Fic: By Arthur Doyle
Title: By Arthur Doyle
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Word Count: 3728
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Based off this prompt. John is a writer. Sherlock is a fictional character.
Warnings: AU
Author notes: I'm not British. This isn't beta'd. Likely not what the OP was looking for, but I ran with it.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
1.
“He’s best known for creating the greatest detective on Earth and setting him loose in London. The Blind Banker, the second in the Consulting Detective series, has been released earlier this week, and continues the exciting adventures and cases of Sherlock Holmes and his flatmate, Doctor John Watson. Please join me in welcoming our very special guest today, Arthur Doyle!”
The applause is polite, but the man limping onto the stage doesn’t expect much excitement from students who are forced to sit at the assembly. He smiles as he shakes the hand of the young woman who introduced him. “Thank you,” he says to her. When he takes the mic from the podium, he says to the audience, “And thank you! Yes, thank you very much. It’s, er, quite nice to see you all out here. Well. I suppose I’ll talk a bit about the series and then about being a writer. And I’ll answer your questions at the end?” He looks at the woman who nods encouragingly. “Er, right.” He sets his cane aside and places a hand on the podium to steady himself.
At least some students look mildly interested as he begins to talk. He wonders how many of them have actually heard of him or read one his of (two) books. “As far as the Consulting Detective goes, I’ve always been a fan of mysteries. The plan was for him to be a doctor, but when I wrote it that way, he just wasn’t interesting enough. Just a bit dull, really. No one wants a dull doctor solving cases.” He smiles a bit. “Which is why I made up the consulting detective bit - well, I suppose Sherlock invented in. That allowed more possibilities for him to move about the world than a doctor who did a bit of detective work on the side.”
He goes on to discuss the first book, A Study in Pink. He does his best to overlook the few yawns and texting. After all, he makes his living as an author, not a public speaker. He’s not terribly offended.
“My writing is always inspired by some nugget of my real life. In A Study in Pink, the woman in pink was based on a co-worker I once had. That was a woman who wore a lot of pink. Er, I can’t say for sure if she ever had any affairs though. That bit’s probably fiction.” He gives a short laugh. The host clears her throat.
Afterward, he stays behind as arranged to sign any books and meet anyone who cares to approach him. There are only five students who do, and only one is holding A Study in Pink for him to sign. The last student asks, “Is your limp fake like Watson’s, Mr Doyle?”
“Not as such,” he replies, leaning a bit more on his cane.
Arthur Doyle leaves the school, and John Watson flags down a cab.
There is no 221B Baker Street for John to go home to; instead, the cab arrives at a different flat on a different street that has nothing at all to do with his detective creation. His cabbie parks behind a black car. It’s a familiar sight, as is the well-dressed man who exits the flat next door and slides into the back seat. Mycroft, John has named him in his series: the man that is the British government (and any other government when he’s bored).
John has never spoken to him, but he has heard the man’s voice when he called, “I know you’re home! Don’t be childish!” while knocking next door.
John waits for the car to pull away before he pays his cabbie and exits. While he fumbles for his key, a different man steps out next door, long coat flapping behind him. He stands tall and proud. He is made of sharp angles and has wonderful dark, curly hair. Sherlock, John thinks wistfully.
Ah, well. There’s that.
His neighbor, whose name John doesn’t actually know (but it does start with an S, and it could be Sherlock because that’s what the well-dressed man sometimes shouted when he was knocking, but surely Sherlock isn’t a real name, so maybe he was shouting, “Shit’s locked!” but that isn’t likely either), isn’t very neighborly at all. Their conversations, if one can call them that, have always been brief. They’d had their first when John moved in one year ago.
John had a box tucked under his arm and was moving with some difficulty. Damn his leg, he’d thought, not for the first time.
“May I use your phone?” The voice was deep and wonderful and so was the gorgeous man John was clearly hallucinating.
“What?”
“Your phone,” said the man. “Mine’s inside, and I need to text.”
“Er, my hands are a bit full.” The man stared at him, apparently uncomprehendingly. John frowned and adjusted his cane so that he could reach for the phone in his pocket. “Here you go.”
The man snatched it out of his hand. His thumbs flew along the keys at an alarming speed. John watched this for a few minutes. Noticing the look, the man said, “Yes?”
