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Everything changed during the longest train ride of John’s life.
Frankly, the train wouldn’t have been so ridiculously long if it not for all the weather delays. The endless frost outside, snowflakes icing over the windowpanes and blurring the white landscape, confined the countless angry passengers within the tightly packed walls. There had been angry mumbling for a long while, but it had since subsided into disgruntled resignation. John crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. He was stuck in the window seat, and the frigid temperatures seemed to seep through the glass. Not for the first time, he wished he’d thought to bring a heavier coat.
His neighbor didn’t share the same issue. His long navy coat wrapped around him like a blanket. Vaguely, it reminded John of a Transylvanian’s vampire cape, though he refrained from saying that out loud. Which wasn’t difficult to do. Two hours stuck together and his neighbor hadn’t spoken a word.
In lieu of the growing frustrations in the suffocating train, perhaps John should’ve been grateful. It would’ve been exhausting to have a chatty neighbor, or one who wished to complain on and on about the obvious inconvenience. But still. It was odd. Spending his whole life in Britain, John had been on a considerable number of lengthy train rides, and each time, there was at least some modicum of awkward small talk with his neighbor. Until the longest ride, apparently.
John tried to subtly observe his neighbor. He had an intimidating presence that made John hesitant to look directly at him. Too posh in his massive, swirling coat. John’s commoner eyes might reject the sight head-on. Rather, he settled for quick glances or peering from his peripheral. The boy looked to be about his own age, with disheveled, dark curls that kept falling lazily into his eyes. John couldn’t quite make out his eye color amid his stealthy observations, but he did take note of the boy’s unusual pallor. He was as pale as a porcelain doll. From the stiff, uncomfortable tension rippling through his posture, perhaps he was just as fragile as one, too.
And perhaps John had been reading far too much Shakespeare for his Literature requirement.
The boy’s coat was wrapped so tightly around his slender frame that John couldn’t possibly make out the clothes underneath. He assumed they were as expensive-looking as the coat itself. John shifted tighter into his window seat, suddenly self-conscious over the tattered state of his cream-colored jumper and worn denim jeans. Not to mention all the scuff marks on his knockoff converse. Knockoff. No wonder his neighbor didn’t have a word to say to him. The class divide was so wide that John was practically choking on it.
“It’s not that.”
John startled at the low baritone, cutting through the oppressive silence of their seats. He risked his first direct glance over, needing to confirm that the other boy had spoken at all. He still wasn’t looking at John, but his lips curved in vague acknowledgment of John’s attention.
“What d’you mean?” John’s voice was hoarse from disuse, and he cleared his throat. Faint warmth climbed up his neck, and he was grateful that the wore-down old jumper was at least good for hiding his embarrassment.
“The reason why I haven’t spoken to you.” Like John’s, the other boy’s voice was hoarse. Unlike John’s, his voice sounded rich and raspy, with a faint, posh accent that he couldn’t fully place. “It has nothing to do with the state of your shoes. Or your jumper, though it is rather atrocious.”
John’s jaw set. The defensiveness was instinctive. The confusion, not as much. “How did you–?”
“I didn’t know, I noticed. More than most people can say,” the boy added in an undertone. It was hard to tell whether or not he’d intended for John to hear him. “You were scanning your shoes and clothes with a critical eye. Not unusual, a little bit of insecurity is a human reaction, or so I’ve been told. However, your repetitive instances of half-glances in my general direction confirms that you’ve likely recognized the expense of my coat. Natural to wonder why I haven’t bothered with the standard dull small talk, and even more natural to assume the blame lies within yourself. But that isn’t the reason, so really, you ought to stop wasting your time with your pointless concerns. It’s very distracting.”
John stared. There was a sensation of something sharp and hard lodged in his throat, cutting off his breath for several long beats. Eventually he swallowed down his awe, unsurprised when his lips curved into a bright smile. “That was extraordinary.”
The boy blinked. Rapidly. Several times. It became a bit frightening until soon, he spoke again. “You really think so?” His voice, so impenetrably posh before, was breathy with shock.
John assumed it was a rare occasion for anything to surprise this boy. Self-satisfaction filled his chest with warmth. “Of course it was! Of course, that was– brilliant, really amazing. How did you know– sorry, notice all of that stuff?”
“The same way I noticed that you’re a pre-med student likely attending St. Bart’s and you’re on the way to visit your mother and sibling. With some dread, I might add. Must be a fairly terse relationship for you to find relief in the frankly excessive weather delays. Most people here are either verbally venting their frustrations or twitching in their seats, but you’re perfectly at ease, aside from your brief stint with insecurity. Obvious tell, right there.” The boy tilted his head. Finally, John noticed the color of his eyes – silver, nearly colorless in the golden train lighting, glint like the sharpened edge of a knife. “Your estrangement did not last for very long before your sense of familial obligation got in the way, I presume?”
