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Five Times Sherlock Requested John for Convenience...
One.
Fast food, by its very definition, should be fast. You would think that even an idiot could work that much out. Sherlock isn't ordering fast food because he's hoping for something of a high standard – if he wanted good food, he would be going to an actual restaurant. No, Sherlock is ordering fast food, because he wants food, fast. Is that really too much to ask?
Sherlock doesn't eat when he's working. Preparing and eating food is time-consuming, and digesting slows him down. It's preferable to abstain from food for the duration of the case, so that Sherlock can focus all of his body's energy on the investigation. It's like a fight-or-flight response: when under threat, the body slows down the digestive system, but speeds up the heart rate and respiration, pumping more blood around the body and more blood to the brain so that it can move and think faster. Sherlock needs his brain to work fast when he's on a case, which means he needs his digestive system to work slowly, which means he doesn't have the time to supply it with food for it to digest. All of that can wait until after the case.
However, quite inconveniently, Sherlock is human, and humans have needs. Although he regards his body as nothing more than transport for his mind, it does require things like food, and sleep, in order to keep it moving and keep it capable of transporting his mind about. Sherlock chooses not to eat during a case because he needs to be able to focus, but it rather defeats the purpose if he starves himself to the point where he cannot think straight. Sherlock has trained his body to survive off little to no food for days on end, but eventually, he needs to give in.
What this means is that, when Sherlock finishes a case and finally allows himself to stop, his body tends to make its hunger known loudly and clearly, and the several days that he has gone without food catch up to him. When this happens, then Sherlock wants food, and Sherlock wants food immediately. He doesn't want to waste time cooking, or travelling somewhere to get food. The best option at times like these is to find whatever he can in either his own fridge or Mrs Hudson's, but if there is nothing edible around the flat, then fast food is his next best bet. It's the easiest way to get enough food into his body to stop his stomach from growling and aching so that he can focus on more important things once more.
This, of course, relies on one key factor: the food Sherlock orders needs to be fast.
Pizza is Sherlock's first choice. On average, pizza is delivered faster than other takeaway services, like Chinese or Thai. It's simple to make, and thus takes less time to prepare, and the service itself is focussed on delivery. And yet, Sherlock has discovered from experience that, although pizza deliveries are faster on average, they still tend to take far longer than they should.
Sherlock has done the maths. He knows the distance from the pizza place to his flat. He has factored in traffic on the road, and the time it would take for his order to reach the front of the queue. He has gone through delivery person after delivery person, searching for someone who is capable of delivering as quickly as possible, and, as of yet, Sherlock has not found someone who he would classify as competent.
Some people are more competent than others, of course. One particular experience left Sherlock waiting for so long that he had been convinced his online order had gotten lost in cyberspace. But, then Sherlock's delivery had finally turned up, with not as much as an apology for the delivery man's unacceptable tardiness. Sherlock had taken note of the name on the man's name tag and had proceeded to put the words "NOT ANDERSON" in the comment section whenever he ordered online from then on, to save a repeat experience.
Sherlock would love to be able to replace that comment with another name – not a name of a person that he doesn't want to deliver his food, but of someone who he does want. But, as of yet, Sherlock has not come across anyone who is good enough to make him want to continuously request them.
The delivery website tells him that the delivery person for tonight is "John". Sherlock does not believe he's had "John" as a delivery person before, but it's distinctly possible that he has, and has simply not bothered to commit him to memory. John is a remarkably ordinary name. Perhaps John is also a remarkably ordinary person, who Sherlock did not bother to save in his Mind Palace.
If John is anything like the mediocre delivery people that Sherlock has had experience with so far, then, according to Sherlock's watch, it will be at least another seven minutes before –
The doorbell rings.
It's the earliest delivery that Sherlock has ever had. It's so unexpectedly on-time that it takes Sherlock a minute to confirm that he really had heard that sound.
He thinks to himself that it cannot possibly be his order, as he makes his way downstairs. Maybe it's a client, or a friend of his landlady, or Detective Inspector Lestrade, coming to ask for his help on a case. It's late – later than he would expect for any of those options – but it's not late enough to rule them out as possibilities. Given Sherlock's experience with the pizza place, those possibilities seem more possible than the idea that Sherlock's pizza could actually be on time.
He reaches the door and opens it, still half-expecting to find someone other than the delivery person behind it.
To his surprise, the person behind it is, in fact, in uniform, standing on the doorstep with a box of food in one hand.
The delivery person has a cane in his other hand, though Sherlock notes that he puts surprisingly little weight on it. Sherlock feels like, if he kicked the cane out from underneath the man, the man would still manage to stay standing. It's not something you would expect from anyone who has an injury that requires the use of a cane. Perhaps it's an injury that has almost healed, but if that were the case, the man would be more likely to have crutches. So, perhaps it's not a physical injury. Perhaps it's the kind of injury that you forget about when your mind is on something else, because, in a way, it's all in your head.
This gets processed only in a small corner of Sherlock's mind. The rest of his mind is too busy filing away John's name and face in his Mind Palace, because John seems to be a delivery person who recognises that fast food is supposed to be fast.