“That’s still my mobile, mate.”
“Are you ever going to put that box away?” the man asked.
John frowned and carried the box inside. When he limped back outside, the man tossed him the phone which John fumbled to catch. He started walking away. John called out, “You’re welcome!”
And since, their encounters have been mostly the same. They’ve never exchanged names, only phones. Really, only John’s phone. “Evening,” John mumbles.
“Ah! Have you got your phone?”
John rolls his eyes. “I’m beginning to suspect you don’t actually have one.” With a blush, he realizes he sounds flirty. Oh, God. Is he flirting? He still gives not-Sherlock his phone.
“You’d be wrong, of course,” not-Sherlock replies, eyes on the screen. “I simply don’t care for certain people to know my number.”
“So certain people now my number!”
“Yes, I expect so.” He returns John’s phone. “But if they haven’t called you before, I doubt they’d call you now.” He walks away without another word.
John always checks his phone for whatever not-Sherlock has sent, but his neighbor always deletes the messages.
John hasn’t always been an author, but he has always wanted to be. Even when Harold teased him for it when they were children, there was never a time he didn’t write. He lived like a cliché after university, living in a crappy apartment, working as a copy editor, submitting as much as possible to various publishing companies, enduring rejection after rejection. He often thought of his life then as a chick lit novel, with certain exceptions, obviously. Not that he’d ever read chick lit. Ever. No.
A Study in Pink came so easily once he started. And he’d only needed to meet his neighbor to unleash the words. Not-Sherlock, despite being kind of a prick, was the perfect counterpart to his ordinary (shameless) self-insert. All the plot points just fell into place once John had not-Sherlock to pull from. People really do visit not-Sherlock at all sorts of hours; John has a case and cause for every one of them. The man in the black car looks similar enough that brother isn’t much of a stretch.
His mobile rings. “Yes, Harry?” he answers.
“Harold,” his brother corrects. “Claire’s left again.” There’s a familiar slur in his voice.
“I’m shocked, Harry, I really am. Maybe if you -”
“Don’t say it. Don’t.”
“If you don’t want to hear it, why bother calling?”
“Fine!” Harold shouts. “Fine! It’s not like I want any sympathy from my brother!”
John has never been patient with his older brother, especially when it involves his wife and especially when it involves his drinking. “You can have my sympathy and even my support when you get help,” he replies before hanging up.
Honestly, John would never have included Harry in his series at all, but he needed more female characters. A lesbian couple seemed like an edgy inclusion, no matter how brief their mention. He plans to feature them more in his third book. Maybe his fourth. A relationship between Watson and Sherlock would be edgier, John thinks, but that is unlikely to sell to mainstream readers. Plus, as much as John enjoys living through his fictional soldier doctor, it seems sad to try to cultivate a relationship through him too. Really sad.
This doesn’t stop him from sometimes typing, And Sherlock and Watson fucked happily ever after, before deleting it quickly.
2.
The barista’s name is Anders, and John hates him. Even when John goes out of his way to avoid him and visit the coffee shop during different hours, Anders is always working, always making his coffee -- always making comments.
“How’s the leg today?” Anders asks as he hands him his drink. “Still limping about, I see. That’s not going to help you burn this frap’s calories.”
“Ho, very funny as always,” John mutters when he walks away and plans for Anderson to get an STD in the third book that Watson and Sherlock can have a laugh about.
The Blind Banker has been out for months now, and sales are doing well enough, John has been told. The paychecks speak for themselves, at any rate, and while John doesn’t consider himself as popular an author as some, Arthur Doyle is certainly carving his name into the bookshelves.
John turns on his laptop and opens the file with the tentative title, The Consulting Criminal. He wonders if the current scene with Watson and Sarah conveys more friendship or more dating. For The Blind Banker, his editor had insisted on including some kind of romance, possibly for Sherlock. Well, John shut that idea down at once. No one, he told his editor, is going to be dating Sherlock. Ever. (Unless it’s Watson, of course.) Sarah was their compromise. He hopes their scene is ambiguous enough to please his editor so that he can slowly write Sarah out of the position of girlfriend and keep her more as a trusted friend. The series is really about Sherlock and Watson’s adventures, after all.