John bit the inside of his cheek. He was flushed and overly warmth suddenly, despite the growing chill of the windowpane. He waited for the familiar sting of humiliation when people asked about his mother and Harry, but for once, there was no such emotion. Rather than shame, he simply felt relieved that someone knew and did not seem to judge him for it. Knew and understood the sense of obligation, to some degree.
“Three months,” John answered plainly.
The boy nodded, as if he’d expected as much. Possibly he had. At this point, John wouldn’t be surprised. “As expected. Well, you needn’t worry. There’s at least another hour before the train will start running again, though I’m leaning more towards two. Plenty of time for you to mentally prepare for the forthcoming anguish.” At that, his lips – which were an absurd heart-shape – quirked into a smirk.
He was trying to be funny. It almost felt like an apology for bringing up John’s family in the first place. While John didn’t garner any sincere regret from the other boy, he appreciated the sentiment. Somewhat. “Fingers crossed for three,” John muttered.
The boy’s eyes brightened. It wasn’t quite a smile, so it made no sense when John’s heart fluttered erratically in his chest. “Sherlock Holmes,” the boy said, stretching out his hand.
John glanced down. The boy – Sherlock Holmes, he thought in disbelief, the name of a fairy tale hero – had long, slim fingers. Pianist’s hands, his mother would say. John accepted the offer, giving a firm handshake like his father had drilled into him as a child. Sherlock’s hands were cold as ice, despite his dramatic coat. John worked hard not to flinch. “Right, nice to meet you. My name’s John Watson.”
“I know.”
John made a noise of disbelief as their hands separated. “How could you possibly–?”
“Your university identification card has been gradually slipping out of your bag for the past twenty-seven minutes.”
Looking down, Sherlock’s assessment was quickly proven accurate. John’s name was etched across the Bart’s ID card, along with a frankly embarrassing photo. Hastily, John stuffed the card back into his pocket, zipping it all the way up this time. He must’ve forgotten to zip it upon boarding the train. “You noticed,” John said, a hesitant smile tugging at his mouth.
Sherlock blinked. He seemed conflicted by John’s pleased tone, as if he’d been anticipating a different reaction. Even having barely met him, John had a feeling that astounding Sherlock Holmes was a difficult task. “That’s not what people normally say.”
“Yeah? What do people normally say?”
“Piss off.”
And John, despite the dread that had been settling deeper and deeper into his bones, let out a sharp laugh. It rang throughout the cramped train, several passengers looking over in surprise or mild annoyance. But none of their frustrations mattered to John, as Sherlock’s low, startled baritone joined in. The other boy’s chuckle was so tentative, as if afraid of wandering into a trap, and John felt a pang of emotion that he couldn’t quite place.
Their chuckles faded, a comfortable silence falling into place. John risked a quick glance towards the other boy. Sherlock was already staring, but instead of quickly looking away like most people would, he held John’s gaze. It scrambled John’s mind, any coherent ways to ease the tension with a witty joke vanishing at once. The boy was beautiful, John realized with a start, though that didn’t excuse his own behavior. Generally, John could recognize another person’s beauty without gaping like a fish for an extensive period of time.
“You never did explain,” John said. His voice came out softer than he would’ve liked, and he hoped Sherlock would blame the hush settling over the train as ample justification.
Sherlock tilted his head. It caused his ridiculous curls to fall into his face, which John resolutely did not focus on. “Explain? Explain what?”
“The real reason why you weren’t bothering with the small talk before.”
Sherlock arched a delicate brow. “This is small talk?” he asked. At John’s unimpressed, scowl, he let out a deep exhale. “Here for a reason. Musn’t risk any distractions.”
“Deducing my entire life story wasn’t distracting to you?”
“Child’s play,” Sherlock said with a sudden, insincere flash of teeth. John scrunched his nose, disbelieving, and the false smile dissipated at once. John felt an irrational surge of relief. There was something empty in that expression, completely at war with the low chuckles from earlier. “It took minimal effort. People are idiots, nothing about them is ever difficult to read.”
Heat surged in John’s chest, though he couldn’t tell if it was anger or humiliation. He’d thought they’d been getting along so well. “Oi–”
“Oh, don’t be like that. Nearly everyone’s an idiot. It isn’t personal.” Sherlock’s words came out in a harsh rush, though John knew he wasn’t imagining the flicker of concern across his angular features. Almost like regret.
