and slid it across the table.
“Is that all it is, directions?” John asks, pulling the envelope toward his chest.
“Of course not.”
Basil left without finishing his tea. He glared at the cane in John’s grasp but said nothing. He threw a lazy wave across his shoulder as he strolled out of the building, whistling ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ John had waited until Basil was gone from sight before closing the door and returning to his cold bed. He opened the letter, reading the instructions carefully before putting them on his bedside table. At the bottom of the envelope was a letter with four words written across it. John blinked hard before getting up and putting the note in a shoebox under his bed.
He did not sleep well that night.
Neither, of course, did Basil, but John didn’t like to think about that.
According to Sherlock, the game began on September 21, 2005 at precisely 10:37:04 am.
John complained that, with that logic, the game had actually begun on January 7, 2000, at around 1:30 am. But for Sherlock, games are only fun when others are willing to play. What is a game without an adversary, after all? And what is a proper dash across London without a partner? Now, Sherlock thought as he assessed the doctor with the unforgiveable cane, the game is on.
“Good shot,” Sherlock said, eyes shining in the police lights.
“Yes. Must have been, through that window.”
“Well you’d know.”
Sherlock and John stared at each other, trying very hard not to burst out laughing. It was easier for John, seeing as he also wanted to punch Sherlock in the nose for being such a moron.
They go through the motions of talking, skirting around each other, both of their minds wandering to the moment in which a bullet had been shot through two windows and into a dying man’s shoulder. And suddenly, they are laughing. Well, giggling really. Donovan gives them an odd look, and as far as John’s concerned, that’s an added bonus to this frankly terrific day. Sherlock had given him back his leg as well as the promise of adventure and a cozy flat.
“Dinner?” Sherlock asked and John nearly did laugh.
Instead, he merely said, “Starving,” as though it were the punchline to an inside joke.
John had met Sherlock the night before he did his first tour in Afghanistan. His friends had invited him out for a drink and his parents had wanted to take him out to dinner, but John had wanted to go to Kensington Gardens, so that’s exactly what he did.
John took a blanket, a radio, and a liter of Coke and sat in the park until the sun went down and he could play his music as loud as he wanted.
That is where Sherlock had found him, looking up at the stars and humming along to “Dancing in the Moonlight.”
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
John returned from his daydream to find a pair of quicksilver eyes dissecting him. He blinked up at a pale face framed by a mop of chestnut curls and felt his face go hot as the lyrics, supernatural delight, came to mind. “Afghanistan,” he mustered. “Sorry, how did you know that?”
“Why aren’t you with your friends? You obviously have some.”
John shrugged, “I didn’t feel like going out…Do you want to sit?”
John made room for him on the blanket and after a pause in which an elegant eyebrow was raised, he sat down beside John.
John offered him his hand. “I’m John Watson.”
“Doctor.”
“Yes. How do you do that?”
“I observe. Why will you miss London more than your loved ones?”
There was a silence as the song became a commercial and John turned off the radio. When he spoke, it was to the stars. “I’ll make friends, I always have. In regards to loved ones…I suppose I don’t love any of them as much as I probably should. But London...the only place I’ve ever wanted to live was London…tell me how you ‘observe’ or whatever.”
He grinned. “Your hands. They are small and calloused, they match the set in your shoulders which, although still boyish, are in the stance of a military man. But with hands like that, you must a surgeon, thus, a doctor. Judging by your age, fresh out of school. Where would the military send a new surgeon? Afghanistan or Iraq?”
John blinked and a huge grin spread across his face. “That was amazing!”
His face went blank, searching for the lie. “You think so?”
“Yes. It was good! Quite good. Can you do that with everyone?”
“Of course.”
“You must be fun at parties.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What’s your name?”
The grin that had slowly been spreading across his face disappeared. He rose hurriedly, gathering his battered coat around him. “Good evening, Doctor Watson.”
John had him by the coat sleeve before he could turn. “Oi! You can’t just bugger off like that. How will I see you again without knowing your name?”
“Why would you want to see me again?”
John grinned. “Because you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”
He gaped at John for a moment that lasts so long John began to feel uncomfortable. When he did speak, it was little more than a whisper. “Sherlock Holmes.” He pulled out a business card from his pocket and handed it to John. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
John grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock stared at him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity before popping his coat collar and sauntering off into the night.
“I guess I’ll see you later then!” John called after him.
Sherlock threw a lazy wave over his shoulder and John grinned, rubbing the business card between his fingers.
John was surprised when he received a letter two months into his tour. He hadn’t received a single letter since he came to Afghanistan, there hardly seemed a reason to start getting them now. At first, he had assumed it was his mum telling him that some relative had died, but the letter wasn’t from his mum. It was from Sherlock Holmes.