“No, I don’t want him making my coffee.”
John looks up, startled. Not-Sherlock! In his coffee shop! Turning up his nose at Anders!
Anders looks equally unhappy with not-Sherlock’s presence. “I know what I’m doing,” Anders argues; “I’ve been doing this for years, you know.”
“And you still haven’t got a single order of mine correct. If it’s not because of your incompetence, then it’s because of poor customer service, and I will not have you making my coffee!”
John can’t help but stare rather openly at this exchange. At least he’s not alone. Other coffee shop patrons are watching as not-Sherlock continues to insult Anders about his beverage-making skills. He also can’t be the only one admiring how impossibly attractive not-Sherlock is when he’s irritated.
Another barista takes his order instead after Anders makes a face and goes to the back in disgust. Mousy little girl (nametag: Molly) whose eyes widen with appreciation at not-Sherlock. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. John snorts; it’s a moment of pride that he was able to read Molly’s personality so well to predict her reaction to not-Sherlock.
Not-Sherlock must hear him since he turns his head and acknowledges his neighbor with a small nod.
John thinks Molly’s eyes are dazzling a bit too much as they watch not-Sherlock leave.
He types out: NOTE2SELF - MOLLY NEEDS A BOYFRIEND.
He smiles, satisfied at this new direction. It’s easier to solve problems in his stories. And hey, that Sarah-Watson scene can wait. He can write some other things now.
Sometimes when John writes Watson, it’s nothing that actually contributes to the plot or the style; he never plans to keep it in the story. Sometimes he just likes to write:
Watson’s alarm clock is set for an early hour so that he can have a morning jog. It pisses off Sherlock the rare times he wakes to the sound, but Watson considers it a small irritation for him.
Running is the best part of Watson’s day. His legs stretch out under him; no destination necessary, not like when he and Sherlock are out chasing some mad criminal. He only needs the feeling of feet pounding on pavement, wind in his face, and he is conte
John’s leg throbs painfully. Fucking leg, he thinks and deletes the snippet angrily. That’s enough writing for the day. He’s out of ideas anyway.
He walks home. It’s stupid and painful, but he’s more than his leg. He’s an author of a successful detective series, and if he wants to walk home then he will damn well walk home. He’ll jump home. He’ll skip home if he pleases! And anyway, he has a perfectly fine second leg.
And if he wants to take the Tube after a few minutes of walking, then he can damn well do that too. How quickly his mood has turned and remained black even when he gets home.
Not-Sherlock is outside.
He isn’t alone.
The man with him is laughing and touching not-Sherlock’s arm, and not-Sherlock is smiling - smiling! - and saying, “James, that’s brilliant!” and John has had a long walk-slash-ride and so what if he slams his door, he’s an author of a successful detective series, he can do as he pleases!
And later, when he decides on the name Jim for his consulting criminal, well, it’s his fucking story.
3.
I could hardly believe Sherlock’s indifference to the old woman’s death. It seemed he could hardly believe my shock. “I’ve disappointed you,” he said, sounding amazed.
His phone begins to ring. The number is blocked, but John answers it anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr Arthur Doyle?”
“Er, yes.”
“Mr Doyle, hello. My name is Ilsa Adler, and I work for the Diogenes Studios; we’re very
interested in seeing A Study in Pink on screen. Is there a possibility that we can sit and speak with you about buying the film rights?”
John’s jaw drops.
“Mr Doyle? Mr Doyle, are you there?”
“Er, y-yes, yes, I’m here. I believe that is a possibility, and I’m very flattered, thank you -”
“Fantastic, Mr Doyle. We’ll arrange a meeting and contact you with details. Good-bye, Mr Doyle.”
Ilsa Adler, John thinks, sounds like a woman who doesn’t often hear no.
The meeting takes place within the week at a posh restaurant John would never venture into on his own. John is directed to a table and asks for some water while he waits. He doesn’t wait long.
“Arthur Doyle?”
John finds himself stretching his out to shake the hand of a well-dressed man who John is used to seeing exit and enter a black car that is typically parked in front of the flat next door.
Not-Mycroft.