Well, all right. Besides, John had bigger issues than some casual rudeness if he was thinking of Sherlock’s features as angular.
“So you can’t risk ‘distractions,’” John said, a breathy imitation of Sherlock’s own words. Sherlock leveled a steady look towards him – it had the potential to grow into a scowl, but eventually settled back into affront. John nodded. “Makes it sound pretty serious, don’t you think?”
“Well, a man’s life is at risk. But I suppose it all depends on your interpretation of serious.”
John laughed. It wasn’t like before; this time, it was a shocked, dry sound, like someone still waiting for the point of the joke. No purpose appeared, however, and Sherlock’s lips twitched into a coy smirk as he noticed the confusion slowly dawning on John’s expression. Still, he did not bother to elaborate, and John didn’t quite know where to begin.
“Sorry, but . . . whose life is at risk?”
Sherlock blinked. His brows twitched, gaze scanning John with that startling awareness once again, before his frown softened out. There was a spark of danger in those pale eyes, and John could not entirely ignore the thrilled burning in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock leaned closer, breath skittering across John’s neck. “Do you see the man with two briefcases sitting across and seven seats away?”
John fought down a shiver with valiant effort. He did not completely succeed. “Yes, I see the man across and seven seats away from us,” he hissed. “Why does it matter?”
Sherlock exhaled deeply. “Well, bit strange, isn’t it? Two briefcases?”
“Lots of people are traveling to visit family. I have a backpack, and that lady over there has luggage, so–”
“It’s different,” Sherlock snapped. His dark tone, hushed and assured, offered no room for argument. He leaned away, the loss of contact causing a slight chill to spread across John’s skin. Body heat, he thought desperately. It was only because of the loss of body heat. It was chilly in this train compartment. “Backpacks and luggage imply things like clothes, seasonal presents, that sort of thing. But briefcases? Impersonal. Besides, it’s obvious.”
Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. It was a bit intimate, despite the newfound distance between them. John pursed his lips, gaze accidentally flickering towards the man. Bad timing, too – in that same beat, the man looked towards John and Sherlock, eyes narrowing.
Sherlock sighed again. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, “don’t stare.”
“You’re staring,” John retorted in a hiss.
“Well, we can’t both stare.” Sherlock looked away from the troubled man, leaning back into his seat with a sudden ease he’d lacked before. He appeared utterly relaxed, shoulders lowering, breaths evening out. He looked over at John with an expression of effortless friendliness, with just the right amount of innocence sparkling in his gaze.
Just like that, they looked like old friends, rather than two twenty-something’s stuck together during a broken down train ride.
“It isn’t obvious to me,” John whispered. “What’s the problem with two briefcases?”
Sherlock’s lips curved into a smirk. “Body parts.”
The words sounded like a caress in Sherlock’s low tone. John blinked, going through an endless list of potential mental conditions he might have for finding that so painfully attractive. “What about body parts?” he asked, though he had a growing suspicion.
“Do I have to do everything around here?”
John rolled his eyes. “All right, fine,” he snapped, aware of the man’s lingering attention on them. He kept his voice low, not wanting to alert the mother of two kids sitting only three seats away from them. “So this bloke’s smuggling body parts. What does that have to do with you?” John’s attempt at whispering wasn’t too efficient. One of the two children, a small boy with curly black hair and a Spider-man t-shirt, looked up with a wild grin. John tried not to wince.
"As I said," Sherlock said, voice pulled taut with the effort to keep quiet. "His life, at least as he knows it, is at risk."
Sherlock didn’t seem to pay any attention to the child. Instead, his shoulders tensed, chin raising in a haughty lift. Though even John, who didn’t know the slightest thing about Sherlock other than his name and his observation skills, could tell that it was a defensive measure rather than genuine pretentiousness. Sherlock had already demonstrated some degree of arrogance, and it rang more true then. John bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a smile, so his neighbor wouldn’t begin questioning his sanity.
"What do you mean?" Frankly, John was already questioning his own sanity. He wasn’t exactly introverted, but he didn’t willingly talk to people on the train. He definitely did not become irrevocably fascinated within several moments. Possibly the terrible train sandwich was impacting his ability to think clearly.
Not that it mattered. Once the train was running again and John finally reached his mother’s house, he probably wouldn’t see the mysterious Sherlock Holmes ever again.
He pretended not to feel a sharp pang over that.
“You’ll see,” Sherlock said. Almost as soon as he spoke, the man with the two briefcases rose from his seat, cases in tow, and headed for the doors. No one looked up, another couple having just gone to pester to dining compartment, but Sherlock chuckled.
