Chapter Text
“Can we talk?” Sarah touched me on the shoulder with a hesitant smile, but somehow I felt as if I were about to be arrested.
I tried for a return smile anyway, “Sure, what’s up?”
She glanced round with one eye toward the nurse’s station where the receptionist was openly eavesdropping, “Let me buy you a coffee.”
I put down my clipboard, “All right, I was about to take a break anyway.”
Sarah and I walked to the little cafe next door and she bought me a tea and a croissant, then chose a little table next to the window.
As we took our seats, Sarah gave me a bracing sort of look, and it made me nervous.
I sipped my tea, “Thanks for this.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome. Erm. John,” she cocked her head sort of consideringly, “When I asked if you’ve got a girlfriend-”
“Which I don’t,” I assured her.
“Right, but I didn’t mean. Erm. I suppose a modern girl wouldn’t mind going out with someone who’s already got a boyfriend, but I-”
“I haven’t got a boyfriend either,” I interrupted.
Sarah creased her forehead, “Er. Sorry, who was that man you brought along on our date?”
I tore a bit off my croissant, “That. I didn’t bring him; he just turned up.”
“And then you talked to him the entire time.”
“We’re just flatmates!”
Sarah’s eyebrows went up, “And you live with him.”
“We share the rent! That’s all.”
“Well,” Sarah pressed her lips together doubtfully, “what I’m really getting at is that it’s a bit. Complicated. For me to try and go out with a subordinate who’s already going out with someone else.”
I’d been expecting that when the conversation started, but it still stung, “Oh. Okay. I get it.”
“Sorry,” Sarah grimaced apologetically. “I’ve just. Got to be professional.”
I nodded, “Yeah, of course. No hard feelings.”
Sarah smiled and stood up, “Thanks, John. Finish up here, and I’ll see you back there, all right?”
“Sure, yeah of course.”
…
Thinking of picking up dinner. In the mood for anything?
-SH
No, but if you try and make me eat any more pasta, I may have to tip it over your head.
Noted. See you soon.
-SH
…
I got in from work cold and stiff with an ache in my shoulder and feeling rather cross and impatient. Being chucked by your boss on your morning tea break doesn’t exactly make the next six hours soar by on silver wings.
But my mood lifted as soon as I walked into the flat. There was a fire burning in the fireplace that I crossed to as soon as I’d hung my jacket on the hook. The tightness in my shoulders loosened as I let its warmth wash over me. Soft instrumental music played, and I had to look round for where it was coming from. I’d never noticed the sound system before. The air was full of a delicious savoury aroma, and I sniffed appreciatively.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown with the sleeves turned up and holding out a wooden spoonful of something red and creamy looking, “Taste this.”
I stepped forward obediently, my mouth watering, “What is it? Not an experiment?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Blood sacrifice. No, of course it isn’t an experiment, John. I do other things apart from science. It’s a tomato bisque. Found the recipe on the internet earlier. So I suppose it’s a bit of an experiment, but the sort you can eat, not the sort that makes you lose a Wednesday if you get the dosage wrong.”
I raised an eyebrow, “That was very specific.”
“It was before I met you. I’m much more responsible now; it’s your good influence,” Sherlock waggled the spoon at me.
“All right, then,” I opened my mouth, and Sherlock popped the spoon in. The bisque was heavenly, “Oh my god.”
Sherlock beamed, “I know. Cheese toasties coming out of the oven in two minutes. And I baked the bread.”
I took the spoon from him to give it more thorough attention, “You baked, too? All this and I thought you were picking up takeaway.”
Sherlock shrugged, “I changed my mind. It was cold, and I didn’t want to leave the flat. Raided Mrs Hudson’s fridge and pantry for ingredients. She’s already had her share.”
“Well, it’s delicious, and I can’t wait to eat more than my share.” I gave the spoon a last lick, “Is there anything you can’t do?”
Sherlock puffed up his cheeks and blew out a thoughtful breath, “I’ll have to get back to you on that. Come and wash the tube off you and help me plate.”
I followed Sherlock into the kitchen and washed my hands. He took the cheese toasties out of the oven.
“Where do you want me?” I held up my clean, slightly pink hands like a surgeon waiting to be gloved.
“Dishes,” Sherlock set the pan on the stove next to the soup pot, “And wine if you want it.”