It's a miracle.
These deductions occur within an interval of three seconds, but although three seconds is not a long period of time, it is long enough for the forced I'm-paid-to-look-happy smile on the man's face to be replaced with something of confusion and uncertainty. Three seconds without a verbal response from Sherlock is enough to clearly have the man wondering if he had made it to the right house.
"Um," the man starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.
"You," he says, "are not incompetent."
The man blinks in surprise. "Thank you?"
Sherlock fishes his wallet out of his pocket, still talking as he does. "You could have been faster, if you knew the right shortcuts, but comparative to your idiotic colleagues, you're easily the best I've come across so far."
He talks as though he's talking to himself more than to John, but John seems to find it more amusing than anything else. A smile dances at the corners of his lips.
"I'll make sure not to tell my colleagues that you spoke so badly of them," he says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"They know they're incompetent, surely. It will hardly come as a surprise to know that I had mentioned as much. Thank goodness you're not incompetent; I was beginning to doubt the hiring ability of your managers."
"I won't tell them you said that," John says, and then he nods towards the box of food. "Enjoy your dinner," he finishes, and then he turns slowly and walks back towards the car. There's an obvious limp, now that he's moving, and he starts to put more weight on the cane again.
Sherlock watches him for a moment, before stepping inside and closing the door behind him, taking the box of food into the flat so he can give his body what it wants.
Two.
The next time Sherlock craves fast food is a few weeks later. Cases and experiments keep his attention occupied for a while, and then he steals food from Mrs Hudson's refrigerator for a few days longer. But, as grocery day approaches, the food in Mrs Hudson's kitchen becomes sparser, and when he ends up clearing out his own fridge to make room for a human hand, there isn't anything left in the flat to satisfy his cravings. So, he orders fast food, and he makes sure to put in the comment section that he specifically requests John.
He's pleased to discover that John's timely arrival previously was not a fluke. Once again, he is significantly faster than the average idiot. The doorbell rings, and Sherlock rushes downstairs to retrieve the food before his stomach starts to growl again. When he opens the door, he finds that there is an odd, teasing sort of smile on John's face.
"Did I make a good impression on you last time?" John asks, as he exchanges the box of food for the money in Sherlock's hand.
"As I said, you aren't incompetent," Sherlock replies dismissively. "I'd rather not have to wait any longer than necessary to get what I ordered, and you seem to be the only person capable of delivering anything on time."
"Oh, right, of course," says John, in a tone of voice that says he doesn't quite believe Sherlock (which is ridiculous, because Sherlock is telling the truth).
Sherlock opens his mouth to ask John what on earth he believes would be Sherlock's motivation for requesting a particular delivery person aside from convenience, but then something else catches his attention. Behind John, he can see the delivery car parked on the verge – disgusting bright colours designed to catch people's attention, as if the annoying advertisement jingles haven't permanently saved the phone number in everyone's head – and he can see something sticking to the inside of the windscreen. He peers around John to get a better look.
"Is that a GPS?" he asks.
John glances over his shoulder, and then nods. "Oh, yeah," he says, and Sherlock stares.
"If you have a GPS, then why does it take your colleagues so long to get here?" he says. At least if they hadn't had a GPS, they could blame their tardiness on getting lost – which is not an acceptable excuse, but at least it provides some sort of explanation. But they do have a GPS, which means that getting lost isn't possible, so why on earth is there such a huge difference between the time it takes for John to deliver food compared to the time it takes for someone like Anderson –
"Oh, I don't follow the GPS," John says, halting Sherlock's train of thought. "It doesn't take traffic into consideration. I live around here, so I know what the streets are like at this time of day. It's faster to go my way."
"Oh," Sherlock says, raising his eyebrows and thinking to himself that John might be smarter than he looks.
(Not) Three.
The would-be third time that Sherlock sees John is a week and a half later, when Sherlock finishes another case in record time and decides that fast food is in order. Unfortunately, it does not quite go as planned.
He realises that something is wrong as soon as it surpasses the time that it took John to deliver the food the last two times. He gives John a bit of leeway, because, unfortunately, traffic is uncontrollable, but after a few extra minutes it becomes clear to him that traffic is not the issue. He checks the online order tracker, in case the issue is in the kitchen and not on the road, but the order tracker definitely says that food is on its way.
Briefly, Sherlock wonders if something could have happened, if maybe John has been in some sort of trouble, or in an accident, and that's why he's late. The thought is coupled with an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach, like he's eaten something off, and he's not quite sure what could have caused that. He dismisses it as his body's way of telling him that he needs to have something to eat.
He waits at the window, overlooking the street. Living on the second floor might not grant him the most aesthetically pleasing view, but it does give him a clear view of the cars below. He leans against the glass, keeping an eye out for one particular car of interest.
It's about ten minutes later when the car finally pulls up on the side of the road, and Sherlock rushes downstairs to meet John and demand to know what took him so long.
The answer to Sherlock's question becomes apparent even before he's had the chance to ask it aloud. The person behind the door is taller, wider, and isn't standing with a cane.
"You're not John," he states.
The man at the door shakes his head. "No, I'm not."