Not-Mycroft seems to recognize him as well. “Mr Doyle, is it? I’m - ”
“That’s not my name,” John blurts. Not-Mycroft is startled. “Rather, that’s my pen name. Arthur Doyle. My name is actually, er, John Watson.” He blushes as he always does when revealing his real name.
“As in, Dr Watson?”
“Well, sort of, but not really. I’m not a doctor. The character is a doctor. You know, John Watson is a fairly common name. Anyway, I’m sorry, you were saying? I was expecting Ilsa Adler, I’m sorry for my rudeness.”
Not-Mycroft gives him a funny sort of smile. “Interesting, Mr Watson, very interesting. I think I understand some things about your character Sherlock now. Did you know that your neighbor is a particular fan of yours?”
John blinks rapidly, as if that will some reveal any trickery from not-Mycroft’s words. “My neighbor,” he repeats, thinking on those lovely cheekbones and voice. “A fan.”
“Well, yes, though I suppose it would be more accurate to say he is Mr Doyle’s fan. After all, it is not every character that shares -”
“Ah!” John’s eyes just happened to glance beyond not-Mycroft. The aforementioned neighbor has just entered the restaurant, James at his side. Not-Mycroft turns to see what has caught John’s attention. “Er, um, sir, it was a pleasure, but I don’t think I’m actually interested in my consulting detective translating to screens of any kind.”
“Your consulting detective,” not-Mycroft repeats to himself. “This is really most entertaining, Mr Watson. Very enlightening.”
“Glad to be of service.” Logically, John knows his exit can be neither smooth nor subtle. He has a bad leg that generally prevents it. Still, he stands as quickly as possible, excuses himself, and attempts to run as much as his leg will allow.
He hears “Isn’t that - ?” but doesn’t stay to catch the rest. It mightn’t have been him they were referring to anyway.
God, being an author has made him a paranoid snob.
Once home, inspiration drives him to his laptop; his fingers pound on his keyboard. Oh, Jim, clever, clever, psychotic Jim. Yes, maybe Sherlock is intrigued, but ultimately Jim reveals himself as irredeemable, especially when he straps bombs to Watson. Who cares if Jim is fashionably dressed and maybe Irish (yes, Irish, like John’s first physical therapist who was the ultimate prick, but wait, would that seem racist or something, maybe he should sound Irish but kind of not Irish, fuck, even fictional Jim is such a problem) and good looking if you squint? Not Sherlock, certainly
who was upon me in an instant, tugging the coat and vest off.
“I’m fine!” I had to reassure multiple times. “Sherlock, I’m fine!”
“Right, yes.” He scratched his head with his gun, and I winced but could say nothing, equally rattled as I was. “That was, uh, that was quite good, what you offered to do.”
“Yes,” I replied and could say nothing more. A warm feeling overcame me. Though I would never want to experience it again, I could only appreciate Sherlock’s concern for me. In fact, I
There is a knock on the door.
John looks at his watch. Nearly nine! And nearly finished with his draft. Slowly he makes his way to answer.
His neighbor stands before him.
John doesn’t know what to say, but this comes out of his mouth: “Please tell me you’re not wanting to borrow my mobile.”
His neighbor smirks. “No. Are you Arthur Doyle?”
“Something like that.”
“You mean, of course, that your name is actually John Watson?”
“Right. That. Yes.”
“Mm. I expect you didn’t know that I was meant to meet you today. That film offer, while still valid, was actually arranged by my cousin James. He asked a friend of ours to set it up. I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.”
John says incredulously, “You wanted to meet me? We’re neighbors!”
His neighbor raises an eyebrow and frowns. “I wanted to meet Arthur Doyle, obviously.” He pauses. “Are you sure you’re him? The detective work in those books is very clever.”
Implying, rather rudely, that John is not.
“Look here, you, uh -”
“Sherlock,” his neighbor supplies helpfully.
“Look here, Sherlock! I may not be a gen - wait, what? Sherlock? Your name is Sherlock. Is this a prank? I don’t appreciate being mocked -”
“That is my name. You’re welcome to ask my mother. It’s the reason I picked up your book, but your writing is actually the reason I continued to read it and why I bought the second one. I always fancied I saw a bit of myself in your character, and now that I’ve met you, I believe I see why.”