It was a bit of an ominous chuckle. John once again ran through the list of potential mental conditions that would explain his sudden attraction. “What’s happening?” John asked, voice a little hoarse. Dehydration, surely. Not that stubborn attraction.
Sherlock, for all of his noticing, didn’t seem aware of John’s internal crisis. His attention was wholly trained on the man with the briefcases. He could burn a hole through the man from the intensity of his stare. “He’s going to meet his associate from the black market,” Sherlock murmured.
John scoffed, certain that Sherlock was joking. When Sherlock only stiffened further, however, John had to recognize his seriousness. He blinked. “Sorry, you’re serious? The black market? How would you know anything about the black market? You’re, what, eighteen?”
“Nineteen. Don’t act so parental and omnipotent. You’re only twenty-one. Oh, don’t look surprised; I saw it on your ID card.”
“Fine,” John sneered, readjusting in his seat so he was angled towards Sherlock. The other boy, however, kept his attention locked on the doors that the man had disappeared through. “But that doesn’t exactly answer my question, does it?”
“Who said I was going to answer any of your questions?” Sherlock retorted, suddenly rising from his seat. His movements were graceful, akin to a dancer, with his long coat billowing out from behind him. It was all very dramatic. Not for the first time, John wondered why he found it charming when it was so objectively ridiculous. “Gotta dash.”
John frowned. “Wait, hang on–”
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, all sharp cheekbones and alarming pallor in the poor overhead lighting. He let out an exasperated breath. “Right. Before you ask, no. I’m not the contact from the black market.”
This time, the children’s mother looked over, her dark eyes wide with alarm. She glanced over Sherlock before shifting her attention towards John, who looked decidedly less dramatic and intimidating than his neighbor. Still, John didn’t bother to offer her a reassuring smile, seized with a sudden awareness that Sherlock was certainly following after the suspicious man. “Do people often assume you’re the criminal?” he asked.
Sherlock’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. Something swooped in John’s stomach, and he experienced an abrupt kinship with swooning heroines in romance novels. “Now and again, yes. Oh. Two hours for certain, if you were still wondering.”
“Two hours for what?”
“Until the train runs again. Scotland Yard is sure to add another delay, considering their overwhelming incompetency and inevitable struggle to reach us in the middle of nowhere. But don’t worry. I came prepared.” In a flash, Sherlock swept out a pair of glinting handcuffs from his coat pocket.
John’s throat went as dry as sandpaper.
Before he could even consider formulating a response to that (and what in the bloody hell could he possibly say?), Sherlock disappeared through the compartment doors.
The mother was glaring at John now, hands resting over the back of her children’s heads as she pulled them into her chest. Hiding them from Sherlock and his utter absurdity. John thought it was a little unfair that he was the one being held accountable, but Sherlock had put on a bit of a spectacle for his benefit.
John leaned back in his seat, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he eyed the unmoving compartment doors. Sherlock had mentioned quite a lot in a short period, but somehow managed not to admit to anything. He’d mentioned Scotland Yard, the black market, the man smuggling body parts, flashed some handcuffs that made John’s blood pressure rise palpably, and then vanished into the abyss.
Wait. Not the abyss.
Sherlock was going after the man.
John groaned out loud, startling several grumpy passengers into glowering in his direction. None of that mattered as John kicked his bag under his seat, pushing through the offending train doors with a loud bang.
Nearly all passengers in the next compartment looked towards John with widened eyes and lifted brows. His entrance had been a bit melodramatic. Still, he didn’t have time for social niceties, instead hurrying through the compartment and having a similar experience in the following one. This went on for another four compartments, John cursing his luck at being stuck in the absolute back, before he finally reached the dining car.
First, he recognized a long navy trenchcoat, wild curls bouncing as he stepped forward. However, Sherlock wasn’t alone, and John looked past him towards the man and his two briefcases. One had been opened rather violently, the tarnished latch laying broken on the floor, though it was the contents that captured John’s attention.
Several severed hands were scattered haphazardly. Some were still resting inside of the broken briefcase, whereas three others were laying disjointedly across the train floor. Those three were bent in alarming positions; the jerky types of positions that a hand could never bend into without being broken. Or, apparently, severed. The bitter smell of rotting flesh mingled with the burnt coffee and refrigerated sandwich meat of the dining car. Each of the hands had symbols carved into the decaying skin, like a disgusting variation of a tattoo. John set his jaw, relieved that medical students were required to have such strong stomachs. Though he still could’ve done without the rancid smell.
The man advanced towards Sherlock, rage marring his pale features. He looked sickly, thick beads of sweat trickling down the wide expanse of his forehead, with purple circles caved in under his narrowed eyes. John hadn’t been particularly stealthy when he entered the compartment, but the man was too focused on Sherlock to notice. It was then that John noticed the long knife in the man’s trembling hand.