Well, now they've got the obvious out of the way.
"I requested John," Sherlock continues. "Why are you here?"
"Because," says the man, "John's not working today, and I think he'd be a bit annoyed if we called him in just because someone requested him."
Sherlock blinks. He had not even considered the possibility that John might not be available whenever Sherlock wants food. Really, it should have been something that he predicted. Today is a Saturday; the past two times when Sherlock has ordered fast food have been weekdays. No wonder John is not here; most people who work on weekdays do not work on weekends.
"Oh," Sherlock says, and then he closes the door.
The man behind it yells, "Hey! You still need to pay me for this."
(He repeats this a couple of times before Sherlock gives in, because there's no way he'll get any peace and quiet if he doesn't.)
Three.
The actual third time Sherlock next sees John is the following Monday – a day on which Sherlock has ordered food previously, and thus a day that Sherlock can be reasonably certain that John will be working.
He's not that hungry, though the thought of food isn't completely aversive. More importantly, however, he feels he needs to work out when John will, and when he will not, be available, to prevent a repeat of last time. He orders something small, pays with card, and he makes sure to specifically request John, hoping that the man in question will actually be on shift this time.
He's in luck. His delivery arrives quickly, and John is standing behind the door when he opens it. The expression on John's face is teasing, and friendly, which is an expression that Sherlock isn't used to seeing directed towards him.
"So," John says. "I'm told you requested me on the weekend and weren't very happy when someone else turned up at your house."
Sherlock makes a dismissive hand gesture. "Had your replacement even come close to being as fast as you, it wouldn't have been a problem. What days do you work?"
"You're not planning on stalking me, are you?" John asks, though his tone portrays no real fear or doubt. Still, Sherlock shakes his head.
"Don't be idiotic. What days?"
"Monday to Thursday, usually. Just in the afternoons and evenings, mind."
Sherlock looks him over, taking in his haircut and his stance (military), his fading tan (abroad, but has been in London for a while), his limp (psychosomatic injury – wounded in action – invalided home). John is working only on evenings, because he needs the money, because an army pension would not be enough. He's working in a mundane job that clearly doesn't require any of the numerous skills that he would have acquired serving in the army, so he must be desperate.
However, John mentioned living nearby previously, and a few evenings a week, plus an army pension, would still not cover the cost of rent in central London.
This, therefore, can't be his only job.
"Where else do you work?" he asks, and John blinks.
"Pardon?"
"This isn't your only job. You couldn't possibly afford London with nothing but a few hours of poorly-paid part-time work, even if you do have an army pension on top of that."
"How did you know that?"
Sherlock gestures to John's cane, and then more generally to all of John, who just raises his eyebrows.
"Is it that obvious?" John asks.
"When you know what to look for, yes. Now, your other job?"
The corners of John's lips pull up into a smile. "Believe it or not, I'm a doctor."
Sherlock frowns. "Shouldn't you have a high enough pay from that?"
"Not when you're only doing locum work," John replies, his smile turning a little wry. "I'm just filling in for one of the other doctors, from time to time. I don't get enough shifts to live off just yet."
Sherlock takes note of the last word of the sentence. Yet. It makes sense. This gives John the option to gradually reintroduce himself into civilian life, working his way up from a few shifts a week to full-time work. It means that, eventually, John will have enough work at a clinic for him to pay for living in London, and it will be unnecessary for him to do anything extra on the side.
The realisation leads to a sinking sensation in Sherlock's stomach. It must be disappointment, knowing that the only competent human being who can deliver food won't be available to deliver food for much longer.
John snaps him out of his head, holding up the box of food. "I have to be getting back," he says.
"Right," Sherlock says, and he reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. John just smiles in amusement and shakes his head.
"Bit distracted, are we?" he asks. "You paid online, remember?"
Did he? He must have. It's not like Sherlock to make mistakes like that. His mind isn't all here at the moment, which is very unlike him. Obviously he needs the food more than he was letting himself admit.
"Right, of course," he says, and he takes the box of food from John's hands.
"Ta," John says, and then he turns and heads back down to the car.
Four.
The next time Sherlock decides he wants fast food, he's not at home. He had been assisting Lestrade with a case, which led the both of them to the morgue to inspect the body. Sherlock only needed a moment to look over the corpse before he'd formulated a theory, and a text from one of his homeless network members confirmed it. He sent Lestrade off to arrest the perpetrator, and Lestrade has just sent him a text to say that the man is now in custody. The case is over, now, and Sherlock can once again return his focus to other things, such as experiments.
Sherlock had an experiment in mind that involved the equipment that he had access to in the morgue. However, he could not perform the experiment until he had access to certain body parts, and he would not have access to these body parts until Molly Hooper started her shift. She was due to start within an hour, so there was no point in going home and coming back. The time that it would take for him to travel from the hospital to Baker Street and back again would be a waste of time. All the same, it means that Sherlock has a lull, now, until Molly's arrival. So, he might as well satisfy his body's needs while he has a moment, and then they can be pushed to the back of his mind.