“Now, wait, listen, that - that’s - about that - I don’t even know you!”
Sherlock smirks. “No, though I suspect you want to.”
John blinks. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now.” He retreats further into his flat. “I think I’m going mad.”
His neighbor follows. “I think that there’s a better way to chat up your neighbor than two lengthy love letters published for the world to see.”
“They aren’t love letters,” John snaps. “My God, Sherlock, I’ve got your personality spot on, haven’t I?”
“So he is based on me!” Sherlock looks triumphant and smug, and John wants to kiss the expression off his face. Or maybe punch it off, he hasn’t quite decided.
John never in his life thought his neighbor would find out. He never in his life thought his neighbor might be interested. But, “Are you here because you know I’m Doyle? Or because of something else?” He tries not to sound hopeful.
“I had no idea of your interest, until today. You were always in a rush to get inside.”
John says, “My leg really is bad. It’s not imagined, it won’t be cured by running. And I may have put you - Sherlock, my, oh, you know what I mean - on some kind of pedestal.”
“Will it disappoint you if I’m not like him? I don’t play the violin. I’m not a genius like he is. I do have moods. Potential partners should know the worst about each other before they date, don’t you agree?”
John’s smile is starting to hurt his face, but he can’t stop. “I’ve almost finished the draft of the third book. Would you like to read it?”
“Very much,” Sherlock says. John invites him in properly. “Were you actually in Afghanistan?” he asks.
“No,” John replies. “But I thought Watson should be brave and useful.”
“I haven’t known him for very long, but I think he must be,” Sherlock says. “Even without Afghanistan.”
Later, John wakes up after having slept on the sofa, head pillowed on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Interesting what you’ve done with my cousin,” Sherlock comments mildly.
“To be fair, I didn’t know he was your cousin when I made him my evil villain.”
“I think The Consulting Criminal is too telling. What about The Great Game?”
John yawns and leans against Sherlock again. “Sounds good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes. His thoughts drift to the fourth book. He likes the idea of a whodunit-slash-murder-mystery set up, maybe with hounds. Werewolves. Something like that. Oh! Maybe Watson and Sherlock must be the criminals. But why? Blackmail? Maybe. Is someone blackmailing them? Nah. Maybe Miss Adler is being blackmailed.
"You'll have to tell me all about yourself," John continues sleepily. "What do you do? Who is the well-dressed man? So many questions."
"I am, actually, a consultant," he thinks Sherlock says.
And John should really discuss with his editor the potential of a more obvious homoerotic presence in the novels. It’s not too farfetched, after all.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Word Count: 3728
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Based off this prompt. John is a writer. Sherlock is a fictional character.
Warnings: AU
Author notes: I'm not British. This isn't beta'd. Likely not what the OP was looking for, but I ran with it.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
1.
“He’s best known for creating the greatest detective on Earth and setting him loose in London. The Blind Banker, the second in the Consulting Detective series, has been released earlier this week, and continues the exciting adventures and cases of Sherlock Holmes and his flatmate, Doctor John Watson. Please join me in welcoming our very special guest today, Arthur Doyle!”
The applause is polite, but the man limping onto the stage doesn’t expect much excitement from students who are forced to sit at the assembly. He smiles as he shakes the hand of the young woman who introduced him. “Thank you,” he says to her. When he takes the mic from the podium, he says to the audience, “And thank you! Yes, thank you very much. It’s, er, quite nice to see you all out here. Well. I suppose I’ll talk a bit about the series and then about being a writer. And I’ll answer your questions at the end?” He looks at the woman who nods encouragingly. “Er, right.” He sets his cane aside and places a hand on the podium to steady himself.
At least some students look mildly interested as he begins to talk. He wonders how many of them have actually heard of him or read one his of (two) books. “As far as the Consulting Detective goes, I’ve always been a fan of mysteries. The plan was for him to be a doctor, but when I wrote it that way, he just wasn’t interesting enough. Just a bit dull, really. No one wants a dull doctor solving cases.” He smiles a bit. “Which is why I made up the consulting detective bit - well, I suppose Sherlock invented in. That allowed more possibilities for him to move about the world than a doctor who did a bit of detective work on the side.”