“Right,” I got down bowls and glasses from the cabinet. “What sort of wine goes with tomato soup?”
“Chianti,” Sherlock answered at once. “But all we’ve got is bordeaux.”
I laughed and poured, “I’m sure that’ll do me. How did I not know you cook? What else are you holding out on me?” I offered Sherlock a glass, and he set down the ladle to sip before handing the glass back to me for momentary safekeeping. “Oh are you not going to tell me?”
Sherlock winked and handed me a bowl, “Don’t you think it’ll be more fun if you work it out as we go along?”
Warmth, unrelated to the soup, flared in my chest, and I smiled down at the bowl, “Yeah, maybe it will.”
…
“You should quit,” Sherlock remarked, leaning toward me from his chair as I nursed my ill advised third glass of wine.
“Quit?” I frowned down at my glass dumbly.
Sherlock smiled, “Your job. You hate it. You’re practically choking on your own boredom, and it makes you feel guilty and miserable missing so much the army bit of the army doctor.”
I prickled with the newly familiar discomfort of being too well seen and gulped from my glass, “Aren’t we a show off.”
“Yes,” Sherlock bounced an eyebrow at me. “But that’s why you like me. More to the point, we’ve had that cheque from Sebastian’s firm. If you recall, it was. Considerable. We don’t need whatever pittance you’re getting from a job that makes you miserable.”
I shook my head, “You can’t just give-”
“You helped, John. It isn’t giving; it’s your share.”
I set my glass down on a side table, “I helped a bit!”
Sherlock shrugged carelessly, “Consider it a kidnapping premium, then.”
I snorted and looked away, “You’re suggesting something completely insane. You do know that.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.”
“For me to give up my job as a doctor, which y’know. I did seven years training for. And become. What? Your tea boy? Your PA?”
Sherlock tossed his head, “Is that really what you think of what you do for me?”
I folded my arms, “And what exactly is it that I do for you?”
Sherlock shook his head and smiled sweetly, “Think instead about what I could do for you. Get you out of that stuffy surgery and those stuffy noses. Find you something real to do.”
I let out a helpless little laugh, “Something real.”
Sherlock dragged his chair toward mine and leaned forward even more, reaching out to clutch the arm of my chair, “Something vital, John. Something. Heart pounding.”
“Jesus.” I shifted my hips in my seat. We were nearly nose to nose, “We’re still. Talking about work, are we?”
Sherlock smiled, smug like he’d already won, “Think it over, John. I’m not going anywhere. I think you know where to find me.” He stood before I could reply and went over to the sitting room window.
“How long have you been planning that speech?” I called after him.
Sherlock picked up his violin and lifted it to his shoulder before he cocked his head to answer me, “Long enough.” He raised his bow, but something in my face made him pause, “Yes?”
“Why me?” I hadn’t even meant to ask that when I opened my mouth.
Sherlock smiled up the neck of his violin, “Would you like a list?”
I raised my chin, “Couldn’t hurt.”
Sherlock considered, “I’ll make you a list, if you say yes.” And he began to play.
…
Why me? Possible reasons (a list written by John Watson and chucked onto the fire while Sherlock was in the loo):
-he likes me admiring him and no one else seems to, which is insane (he could get Dimmock at the very least and probably also that jumper lady from the morgue if he liked)
-he wants my gun arm (most likely)
-he likes company when he goes out and the skull just attracts attention (filling in for an inanimate object. Brilliant)
-he’s going to harvest my organs and he wants to build up a buffer period where no one will miss me (far-fetched)
-???????
-going to have to say okay if I want to find out, I suppose
-does it matter? (probably!)
...
Wake in the night sweating and parched. Cough into my pillow, then reach for the glass on my night table and immediately tip it over. There’s a soft trickle as the few drops run into my wastepaper basket.
“Shit.”
Pick up the glass, kick off the blankets, and make for the bathroom. I push open the door and there’s a sharp little sound that my brain in its sleep fug doesn’t make sense of til I’ve barked up against its warm, sturdy, fleshy source.
“Gah! Hey, occupied!”
Start violently, dropping the glass with a thump on the rug, reach for the light switch and squint against the sudden dazzle when it comes on, “John?”
John laughs and shuts off the tap, “Who else?”