He makes use of one of the empty laboratories. He's not technically supposed to be here, but he knows he can get away with it. When you walk with enough confidence, people assume you know where you are going and what you are doing. Most of them will not even question him. Some of the staff might notice, if they walk past, that he's not supposed to be in the room, but most, if not all, will choose not to call him out on it, in fear of embarrassing themselves if he is, indeed, in the right place.
Besides, it's unlikely that anyone will come up to this room at this time of day. It's one of the teaching rooms, and it's now past teaching hours. Mike Stamford, one of the teachers, might come up, but Mike knows Sherlock, and Mike has walked in on Sherlock doing far more dangerous things than eating food in a lab.
He orders something small, once again specifying that he insists on John and only John delivering the food, and he specifies which lab he's in so that John knows to bring the food into the hospital and not just into the waiting room.
Taking into consideration the extra distance that John would have needed to travel to reach the hospital, it's clear that John's speed is not limited to Baker Street. He arrives quickly, despite the fact that he had to make it not only to the correct building, but also to the correct room. The speed at which he arrives implies a certain level of familiarity with the layout of the hospital. Perhaps this was where he studied to become a doctor.
When John pushes open the lab door, a grin crosses his face. "Thought it might have been you," he says. "I thought it was weird that I was requested for a delivery to somewhere other than Baker Street."
"I'm here nearly as frequently as I am at home," Sherlock says. "Don't be surprised if this is not the last time you deliver to St Bart's."
John steps over to the bench where Sherlock has set up a work space (by which he means he's opened up a laptop, and there's a microscope beside him, ready to be used as soon as Molly arrives). "Are you even allowed to eat in here?" John asks.
Sherlock shrugs his shoulders dismissively. "Probably not," he says, "but I'll have finished before anyone comes up to stop me."
John purses his lips, and Sherlock looks over him, continuing, "You're not about to refuse me my order, are you? It's a teaching lab, not a lab where there is anything of vital importance that could easily be contaminated. And it's not as though I'm going to make a mess."
John shrugs. "It's not my place to tell you off. I'm a delivery guy, not your mother."
"Good," Sherlock says shortly, ignoring any condescending tone in John's voice that says he disapproves nonetheless. "Now. Food." He shifts to reach into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. At the same time, he hears the door open.
"You know," says a voice that Sherlock immediately recognises as belonging to Mike Stamford, "we have a cafeteria."
"Yes, and the food in the cafeteria should hardly be given the label of 'food', given that it's barely edible at the best of times," Sherlock says. It becomes quite clear halfway through the sentence, however, that Mike has stopped listening. John turns his head to look over at the newcomer, and Mike all but cuts Sherlock off.
"John? John Watson?"
John is quiet for a beat, perhaps taking a moment longer to recognise the person standing before him. Mike does not seem to mind. He smiles, and says, "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."
The additional information is enough for John to make the link. "Mike, sorry, of course," he says, and he puts the box of food down on the table so that he can clasp the man's hand.
"You're a delivery man, now?" Mike says once John has taken his hand away. "Last I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at."
John gestures to his cane. "I got shot."
Sherlock sees an apologetic expression come across Mike's face before he continues, "Surely that doesn't mean you're no longer fit to be a doctor, though."
John shakes his head. "I'm not. Just still looking for work. This," – he gestures to the box of food – "is just so I can pay the rent."
"London, huh?" Mike says, with a fond sort of smile on his face. "Whereabouts are you living now?"
John makes a dismissive hand gesture. "Nowhere permanent, yet. Still looking for somewhere within my price range. With the way things are going at the moment, I don't know how much longer I'll be able to stay here."
"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asks, and John snorts.
"Yeah, right."
They fall into a silence that strikes Sherlock as a bit awkward, though he's never been the best at reading those sorts of social cues. It's Mike who breaks it after a moment.
"So, how do you know Sherlock?"
"Sherlock?" John repeats, and then he glances over his shoulder at where Sherlock is sitting. "Oh, that's you, isn't it?" he says, and then adds, "That's odd. I could have sworn the details from the card you paid with last time said Mycroft."
Sherlock fixes his gaze on the laptop screen and says nothing, but the corners of his lips turn upwards.
John turns his attention back to Mike. "I don't know him, not really. I'm just his favourite delivery person."
"Most competent delivery person," Sherlock mutters.
"Favourite," John corrects, and Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice. "How do you know him? Do you two work together?"
Mike chuckles at that. "I don't think Sherlock could work with anyone, could you, Sherlock?"
(Sherlock thinks he could easily work with someone if they weren't completely incompetent, but he keeps this to himself, instead opting to slide the box of food towards himself so that he can pick at it while John and Mike finish their conversation).
Mike continues, "No, he just comes in and uses the labs from time to time. Used to sit in on some of my classes, too, until he started upsetting some of the students by telling them they'd asked stupid questions."
"They did ask stupid questions," Sherlock says.
"In my class, there's no such thing."
"I beg to differ."
Mike ignores this, as does John, who then asks, "So, you're teaching now?"
Mike nods. "Oh, yeah. Bright young things, like we were. God, I hate them."