He goes on to discuss the first book, A Study in Pink. He does his best to overlook the few yawns and texting. After all, he makes his living as an author, not a public speaker. He’s not terribly offended.
“My writing is always inspired by some nugget of my real life. In A Study in Pink, the woman in pink was based on a co-worker I once had. That was a woman who wore a lot of pink. Er, I can’t say for sure if she ever had any affairs though. That bit’s probably fiction.” He gives a short laugh. The host clears her throat.
Afterward, he stays behind as arranged to sign any books and meet anyone who cares to approach him. There are only five students who do, and only one is holding A Study in Pink for him to sign. The last student asks, “Is your limp fake like Watson’s, Mr Doyle?”
“Not as such,” he replies, leaning a bit more on his cane.
Arthur Doyle leaves the school, and John Watson flags down a cab.
There is no 221B Baker Street for John to go home to; instead, the cab arrives at a different flat on a different street that has nothing at all to do with his detective creation. His cabbie parks behind a black car. It’s a familiar sight, as is the well-dressed man who exits the flat next door and slides into the back seat. Mycroft, John has named him in his series: the man that is the British government (and any other government when he’s bored).
John has never spoken to him, but he has heard the man’s voice when he called, “I know you’re home! Don’t be childish!” while knocking next door.
John waits for the car to pull away before he pays his cabbie and exits. While he fumbles for his key, a different man steps out next door, long coat flapping behind him. He stands tall and proud. He is made of sharp angles and has wonderful dark, curly hair. Sherlock, John thinks wistfully.
Ah, well. There’s that.
His neighbor, whose name John doesn’t actually know (but it does start with an S, and it could be Sherlock because that’s what the well-dressed man sometimes shouted when he was knocking, but surely Sherlock isn’t a real name, so maybe he was shouting, “Shit’s locked!” but that isn’t likely either), isn’t very neighborly at all. Their conversations, if one can call them that, have always been brief. They’d had their first when John moved in one year ago.
John had a box tucked under his arm and was moving with some difficulty. Damn his leg, he’d thought, not for the first time.
“May I use your phone?” The voice was deep and wonderful and so was the gorgeous man John was clearly hallucinating.
“What?”
“Your phone,” said the man. “Mine’s inside, and I need to text.”
“Er, my hands are a bit full.” The man stared at him, apparently uncomprehendingly. John frowned and adjusted his cane so that he could reach for the phone in his pocket. “Here you go.”
The man snatched it out of his hand. His thumbs flew along the keys at an alarming speed. John watched this for a few minutes. Noticing the look, the man said, “Yes?”
“That’s still my mobile, mate.”
“Are you ever going to put that box away?” the man asked.
John frowned and carried the box inside. When he limped back outside, the man tossed him the phone which John fumbled to catch. He started walking away. John called out, “You’re welcome!”
And since, their encounters have been mostly the same. They’ve never exchanged names, only phones. Really, only John’s phone. “Evening,” John mumbles.
“Ah! Have you got your phone?”
John rolls his eyes. “I’m beginning to suspect you don’t actually have one.” With a blush, he realizes he sounds flirty. Oh, God. Is he flirting? He still gives not-Sherlock his phone.
“You’d be wrong, of course,” not-Sherlock replies, eyes on the screen. “I simply don’t care for certain people to know my number.”
“So certain people now my number!”
“Yes, I expect so.” He returns John’s phone. “But if they haven’t called you before, I doubt they’d call you now.” He walks away without another word.
John always checks his phone for whatever not-Sherlock has sent, but his neighbor always deletes the messages.
John hasn’t always been an author, but he has always wanted to be. Even when Harold teased him for it when they were children, there was never a time he didn’t write. He lived like a cliché after university, living in a crappy apartment, working as a copy editor, submitting as much as possible to various publishing companies, enduring rejection after rejection. He often thought of his life then as a chick lit novel, with certain exceptions, obviously. Not that he’d ever read chick lit. Ever. No.
A Study in Pink came so easily once he started. And he’d only needed to meet his neighbor to unleash the words. Not-Sherlock, despite being kind of a prick, was the perfect counterpart to his ordinary (shameless) self-insert. All the plot points just fell into place once John had not-Sherlock to pull from. People really do visit not-Sherlock at all sorts of hours; John has a case and cause for every one of them. The man in the black car looks similar enough that brother isn’t much of a stretch.