John took the letter to his tent where he held it in his lap, staring at the sharp handwriting in confused wonder. He had received a letter. He had received a letter from the most interesting man he had ever met, an attractive most interesting man he had ever met. John ran his fingers across the battered envelope. Why had he sent him the letter? How had he sent him the letter?
“Oh, bugger it,” John said, tearing open the envelope. The letter inside was written on a Tesco’s receipt for five gallons of milk and a packet of chocolate Hob Nobs. Scrawled on the back of the receipt, John read:
John- I have changed my address and am sending this letter to inform you of the fact. For someone who was so determined to keep in touch, you’re doing a dismal job of it. Regards, SH.
John grinned stupidly and scrambled for a piece of paper.
Sherlock,
How did you find my address? Also, why do you need five gallons of milk? -John
PS- I like chocolate Hob Nobs too.
John ran out to post it that very afternoon.
And thus began what Sherlock considered the start of their love affair and what John called the Epic Penpalship of 2000.
John- The milk was for an experiment. I wanted to determine how a dead body soaked in milk would decompose under different environmental variables. The smell of decomposed flesh in off milk, however, did get me kicked out of my flat. It is not hard to find a solider in Afghanistan. Besides, I am a genius, nothing is hard for me. How is Afghanistan? Regards, SH.
P.S. Do you take tea with your Hob Nobs? And if so, how do you take it? My guess is black, although in the morning perhaps with milk.
Sherlock,
Do you do such experiments often? What, in fact, do you do? How do you get the corpses?
Afghanistan is alright. War is war, I suppose. I’ve made some friends, haven’t been shot yet, and I’ve saved a few lives. The sand is a bloody bastard. It gets in everything. Sometimes I feel like the sand will wear me down to my bones if I stay here too long. That’s impossible, I know, but at night I think of odd things.
Sincerely,
John
PS- I take my tea black as well as my coffee. Sometimes I have my tea white, but only in the evenings. Tea with chocie biscuits is the best. How do you take your tea/coffee? Also, do you actually own paper? And why do none of these grocery receipts have actual groceries on them? Wine gums don’t count as groceries.
John- I am a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth (which is always) they come to me for help. I do such experiments constantly, it prevents the boredom of life from consuming me. I get the bodies from the mortician at St. Bart’s. She is always more than obliging about such things. Nothing is impossible, John, only improbable. –Sherlock
P.S. I take my coffee and tea black with two sugars. Blast. Why do you take tea white in the evenings? Does it have something to do with your grandmother? Digestion slows me down.
Sherlock,
That’s amazing! Have you solved any cool cases? I’m sorry the banality of life gets you down. What else do you do, besides terrorize your landlord?
-John
PS- Yes, it has something to do with my grandmother. You’ll have to guess what, though, Mr. Big Shot Consulting Detective. And you do realize that you have to digest wine gums and Hob Nobs, right?
John- I play the violin. I also collect different tobacco ash. –Sherlock
P.S. Of course I don’t have to digest wine gums. You’re a doctor, you should know these things. I need time to stew over the grandmother issue. I will have a conclusion by the time you read this.
That was the letter that came in an envelope from a medical facility. With it, was a note from a man named Mycroft Holmes which read:
Doctor Watson,
Under the orders of my brother, I am writing you to inform you that your correspondence will continue as usual. However, I feel the need to tell you that Sherlock Holmes is currently getting clean of a cocaine addiction. His new contact information has been enclosed.
Regards,
Mycroft Holmes
John was in the mess the first time he received a phone call. It was not usual for someone to get a call. In fact, it was damn near impossible and yet, there John was, being offered a telephone by a man who looked too afraid to ask why someone like John was getting a direct call in a warzone.
John hated speaking on the phone. “Hello?” He asked, his tone confused and irritated.
“John.”
“…Sherlock?” John sat down, a wide grin growing across his face. “How did you call me in Afghanistan?”
An irritated sigh. “John, as previously stated, I am a genius-“
“Nothing is hard for you.”
John could almost hear the surprised smile cross Sherlock’s face. “Yes.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Absolutely not, John. The nurses here won’t let me preform my experiments. My brain is currently turning to rot. I can feel it. Tomorrow I’ll be nearly normal.” He said ‘normal’ as though it were an incurable illness.
John grinned. “If it makes you feel better, I sent you a package the other day. It’ll take a while to get there, but it may just cure your boredom.”
A delighted gasp came from the other end of the phone and John grinned. Sherlock sounded six years old. “Really?! This is excellent, what is it? No! Don’t say anything. It’s tobacco ash, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“It is. I can tell.”
“How the bloody hell did you figure that out?”
“It was in the last letter I sent to you. It makes sense, seeing as, being deployed, you would have access to a range of different countries’ tobacco.”