They both laugh at that, and Sherlock puts them on partial mute before they start becoming nostalgic about a time long past when they were 'bright young things'. Fortunately, their conversation seems to be coming to an end, as John looks over at him a few moments later and notes that Sherlock has started picking at the food wordlessly. "You do have to pay me for that," he says.
Sherlock gestures to the wallet that he had pulled from his pocket several moments earlier, which is now sitting on the bench. John hesitates for a moment, perhaps reluctant to root through someone else's wallet instead of being given cash, but after a moment he picks it up. Sherlock sees him take the correct amount before placing the wallet back on the bench.
"Ta," he says, and then he turns back to Mike. "We should catch up for coffee sometime."
Mike nods. "Absolutely," he says. "Come on, I'll walk you out."
Sherlock, at this point, puts them on mute, and he fixes his attention on the laptop and the food as they walk out of the room and let the door swing shut behind them.
Five.
Sherlock does not order fast food for well over a month. It's not as though he does not eat for a month, of course, but he has been able to find food in the fridge, or food from Mrs Hudson, or food from a very grateful Italian restaurant owner whose name Sherlock helped to clear (a bit), who insists on thanking Sherlock with free food. However, eventually, Sherlock ends up in the same position that he's been in before, with a case that occupies his attention for several days, leading to a desire to get food into his body as quickly as possible as soon as it's over.
He orders pizza, and then goes to get a drink from the fridge, but the tray in the bottom catches his eye. The case had dragged him away from the experiments that he had been working on beforehand – specifically, away from an experiment that involved the thumbs that were currently sitting on a tray in the fridge. He had completely forgotten about them, which is unlike him. He hopes this does not mean his results are ruined.
He pulls the tray out of the fridge, placing it carefully on the dining room table, and then he pulls on a pair of plastic gloves. He crouches to examine the tray at eye level, and then picks up each thumb one by one, to assess them for damage. When there is a knock at the door downstairs, he's far too occupied to go down and answer it, and Mrs Hudson does that for him after a few minutes of incessant knocking. He hears her voice, followed by John's, presumably asking where Sherlock is or asking if Mrs Hudson is paying for the food.
Sherlock doesn't think twice before yelling, "Come up here."
It does not cross his mind that the sight – the sight of Sherlock carefully examining a collection of human thumbs – is unusual and concerning for anyone who does not know him. He hears John's footsteps (uneven, limping, every second step coupled with a click of his cane) as he makes his way up the stairs, and then he comes to a stop, very suddenly. Sherlock can feel John's eyes on him before he even looks up to confirm that John is, indeed, staring.
Sherlock is not sure what the predicted reaction to this should be. Maybe John will scream. Sherlock hopes John won't scream, so he doesn't startle Mrs Hudson.
John doesn't scream.
Instead, John says, "I really hope they're not for pizza toppings."
Sherlock's lips quirk upwards into a smile.
"They're an experiment," he explains, carefully placing each thumb on the tray so that none are touching.
There's an expression on John's face that looks like it might be a cross between discomfort and fascination. The latter wins out – John takes a step closer, rather than doing what might be the more rational thing and escaping from the flat as fast as is humanly possible.
"What kind of experiment can you do with human thumbs?" he asks.
Sherlock looks up at him, and raises his eyebrows. "Can't you come up with any?" he asks. "I can think of at least five, off the top of my head." A beat, and then he corrects, "Eight, at least. No, ten." He glances down at the tray, and continues, "This one involves fingerprint analysis. Fingerprints are remarkably durable even after death. I'm looking into whether or not there is a way to change them."
"Why?"
"Because it's of interest whether or not there are ways to prevent a corpse from being identified after death, aside from the obvious removing of the fingers and teeth."
John frowns, and Sherlock sees him take a half-step back. "Why?"
"Not so that I can make bodies unidentifiable, don't be stupid. So that I can investigate it. I highly doubt I'm the only person in the world who has conducted this sort of experiment; there is every possibility that someone else is out there doing it for far more sinister reasons."
"I don't know how many people in the world would have access to human thumbs."
Sherlock's lips quirk. "You'd be surprised."
"Where did you get those, anyway?"
"The morgue. Molly Hooper, the pathologist, gives me access to bodies when possible."
"Is this really the best way of making use of people who have donated their bodies to science?"
"This could be of vital importance to future investigations. So, yes, it is."
"If you say so. So, you're a detective, then?"
"Consulting detective."
"Consulting detective," John corrects, "who experiments with thumbs."
"Among other things, yes."
John looks more amused than anything else – amused and fascinated, which is significantly better than seeing him terrified. Sherlock is surprised to find he reacted so well. It's hardly the most gruesome thing John could have ever seen, having been a soldier, but most people tend to assume Sherlock is a psychopath. It's refreshing that John does not.
John glances down at the watch on his wrist. "As much as I'd love to hang around and watch you experiment, my boss won't be happy if I take too long on one delivery, and I really would like to leave on a good note."
Sherlock's brain comes to a sudden halt, and he plays that last line over in his head. "Leave?" he repeats.
"Oh, yeah, I'm leaving," John says. "The surgery I work at has finally offered me full time work, which is more than enough for the rent. I don't need to give up my evenings anymore."