Just briefly, Sherlock’s gaze diverted from the man, locking onto John with a startling intensity. He shook his head, barely any movement, as if trying to keep the other man from noticing John’s presence. John couldn’t dwell too hard on that, however, as there was still the matter of the knife at hand. Well. In someone’s hand.
Swiftly, John darted forward, arms compressing the taller man’s throat. The man gasped against John, twisting towards him. He smelled of dried blood, of lingering days-old sweat, of whiskey, and somehow that was even more repulsive than the severed hands business. John let out an impatient exhale, swinging one of his arms and knocking the knife out of the man’s hand. It landed across the dining car, right under the small refrigerator holding the chilled drinks, and Sherlock stepped in front when the man tried to lunge forward once more.
John nearly lost his grip, too, and just might’ve, if the compartment doors didn’t burst open at that moment. All three parties – Sherlock, John, and the presumable hand-severer – all looked over in trepidation, though the tension went out of Sherlock’s stiff shoulders when he saw the older man hovering on the frontlines.
“Scotland Yard! Put your hands up now!”
The man snarled, spitting onto John’s arm. His head was jerking wildly around, though there was no escape, especially as two more officers emerged from the train car in front of them. They were surrounded by police officers, and John was desperately trying not to think of that time he’d egged someone’s house in primary school or when he accidentally stole a pack of gum from the market near Bart’s.
“Stand down, kid,” the older man demanded, nodding sharply at John.
John’s eyes narrowed, not exactly pleased over being called kid after restraining an older man with dozens of severed limbs, but alas, that pack of gum was still at the forefront of his thoughts. John released the man, nearly pushed out of the way as the officers slapped handcuffs onto the man still spitting harsh words in Russian.
Sherlock looked over at John now, grey eyes wide and suddenly innocent. His brows furrowed as he observed John with an expression not unlike fear. John, apparently enduring a moment of total insanity, flashed him a grin. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t go after you, did ya?”
Sherlock’s stare roamed over John, lips parting noticeably. “I . . . .”
John’s grin only widened. He’d felt like he was dying inside, sitting for hours on this unmoving train full of frustrated passengers. It was a relief to move; to do something, anything. He turned back towards the apprehended, glaring at the pair of teenagers. “Right. So all of that stinks, mate, you know that, don’t you?”
Sherlock let out a startled chuckle.
“Sherlock, five minutes,” the older officer said sharply.
“Do I need to do all of the work, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked flatly, suddenly devoid of humor. “It was the brother all along, as you can see. The green ladder should’ve tipped you off, but since you continually insist on discarding my suggestions . . . .”
The man, whose badge read Lestrade, grunted as the other agents handcuffed the man, eyeing the scattered hands with growing disgust.
Sherlock flicked a glance towards John, just as John noticed his own lack of disgust towards the hands. Not that it wasn’t disgusting – frankly, the smell alone could’ve churned his stomach – but that hadn’t been his focus. He’d been too worried about Sherlock, standing alone in the dining car with the man and his severed hands.
“Freak. Looks like you didn’t do it alone, after all.”
The unfamiliar voice cut into John’s musings. He looked towards the woman. She was taller than him, especially so in her towering high heels, with black curly hair and brown skin. She was quite pretty, only a few years older than John, though the sneer across her expression as she looked at Sherlock did not make her seem particularly approachable.
“What’s his name, then? Did you get it before or after you followed him home?” she continued, looking towards John as if letting him in on the joke.
Sherlock opened his mouth, but John beat him to it. “His name is John,” he said dryly. “And I think it’s a little weird to call someone else a freak when there’s a man with dozens of severed hands in the same room.”
The man cursed in Russian, but John didn’t flinch. After being yelled at enough times by his mother, nothing intimidated him. Childhood trauma truly made you invincible. And funny.
Sherlock huffed out a laugh. John didn’t get much time to relish that before Sherlock turned back towards the woman, ivory features shifting into impassiveness. “Always good to see you, Donovan. Though judging by the reddened state of your knees, you were rather busy before rushing to the cavalry. Judging by the familiar men’s extra-strength deodorant wafting off you, you settled for another liaison with Anderson. Bit disappointing, Sally. Especially considering the new flat share with his girlfriend that he’s planning to move into at the end of the month, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” Each of these statements escaped in a sharp, unending flow until the final question, when Sherlock leaned forward slightly, as if genuinely interested in Donovan’s answer. Unsurprisingly, it seemed like she had nothing left to say.