His mobile rings. “Yes, Harry?” he answers.
“Harold,” his brother corrects. “Claire’s left again.” There’s a familiar slur in his voice.
“I’m shocked, Harry, I really am. Maybe if you -”
“Don’t say it. Don’t.”
“If you don’t want to hear it, why bother calling?”
“Fine!” Harold shouts. “Fine! It’s not like I want any sympathy from my brother!”
John has never been patient with his older brother, especially when it involves his wife and especially when it involves his drinking. “You can have my sympathy and even my support when you get help,” he replies before hanging up.
Honestly, John would never have included Harry in his series at all, but he needed more female characters. A lesbian couple seemed like an edgy inclusion, no matter how brief their mention. He plans to feature them more in his third book. Maybe his fourth. A relationship between Watson and Sherlock would be edgier, John thinks, but that is unlikely to sell to mainstream readers. Plus, as much as John enjoys living through his fictional soldier doctor, it seems sad to try to cultivate a relationship through him too. Really sad.
This doesn’t stop him from sometimes typing, And Sherlock and Watson fucked happily ever after, before deleting it quickly.
2.
The barista’s name is Anders, and John hates him. Even when John goes out of his way to avoid him and visit the coffee shop during different hours, Anders is always working, always making his coffee -- always making comments.
“How’s the leg today?” Anders asks as he hands him his drink. “Still limping about, I see. That’s not going to help you burn this frap’s calories.”
“Ho, very funny as always,” John mutters when he walks away and plans for Anderson to get an STD in the third book that Watson and Sherlock can have a laugh about.
The Blind Banker has been out for months now, and sales are doing well enough, John has been told. The paychecks speak for themselves, at any rate, and while John doesn’t consider himself as popular an author as some, Arthur Doyle is certainly carving his name into the bookshelves.
John turns on his laptop and opens the file with the tentative title, The Consulting Criminal. He wonders if the current scene with Watson and Sarah conveys more friendship or more dating. For The Blind Banker, his editor had insisted on including some kind of romance, possibly for Sherlock. Well, John shut that idea down at once. No one, he told his editor, is going to be dating Sherlock. Ever. (Unless it’s Watson, of course.) Sarah was their compromise. He hopes their scene is ambiguous enough to please his editor so that he can slowly write Sarah out of the position of girlfriend and keep her more as a trusted friend. The series is really about Sherlock and Watson’s adventures, after all.
“No, I don’t want him making my coffee.”
John looks up, startled. Not-Sherlock! In his coffee shop! Turning up his nose at Anders!
Anders looks equally unhappy with not-Sherlock’s presence. “I know what I’m doing,” Anders argues; “I’ve been doing this for years, you know.”
“And you still haven’t got a single order of mine correct. If it’s not because of your incompetence, then it’s because of poor customer service, and I will not have you making my coffee!”
John can’t help but stare rather openly at this exchange. At least he’s not alone. Other coffee shop patrons are watching as not-Sherlock continues to insult Anders about his beverage-making skills. He also can’t be the only one admiring how impossibly attractive not-Sherlock is when he’s irritated.
Another barista takes his order instead after Anders makes a face and goes to the back in disgust. Mousy little girl (nametag: Molly) whose eyes widen with appreciation at not-Sherlock. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. John snorts; it’s a moment of pride that he was able to read Molly’s personality so well to predict her reaction to not-Sherlock.
Not-Sherlock must hear him since he turns his head and acknowledges his neighbor with a small nod.
John thinks Molly’s eyes are dazzling a bit too much as they watch not-Sherlock leave.
He types out: NOTE2SELF - MOLLY NEEDS A BOYFRIEND.
He smiles, satisfied at this new direction. It’s easier to solve problems in his stories. And hey, that Sarah-Watson scene can wait. He can write some other things now.
Sometimes when John writes Watson, it’s nothing that actually contributes to the plot or the style; he never plans to keep it in the story. Sometimes he just likes to write:
Watson’s alarm clock is set for an early hour so that he can have a morning jog. It pisses off Sherlock the rare times he wakes to the sound, but Watson considers it a small irritation for him.