Sherlock has known this would happen eventually, from the moment he discovered that John is a qualified doctor. This should come as absolutely no surprise to him. And yet, it brings with it a sinking feeling of disappointment. He doesn't want John to leave.
The expression must show on his face, because after a second, John is grinning at him, teasingly. "Why?" he asks. "Disappointed that I won't be your delivery guy anymore?"
"You're the only competent delivery person," Sherlock says (and John rolls his eyes at the word 'competent', as though he still doesn't believe that explains anything). "If you leave, I'll be forced to wait unnecessary amounts of time for food to be delivered."
"Oh, come on, it's not like they take that much longer than me. Admit it, you're just lonely and I'm your favourite person."
"Don't be idiotic."
"Plus, I'm sure I'm the only person who can see you hunched over a collection of human thumbs and not assume you're a murderer."
"You did assume I was a murderer."
"The thought crossed my mind briefly. You can hardly blame me for that. Still, I didn't immediately yell for help or call the police."
"Perhaps that just means you're an idiot. What do they say about bravery and stupidity?"
"I'd have been an idiot if you had, in fact, turned out to be a murderer. However, I was right about you. Obviously, that means I'm not that daft."
"That's yet to be determined." Sherlock picks up the tray and returns it to the fridge. "My wallet's on the sofa," he says over his shoulder. "Take however much I owe you."
"You're going to let me root through your wallet with your back turned?" John says. "Maybe you're the idiot."
"I'm reasonably certain a doctor – an army doctor, no less, with a strong moral compass – doesn't need to steal the small amount of cash I keep on me."
"Fair enough," John says, and Sherlock sees movement out of the corner of his eye as John goes over to the wallet on the sofa. Maybe it was a bad idea to trust John, because Sherlock hardly knows him, but, at least in Sherlock's eyes, he knows enough.
"When's your last shift?" Sherlock asks, once John had put the wallet back down again.
"Um, the twenty-forth," John replies. "Why, are you going to stop ordering pizza after I leave? You'll just be that devastated that you won't have your favourite deliveryman anymore, so you're just going to boycott the place altogether?"
"I think your ego is getting far too big."
John grins. "No, I don't think so." He nods towards the box of pizza that he has placed on the coffee table, and he says, "Enjoy your dinner." Then he turns and he heads down the stairs. Sherlock hears each footstep, and the click of his cane, until he reaches the door.
And the One Time he Requested John for Sentiment...
On the twenty-fourth of March, Sherlock is not hungry.
He is not on a case, so there's no reason for him to refuse food, but none of the cases over the past several days have been enough to occupy his attention for too long. So, he's not been in a position where he's needed to starve himself for a while, and because of this, he has not needed to make up for several days without food. Occasionally, he's been snacking on Mrs Hudson's cakes, but beyond that, he has not really been hungry.
However, today is the last day of John's job at the delivery place.
This should hardly be relevant to anything Sherlock is doing. It is convenient, that he knows that it's John's last day, because this way he knows that, after today, he should be prepared to wait longer whenever he orders food. However, this should be the only reason why this knowledge matters to him. There is no reason for him to be aware of it being John's last day if he does not want to order anything to eat.
And yet, Sherlock cannot get the thought out of his head, nor can he can get rid of the unusual, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
For all intents and purposes, John is a stranger. A convenient stranger, yes, as far as deliverymen go, but he is nothing more than that. There is absolutely no reason why Sherlock should be hyperaware of the fact that today is John's last day, and there is absolutely no reason why it should concern him that after this, John will not be delivering his food anymore. It's more than that, too, because Sherlock is aware that he might never see John again. And there is no reason why that should bother him, but it does.
Maybe he's received some sort of brain injury. That might explain everything.
He tries to distract himself. He has other things to do. He has experiments to work on, and though he does not currently have any cases, the previous cases that he has worked on need to be filed in his Mind Palace. This works for a while, in keeping his mind occupied, but whenever he enters his Mind Palace, he finds John is sitting there. John isn't jumping about or shouting or trying to distract Sherlock; he's just sitting there like he belongs there. All the same, it stands out to Sherlock, who is so used to his Mind Palace being empty, except for when he calls on suspects and witnesses. There is not usually someone just sitting there in his Mind Palace, just watching with an expression of interest, like the one on John's face when he found Sherlock experimenting on thumbs.
And no matter how hard Sherlock tries, he cannot get John to leave his head.
So, eventually, he caves.
He's not particularly hungry, so he opts for the smallest thing on the menu, which ends up being one of the dessert options (mini Dutch pancakes). He pays online, and specifies in the comments, as usual, that he wants John and only John to deliver it. It feels strange, to know that this is the last time he will be able to make such a request. Now, he's going to have to find someone else. Given his previous experiences, he does not believe anyone could be as fast as John.