The man behind John sighed deeply. Judging by his weariness, this was a regular occurrence.
Right, then. Sherlock spent time with the police officers of Scotland Yard. Regularly.
Lestrade and Donovan insisted on John returning to his own compartment. John tried to catch Sherlock’s eye, but the boy was avoiding eye contact with him, almost pointedly. There was only so much arguing that a twenty-one-year-old university student could do with the police (especially after that pack of gum), and soon enough, he was shuffling back to his train compartment. The mother of the two children eyed him with trepidation, not unlike the way that Donovan had glared at Sherlock.
John slumped back into his seat, suddenly so much colder without his neighbor by his side. He glanced at his tattered silver watch, the clasp certainly going to snap before the end of the year. All of that happened in just eighteen minutes.
One hour and forty-two minutes later, the train began to screech against the tracks, moving once again.
John sat alone.
Sherlock Holmes hadn’t been much company until the last half-hour of their acquaintance, but John missed his presence now, only the glowering mother and various businessmen in the compartment to keep him company. John’s head jerked over immediately each time the doors opened or closed, but it was only fellow passengers coming to and fro the reopened dining car, and not one of them had a dramatic, vampiric trenchcoat. It occurred to John that, more than likely, Sherlock wouldn’t return; probably disappearing into the dark night with his fancy coat and knife-sharp cheekbones with the calvary of Scotland Yard by his side. He was a mystery obsessed with solving them, from what John could gather. But John lacked any detective skills; lacked any finesse for determining the proper culprit or comprehending subconscious motivations, and because of that, he had no chance of figuring out Sherlock Holmes.
But the company had been nice.
After what felt like several lifetimes, the train gradually rolled to a stop at John’s station. Even from the windows, he could see Harry’s enthusiastic waving – along with the lack of his mother’s presence. But he felt more relieved than distraught. Just seeing Harry after their last encounter was stressful enough, though perhaps she meant what she said in the awkward call earlier that month, and she was willing to leave it in the past. The thought loosened the knot in John’s chest, just slightly.
John slung his backpack over his shoulder, flicking a quick glance over his seat to ensure he hadn't left anything behind. He hadn’t, and neither had Sherlock, and John heaved a sigh before heading towards the exit.
“That . . . thing you did earlier, that was . . . good.”
John nearly fell off the final step, spinning around with humiliating eagerness. Sherlock’s lips quirked into a small smirk as John’s display, but John couldn’t mind that, not when his heart was determined to beat through his chest at the familiar face.
Not that it should be familiar. They barely knew each other. But the sensation was there all the same, irrational familiarity tugging at John’s subconsciousness with a passion.
“The . . . thing?” John echoed after a beat, finally regaining mastery of basic speech.
Sherlock nodded once, slow and precise. “With the suspect. You . . . certainly aided.” It wasn’t much of a compliment, was barely an accurate assessment considering John had saved the boy from certain death, but it seemed to pain Sherlock all the same. Considering how he’d spoken to the officers earlier on, possibly he wasn’t used to doling out compliments. Or even vaguely flattering statements.
“Saved your life, you mean?” John asked.
Sherlock blanched. John worried he’d gone too far, but then the boy’s lips quirked fleetingly. “Yes,” he said in a low baritone. “Saved my life.”
Perhaps there were still mysterious technical difficulties with the train, because John could’ve sworn electricity crackled between them in that moment. Sherlock was observing John, unapologetic and intense, silver eyes flickering over his shorter silhouette with growing fascination. Something he saw there seemed to stall him, and he froze in his analysis, blinking rapidly as his head tilted. John had the wild thought that he looked almost like a conflicted puppy, and thanked God he still had enough control over his speaking facilities to not blurt that out.
The silence stretched on, even as other passengers brushed past them, various heavy bags bumping into both boys. John hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. Harry was still waiting on the landing, some of her excitement dwindling into impatience and confusion as she glowered at the curly-haired boy.
“Well,” Sherlock said, rather airily. It almost sounded like indifference, but John had heard him deduce Donovan down to her bones, and he knew what Sherlock sounded like when he was truly indifferent. How insane it was, to know a person so well after such a brief encounter; more like recognition than acquaintance. And that was definitely too Shakespearean for John. “I’ll leave you to it, Doctor Watson.”
Miracle of miracles, John’s knees didn’t buckle at the terminal title, though his throat was as dry as sandpaper. He took a hesitant step closer to Sherlock, ignoring the backpack that dutifully tried to take out his left eye. “Can I get your number?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened on a blink. That sharp gaze flitted over John again, and John stared back, unwavering despite the growing tremble in his fingers. Still, he didn’t falter, leaving no misconception for the other boy to latch onto.