Register that he’s standing awkwardly contrapposto and see why at once when I glance down, “Why are you erm. Naked in my room in the middle of the night?”
John reaches past me (arm brushes my shoulder and I don’t jump, though I do shiver) and pulls a towel from the towel rack and wraps it round his hips, “Actually I’m naked in the bathroom in the middle of the night. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I generally don’t switch on the light when I need the loo after you’re in bed, because I don’t want to wake you.”
“Oh. That’s very thoughtful.”
“No problem,” John says comfortably. “You do realise you’re er. Also naked.” And he pulls down another towel and offers it to me. I had forgotten, actually (John’s nudity is that distracting). Mortifying.
Hold the towel to my front and back out of the bathroom, “I’ll just. Leave you to it.” Shut the door and spring back onto my bed, bury myself in the blankets. The door opens a moment later. Peep out to see why, and John, still swathed in the towel, comes and holds out the glass I dropped, which he’s filled with water. He’s luminous and golden in the diluted street lamp light coming in through the gaps in my curtains. Criminal to look so beatific wrapped in a bath towel.
“You left this. Reckoned you must be thirsty.”
Pop my head out from under the blankets and look at John with dignity, “Oh. Thank you.” John hands me the water glass and unabashedly watches me sip from it, “You’re bold as brass for standing in someone else’s bedroom in a towel at arse o’clock in the morning.” Fancy I can see a dusting of gooseflesh across his chest (don’t get distracted looking for it!).
John laughs, “You’re an odd bird, aren’t you. ‘Bold as brass.’ Hark who’s talking.”
“Yes. Well.” Draw the blankets modestly to my chin, “We were both. Surprised. At least I’ve got the decency to be embarrassed as well.”
John smiles, “That actually wasn’t the boldness I was referring to, but believe me, you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Hope it’s too dark for him to see if I’m blushing, “Oh. Do you. Erm.”
John’s tone is reassuring so he probably does not understand how unreassuring his next remark is, “It’s just funny to see you like this after your whole. Mr Suave speech. Change in erm. Manner. I like you this way. Your midnight self.”
Shrug and think of retreating back into the blankets, “I contain multitudes.”
John seems to consider that, “That was a bit much, wasn’t it? Have I overstayed my welcome?”
Fidget with the edge of my sheet, “That depends. Are you going to keep teasing me?”
“I suppose I ought to confine that to times when we’re both dressed.”
“I would be grateful if you did.” Well. For the time being. Have another sip of my water, “How often do you go about the flat naked, John? Just out of curiosity. Is there a schedule I should be made aware of?”
John raises his eyebrows, “Is that teasing?”
“Seems the sort of thing that might have come up when we first discussed living together. I seem to recall asking if you had anything to confess.”
John laughs, a wholehearted laugh that makes my insides dance and I grin in answer, though he’s still teasing, “Like you confessed that you fill the fridge with body parts and do target practice in the sitting room?”
Bite my lower lip as it would like to sulkily protrude, which I’m sure will only lead to increased hilarity from John, “I told you I was noisy. It seemed most relevant at the time, given my. Well given the circumstances with my former landlord.”
John laughs again, so fondly that it makes me squirm (shuffle my feet a little under the blanket to try and manage that urge)(he couldn’t possibly be as fond as all that already), “I think I remember something about. Not talking for days on end? Ring any bells?”
Huff, “Oh did you want me quiet? It isn’t the sort of thing one determines in advance. It’s just sort of there sometimes.”
“I really wasn’t being critical. Only maybe. Rich awareness of our er. Peccadilloes. Possibly not either of our strong points.”
“Hmph.”
“I don’t want you any quieter. Indoor target practice is bad, and the explosions I could do without. The other noises can stay.”
Other noises, “Generous of you.”
“One of my strong points.” John looks about my bedroom (feel a tiny bit indignant to have momentarily lost his attention). “I suppose I ought to go to bed,” he remarks with his eyes on my baritsu certificate above the bed.
“It’s late,” I agree.
“‘Mnot working tomorrow,” he looks at me. “Have we got anything on?”
Gratifying, “I’ll check the blog.”
“Good night, then,” says John without moving.
“Good night.”
John steps forward and pats my knee, then departs through the bathroom. Fall asleep trying not to wonder if he left the towel behind and went back upstairs starkers.