John arrives on time, although it feels like Sherlock waited so much longer than usual. The time on his phone when the doorbell rings, however, tells him that John has taken no more or less time than he usually does. Clearly, Sherlock's mental clock is malfunctioning. He stands to go downstairs and let John in, but then he hesitates. When Sherlock has greeted John at the door in the past, John has promptly left afterwards. It has only been the past couple of times, when John has come inside, when he has lingered for long enough for Sherlock to converse with him, that Sherlock has been able to learn more about him. It was the last time when John had delivered food that Sherlock really started to get a picture of the sort of person John was, through the unusual way that John reacted to the experiment, which perhaps had played a major part in why Sherlock has taken to him.
So, Sherlock ignores the doorbell, and the knock that follows, knowing that Mrs Hudson will go and answer it for him and then John will come inside.
Sherlock does not want to make it seem like he's just standing there and waiting, however. That seems pathetic, and Sherlock still has a certain impression that he wants to give off (that is, the impression of someone who has not foolishly developed a sentimental attachment to a deliveryman). So, he moves quickly, setting up his laptop at the dining room table so that, by the time Mrs Hudson lets John in, and he makes his way upstairs, Sherlock looks like he's working hard.
The expression on John's face when he looks up almost makes it seem like he knows Sherlock isn't really working hard, but there is no way he could have known that, right?
"I was wondering if I'd hear from you," John says, moving into the room. Sherlock's laptop is set up in such a way that John cannot see the screen, so he cannot see that it is, in fact, blank. Sherlock taps a few keys so it looks like he's finishing up what he was doing, and then he closes his laptop lid, as though he has just saved his work.
"Were you?" he asks, keeping his tone casual and nonchalant.
"You knew what day I finished. I figured you'd be making one more order before I left, and I have to say, I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't."
"No, you wouldn't have," Sherlock replies dismissively. "Why would you?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
Sherlock shrugs. "I'm sure your work keeps you occupied enough. I doubt you'd have noticed if I hadn't ordered anything."
"Don't be so sure." John glances at the bag of food in his hand, and adds, "I get the feeling that you ordered this is not because you're hungry but because you know I'm leaving."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Mm, I'm not," John replies, in the teasing tone that Sherlock has become so used to hearing from him. "You're going to miss me. Admit it."
"I've requested you a small handful of times, and your ego is getting far too large."
"You requested me on my last day despite the fact that you don't actually want food."
"I never said that."
"You don't need to."
Sherlock chooses not to grace that with a response, beyond glaring at John. John just grins back at him.
John walks further into the room, over to the dining room table, and he puts the bag in front of Sherlock. He doesn't pull out a chair, or even ask to sit, despite the fact that he's holding his cane. His limp is bad when he walks, but now that he's standing still, it's hardly noticeable. How does John's mind tell him he's in such pain, when it's quite clear that he can stand perfectly well?
"I mean it, by the way," John says, drawing Sherlock's attention away from John's leg to his face.
"Mean what?"
"I would have been disappointed if you hadn't ordered anything before my last shift."
Sherlock frowns. "Why?"
John's response is to shrug his shoulders. "You're my favourite customer," he says simply, casually.
Sherlock blinks, and it takes him a minute to formulate a response to that. When he does speak, he doesn't make a clever comment, but can only ask again, "Why?"
"Why not?" John replies. "You're interesting. You're... kind of weird, to be honest, but you're interesting. And you don't look at me with a pitying expression because I have this." He tips his head to the side to gesture to his cane.
"It's hardly a reason to pity you," Sherlock replies dismissively. "Clearly it doesn't impact your ability to work. That, and it's psychosomatic, but it would hardly be a reason to pity you if it were physical."
"Psychosomatic?" John repeats. "You sound like my therapist."
"No surprises there. While most people are idiots, I imagine your therapist has a point on this matter."
John is quiet for a moment, before he shakes his head, apparently deciding that now is not the time or the place for a conversation like this. "Moving on," he says. "What happened to your experiment?"
"Which one?"
"The one you were doing the last time I was here. With the thumbs."
"You're that curious?"
John shrugs, and he pulls out the seat across from Sherlock, sitting down. Sherlock isn't sure if that's because attention has been called to his limp, or because John wants to make it clear that he is in no rush to leave. Maybe it's both. "I've been thinking about it since I last saw you," John says. "It's kind of interesting. Really weird, but interesting."
"Most people find my experiments just weird."
"Well, maybe I'm not most people. Come on, what did you find?"
"Why, do you have fingerprints that need removing?"
John rolls his eyes, and when he says nothing, Sherlock decides to answer his question. After all, it's not often that he has someone who he can talk to about this sort of thing.
"Sandpaper works, though it would be time consuming," he begins. "Probably not ideal for a murderer who wants to get away. It should also work for removing one's own fingerprints, technically speaking, but it would be painful, and fingerprints are remarkably durable, so they would eventually return to the same shape. Burning is another option, but, again, is time consuming. The best option would be to remove the fingers, which is messy, but it's the quickest and most effective way to prevent a body from being fingerprinted. Except, of course, then you would have to hide the fingers, so that might cause even more problems. It's certainly done, though; there have been cases where bodies have turned up sans fingers, and teeth."