Eventually, Sherlock’s features crumbled back into feigned impassiveness, and John felt a drowning wave of disappointment even before his next words. “Best not.”
“Why?”
Sherlock’s brows furrowed. This pause was shorter, but John still felt the care behind each chosen word. “Could be dangerous. I don’t exactly maintain a . . . conventional lifestyle. And I consider myself married to my work, though I-I’m flattered–”
“All right,” John interrupted, easygoing enough despite the way his lungs seemed to be deflating. “It’s all fine. There was no pressure. So I guess I’ll . . . .” He hesitated. His parting words were senseless, statistically unlikely, and yet he couldn’t muster up the courage for something more final than that. “I’ll see you around.”
Doubt shrouded Sherlock’s expression, though it was wiped away an instant later, replaced with dawning comprehension. He nodded, slow and careful, just as before. “See you around, John.”
John turned away, even as each muscle in his body seemed to protest. Still, Harry was waiting, and Sherlock had gotten his point across rather clearly, even if John didn’t buy the excuses for an instant. He was no budding detective, but even John could tell the difference between disinterest and fear. That wasn’t a boundary he was willing to push, so he’d settle for this tentative parting and, if he was very lucky, forget all about the rush of adrenaline and lingering familiarity with the dramas and ires that came with a social call to a complicated family.
. . .
John hadn’t forgotten.
He fidgeted consistently in his seat, causing the older man with the receding hairline sitting besides him to scowl in his direction seven times in the past forty minutes. Each time the compartment door swung open, he jerked upright, but it was never him, never anyone with midnight curls or striking silver eyes or caustic wit, and each time, disappointment and humiliation grew more leaden in John’s body.
The visit to his family had gone exactly as anticipated. Harry tried her best, and his mother tried her worst, and he ended up arguing bitterly with the both of them more than once. Harry, at least, had seen him off and hugged him goodbye. John had pretended not to smell the acrid vodka on her breath, pretended not to notice that she hadn’t showered in two days, pretended he hadn’t heard the clinking beer bottles in her room after each disagreement. She was following in their mother’s footsteps. John didn’t frighten easily, but that prospect terrified him, and he shied away from one final confrontation before his departure, cowardly for the first time since he’d asked Sarah Sawyer to the movies when he was thirteen.
Despite all of the unending chaos, he had been unable to blot the memory of Sherlock Holmes out of his mind. Especially now, with his concerns for his sister and mother growing farther and farther out the blurring windows. There was only so much he could do from such a long train ride away. Not that dwelling on Sherlock was much better.
John couldn’t figure out how to solve his family issues any more than he could solve the mystery of Sherlock Holmes, lingering in the train walls, jarring him every time a tall man in a long coat passed him by. Obsessing over either of those options was masochistic at best, but maybe that term fit John’s personality, because he’d been oscillating between the two thoughts for a whole week.
The ride back home was significantly shorter, without a single technical difficulty or severed hand in sight. It probably said a great deal about John’s mental state that he was yearning for a briefcase of severed hands, but that briefcase had brought Sherlock Holmes into his train car, and maybe it would bring him back.
Too soon, London blurred past in his windows. John slumped into his seat with arms crossed, defeated, and pretended not to notice the twelfth glare from the man next to him. This time, the man’s stare didn’t immediately avert, instead flitting over John as if picking him apart piece-by-piece, thought-by-thought. It was annoyingly invasive, and John fidgeted, tilting his head in the opposite direction to hide his face.
There was something familiar about that look.
John nearly groaned out loud, pinching the bridge of his nose while trying to ignore the man’s growing apprehension. He was being absurd. Just seeing mirages of some boy he’d encountered once in everyone he met. This was worse than his breakup with Mary Morstan during his final year of secondary school, and this time, he did groan.
“Are you quite all right?”
Disapproval radiated off the man’s tone, making it sound more judgmental than a concerned inquiry. John looked over, eyes narrowing in affront, though what he saw brought him up short.
Something about the eyes. Not the same color. Really, nothing like those moonlit eyes from before, but there was still something . . . some inexplicable resemblance.
Scowl number thirteen appeared. “May I help you?” he asked, his forced politeness declining straight into rudeness from the amount of strain in it.
John blinked. Something in the voice, too. Was he going insane? Or was there actually something there? He shook his head, not trusting his voice enough to speak. God forbid he sounded happy to get scolded by this impatient man.
John would’ve thought the man might bolt straight out of the train in his eagerness to get away from John, but instead, he moved rather slowly, as if the world could simply stop and wait for him to pass through. John’s wonderment from before had shifted into teeth-grinding irritation as he remained stuck behind the man, only manners drilled into him by his father as a child keeping him from shoving past. He heard deep exhales from behind him, other passengers eager to get off the train, and tried to be less aware of the annoyed scrutinization.