“Well…I hope you like it.”
“Yes…thank you, John.”
Sherlock hung up before John could say anything in response.
The next week, at the same time, Sherlock called again.
“Hey, Sherlock.”
“I received your package. They let me keep it. That was their first mistake.”
“Oh god, what have you done?”
“It doesn’t matter John, what’s done is done.”
“Sherlock. What did you do?”
“I may have stolen Kurt Rogers.”
“Who?”
“Kurt Rogers, age 53, has been here for three months, attempting to overcome an alcohol addiction. He has one leg and needs to be rolled around because he’s too lazy to move himself, which I completely understand and agree with. If I could get away with that I would.”
“What have you done to Kurt Rogers?”
“Well, I don’t have any cash, you see. But Kurt Rogers gets cash every week from his wife who’s cheating on him with her next door neighbor. Kurt doesn’t mind, though, because he’s cheating on her with the security guard here. So, because he’s sleeping with the security guard, sometimes he is able to escape this godforsaken place. And because he has cash, he can buy things. So I said I’d get him to a grocery store to buy some alcohol if he’d get me out of here long enough to get a microscope and smuggle it back with me.”
“Sherlock, where are you now?”
“Kurt and I are in a Starbucks, actually. Kurt, say hello to John.” John heard the distant sound of a grumpy voice greeting him.
“Hello, Kurt.”
“Hello, John. It’s me again. We’re getting coffee now and then we’ll be off, I think. Do you have a place to hide, Kurt? Or should we go back?”
“Sherlock, you should go back.”
“Why on earth would I do that when I can run my experiments in Kurt’s predictably shady apartment where he brings his lovers so his wife won’t notice.”
“Well for one, Sherlock, going to Kurt’s shady apartment sounds a little not good, don’t you think?”
“I don’t see why. Kurt, do you want to have sex with me?”
John could hear a distant, “Fuck yeah, mate.”
“Excuse me, John.” Sherlock’s muffled voice can be heard over the hand that must have been pressed against the mouth piece. “Kurt, we discussed this, no sex. I’ll leave you here, I swear I will, and then you’ll have to push yourself back.” The hand came off the mouth piece, “Hello John. We’ve sorted it out. There is no danger in me going to the sex dunge-oh dear, they’ve found us.”
“What? Who found you?”
“The doctors, who else? Wretched people. Hold the microscope, Kurt. We’ll make a run for it.”
“Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s going on?” John said, trying not to laugh.
The sound of panting and old wheels squeaking before Sherlock shouts, “Come on, Kurt! Shove it up your shirt, they won’t frisk you, you’re clearly a hostage in this situation. Leave the booze! No, Kurt!” The phone broke off suddenly and John could only assume that they had been caught. He hung up the phone laughing.
That evening, on duty, he was still grinning like an idiot. Bill asked him what was on his mind, but John merely shook his head, unsure how to explain Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and cocaine addict who unpeeled John’s layers with a single glance. How could he explain it to Bill when he could barely make sense of it himself?
“Oh, come on, John, let us in on the secret. Who’s the girl?”
“Uh…” John muttered, blushing crimson.
Bill blinked. “Who’s the bloke, then?”
John’s blush deepened. Bill chuckled.
“I haven’t seen you have a go at anyone. Not a single soul. Your balls must be shriveled up by now from the disuse. He must be some fella, if he’s got you this bad. How long have you been together?”
“We’re, uhm, not ‘together.”
“Ooooh give me details, Watson, what’s he like.”
“He’s…amazing.”
“Alright...got any more adjectives or is that it? What’s he look like? Is he tall? I bet you like ‘em tall.”
John squirmed under the scrutiny, his eyes looking anywhere but at Bill. “Yeah, he’s pretty tall.”
“God, this is like pulling teeth, speak, man!” Bill complained. It was the last thing he said before a bullet tore into his chest.
Immediately, John was over top of him, covering him from the spray of bullets. “Bill! Bill, hang in there!” John shouted over the fray. He tore through Bill’s shirt, bandaging him as best as he could. “You’re going to be fine, Bill, just fine. It’s just a scratch.”
Bill’s panicked eyes fell on him with a trust that was nearly consumed with pain. John gave him a soft smile before a bullet tore into his shoulder.
No one was there to help him. He was the doctor, after all. He was the one meant to heal people.
By the time anyone could get to them, both Bill and John were unconscious.
Later, it would be recognized that, had John not fallen over top of Bill Murray’s wound, the man would have bled out in the dessert. This, more than anything, had brought a wry grin over Sherlock’s face. Only John Watson would save a man’s life while unconscious and dying. John would scold him, telling him it was merely coincidence. Sherlock would scold him in return, by saying there was no such thing as coincidence.