"Why would anyone try to make a body unidentifiable, anyway?" John asks. "I mean, I can understand why someone might want to remove their own fingerprints – although you'd have to be very dedicated to get rid of them with sandpaper – but does it matter if dead bodies are identifiable? If you've killed someone, isn't it more important that the murder doesn't get tied to you, not that they don't find out who the body is?"
"I'm sure you could come up with a scenario, if you tried hard enough. Maybe you can't dispose of the body, but you know you'll be a suspect if they are identified, for instance." Sherlock leans back on his chair, and adds, "I don't need to know the specific motivations for removing the fingers. I just need to know the ways in which it is possible, so I remain one step ahead."
"Fair enough," John says. "Do you do experiments like that a lot?"
"With thumbs? No more often than I do experiments with any other body part."
"I don't think I want to know what other body parts you have lying around your flat. No, I meant experiments for police work. I'm sure most policemen don't experiment with thumbs, or any other body part, in order to aid their investigations."
"I'm not a policeman," Sherlock points out, "nor am I like most people. I have a lot of free time in between the more interesting cases, and my brain works much faster than everyone else's. I need something to occupy my mind, and these sorts of experiments are something that allows me to do that, while being of practical use. Plus, with any luck, maybe some of the detectives at the Yard will pay enough attention to my methods to at least try to pick them up themselves, and then they might be marginally less terrible at their jobs."
"I'm sure they're not that bad," John says. "I mean, I'm sure they got their jobs because they're at least a little bit competent."
Sherlock scoffs. "I don't know about that."
John's lips quirk upwards into a faint smile. After a pause, he asks, "So, what other experiments have you done?"
Sherlock makes a dismissive hand gesture. "Too many to list. Blood splatter patterns are an obvious one."
"Isn't there information for that online? With people writing detective stories and crime novels, you'd think any of the 'obvious' experiments would have been done already and be readily available online somewhere."
"I choose not to trust other sources, if I have the option of running the experiment myself. You can't trust people to be honest and unbiased in reporting their results."
"But you can trust yourself to be unbiased?"
"Obviously."
John smiles in that disbelieving way, similar to the smile that he gets whenever Sherlock insists that he requested John purely for convenience. In light of recent events – and recent feelings that Sherlock is trying not to think about – it may be that that expression crosses John's face when he actually has a point.
Sherlock looks away for a moment, and then returns his gaze to John. "Won't your manager be unimpressed if you take too long?"
John pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking the time. "I'm good for another few minutes – I can blame it on traffic. He won't know any better. Besides, it's my last shift. It's not like he can fire me."
"Where are you working now?" Sherlock asks, and John smirks.
"Are you planning on stalking me there, now? Only making appointments when you know I'm on?"
"I don't make doctor's appointments at all, if I can help it."
"Everyone gets sick from time to time."
"Not me."
"I don't think you can keep yourself healthy with pure willpower alone," John says. "Unless you have a super healthy diet and fitness routine, but with the number of times you've ordered pizza..."
"Five times in a matter of months is hardly a lot."
"Six," John corrects, and then a sheepish expression comes over his face. "But who's counting?"
(The answer to that, apparently, is both of them.)
After a moment, a teasing grin comes over John's face that Sherlock can't understand. Sherlock frowns at him. "What?"
"You know there are better ways to befriend someone than requesting them whenever you want food, or even making doctor's appointments with them."
"I never said I was planning on making appointments with you. I told you, I don't get sick."
"You still asked me where I'm working. Are you sure you're not planning on stalking me?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
John just grins. "But seriously," he says after a pause.
"Seriously what?"
"If you want to keep in touch with me, you can just, I don't know, ask for my number or my email address or something."
"Who says I want to keep in touch with you?"
"You aren't really going to deny it, are you? The fact that you requested me on my last day says you want to keep in touch with me."
"It does not."
John rolls his eyes, letting out a brief laugh. He doesn't seem all that bothered by Sherlock's statement. "Whatever you say," he says. "But, honestly, I find you interesting. I wouldn't mind keeping in touch with you, either."
Sherlock isn't sure what to say to that, so he just blinks. He continues to stare at John, even when John pulls a small notepad out of his pocket, scribbles down what Sherlock realises a moment later is his number, and tears the page out to leave on the table.
"I have to be getting back," he says. "You don't have to do anything if you don't want to. I get it if I've read this wrong; feel free to just toss that out. But, if I'm right, and you want to meet up sometime, then you can let me know."
"You don't know me," Sherlock says, when his brain comes back online. "Why would you want to be friends with me?"
"I know enough to know that I'd like to know you better," John says with a shrug. "And Mike said good things about you."
"No one says good things about me."
"Mike does. He also said that you don't have many friends, and apparently the fact that you were having conversations with me without insulting me is impressive."
Sherlock isn't sure what to say to that, either. It's not often that he's speechless; the fact that John has caused this twice within the past several minutes is odd.
John shrugs his shoulders, and gets to his feet, picking up his cane from where it is leaning against the table. "It's up to you. Just thought I'd leave the option there." He takes a couple of steps towards the door, and then he looks over his shoulder with a smile. "It's been nice meeting you, Sherlock," he says.
Sherlock lets out a hum of agreement. It's the closest thing he can do to getting the last word before John steps out the door.