Finally, finally, after several long years and four seasons of Doctor Who, the man had exited the train. John hopped down with ease, landing like a cat and sucking in a deep breath of the . . . fresh, polluted London air. Still, anything was an improvement from stale train air, and it was nice to smell something other than the sharp detergent of the older man’s expensive suit.
John slung his bag over his shoulder, eyeing the exit into the Tube, clustered with people exiting the train and pushing their way through. He took a deep breath, preparing to slip into the claustrophobic throng, before a deep voice stopped him in his tracks.
“For God’s sake, could you walk any slower? Do you need a wheelchair?”
John’s spine straightened, fight-or-flight response kicking into gear at the familiar voice. He glanced over his shoulder, lips parting as he noticed the dark-haired boy from before. Sherlock Holmes stood, not ten feet away, like a physical manifestation of John’s frankly concerning infatuations. He hadn’t noticed John yet, though, instead focused on glaring at the man standing in front of him with more disdain than the serial killer on the train had received.
It was the man John had been sitting next to, complete with his stuffy suit. His scowls had been slightly subtle before, but the sneer on his face as he glowered at Sherlock was rather blatant. The realization hit John with the force of a lorry.
Brothers. They were brothers. They had to be.
The older man opened his mouth, snappy retort surely on the tip of his tongue, though he never got it out. Sherlock, as if sensing John’s unwavering attention, looked over just in time to meet his eyes. He blinked slowly, almost looking sleepy with unusual confusion, before his lips quirked.
Sherlock brushed past his brother, ignoring his protests as he strode over to John. He was wearing the same long navy trenchcoat as before, hands burrowed into deep pockets. His curls were more disheveled, probably from the brittle winds, but he had the same spark in his eyes from when he’d aided in the apprehension of that suspect (Would Seven-Hands Sam be a good nickname? It sounded like a mystery novel, frankly.) as he approached John. He stopped suddenly, at least a foot of distance between the pair, as he rocked back and forth on his heels. For the first time since John met him, he looked hesitant.
“I have a belief.”
John arched his brows, aiming a pointed look up towards the sky.
Sherlock scoffed, as John expected, before shaking his head. “Not that. I believe that . . . there is no such thing as a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy.”
John refrained from asking if that was a convoluted way of admitting to believing in fate. He didn’t know Sherlock too well, but he knew enough to speculate that wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead, he tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Is that your way of asking for my number?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched. It seemed like he was trying to beat down a larger smile, but he was failing. He ducked his head, looking every bit the bashful university student rather than the sharp-edged force of nature from before. John found himself suddenly wanting to learn all of his dualities, all of his paradoxes and contradictions and layers, with a necessity that was out-of-place for such a short-term acquaintance.
Sherlock’s hand rifled deeper into his pocket before offering a sleek mobile to John. He stared down at it, hardly believing what he was seeing. What if this was a huge mistake? What if he was too boring to keep up with Sherlock’s whirlwind energy? What if–?
“Are you going to enter your number or do I have to do everything myself?”
There was the sharp edge again.
John rolled his eyes, huffing for propriety’s sake more than genuine frustration. He snatched the mobile out of Sherlock’s outstretched hand, entering his number. Graciously, Sherlock pretended not to notice how John’s hands were shaking despite his gloves and ignored that it took three tries to enter the final digit correctly.
John handed the mobile back, their fingertips brushing. It was a barely-there touch, hard to feel at all through John’s tattered brown gloves or Sherlock’s sleek leather ones, but somehow, John felt it all the same, suddenly understanding what people meant when they spoke about “fireworks” and “butterflies.” He’d felt variations of it before with girls, but none of those experiences had disoriented him in quite the same manner.
Judging by the glint in Sherlock’s eyes, he could read it on his face. But that didn’t bother John, not when the boy stumbled over his own two feet on the way back over to his brother, stammering his way through reluctant and oddly defensive introductions.
“What a coincidence that I had the . . . pleasure of sitting next to you,” Mycroft Holmes drawled, face contorted into the falsest smile John had ever seen in his life.
John shrugged, exchanging a lingering glance with Sherlock. His heart twisted in his chest at the buried optimism in the boy’s eyes, now more pale blue than silver in the growing afternoon light. And John knew, knew in his heart of hearts, that his life was permanently altered now. Just as he knew, with an overwhelming certainty, that it was exactly the right change. “I dunno about that. I mean, the universe is rarely so lazy.”