Running is the best part of Watson’s day. His legs stretch out under him; no destination necessary, not like when he and Sherlock are out chasing some mad criminal. He only needs the feeling of feet pounding on pavement, wind in his face, and he is conte
John’s leg throbs painfully. Fucking leg, he thinks and deletes the snippet angrily. That’s enough writing for the day. He’s out of ideas anyway.
He walks home. It’s stupid and painful, but he’s more than his leg. He’s an author of a successful detective series, and if he wants to walk home then he will damn well walk home. He’ll jump home. He’ll skip home if he pleases! And anyway, he has a perfectly fine second leg.
And if he wants to take the Tube after a few minutes of walking, then he can damn well do that too. How quickly his mood has turned and remained black even when he gets home.
Not-Sherlock is outside.
He isn’t alone.
The man with him is laughing and touching not-Sherlock’s arm, and not-Sherlock is smiling - smiling! - and saying, “James, that’s brilliant!” and John has had a long walk-slash-ride and so what if he slams his door, he’s an author of a successful detective series, he can do as he pleases!
And later, when he decides on the name Jim for his consulting criminal, well, it’s his fucking story.
3.
I could hardly believe Sherlock’s indifference to the old woman’s death. It seemed he could hardly believe my shock. “I’ve disappointed you,” he said, sounding amazed.
His phone begins to ring. The number is blocked, but John answers it anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr Arthur Doyle?”
“Er, yes.”
“Mr Doyle, hello. My name is Ilsa Adler, and I work for the Diogenes Studios; we’re very
interested in seeing A Study in Pink on screen. Is there a possibility that we can sit and speak with you about buying the film rights?”
John’s jaw drops.
“Mr Doyle? Mr Doyle, are you there?”
“Er, y-yes, yes, I’m here. I believe that is a possibility, and I’m very flattered, thank you -”
“Fantastic, Mr Doyle. We’ll arrange a meeting and contact you with details. Good-bye, Mr Doyle.”
Ilsa Adler, John thinks, sounds like a woman who doesn’t often hear no.
The meeting takes place within the week at a posh restaurant John would never venture into on his own. John is directed to a table and asks for some water while he waits. He doesn’t wait long.
“Arthur Doyle?”
John finds himself stretching his out to shake the hand of a well-dressed man who John is used to seeing exit and enter a black car that is typically parked in front of the flat next door.
Not-Mycroft.
Not-Mycroft seems to recognize him as well. “Mr Doyle, is it? I’m - ”
“That’s not my name,” John blurts. Not-Mycroft is startled. “Rather, that’s my pen name. Arthur Doyle. My name is actually, er, John Watson.” He blushes as he always does when revealing his real name.
“As in, Dr Watson?”
“Well, sort of, but not really. I’m not a doctor. The character is a doctor. You know, John Watson is a fairly common name. Anyway, I’m sorry, you were saying? I was expecting Ilsa Adler, I’m sorry for my rudeness.”
Not-Mycroft gives him a funny sort of smile. “Interesting, Mr Watson, very interesting. I think I understand some things about your character Sherlock now. Did you know that your neighbor is a particular fan of yours?”
John blinks rapidly, as if that will some reveal any trickery from not-Mycroft’s words. “My neighbor,” he repeats, thinking on those lovely cheekbones and voice. “A fan.”
“Well, yes, though I suppose it would be more accurate to say he is Mr Doyle’s fan. After all, it is not every character that shares -”
“Ah!” John’s eyes just happened to glance beyond not-Mycroft. The aforementioned neighbor has just entered the restaurant, James at his side. Not-Mycroft turns to see what has caught John’s attention. “Er, um, sir, it was a pleasure, but I don’t think I’m actually interested in my consulting detective translating to screens of any kind.”
“Your consulting detective,” not-Mycroft repeats to himself. “This is really most entertaining, Mr Watson. Very enlightening.”
“Glad to be of service.” Logically, John knows his exit can be neither smooth nor subtle. He has a bad leg that generally prevents it. Still, he stands as quickly as possible, excuses himself, and attempts to run as much as his leg will allow.
He hears “Isn’t that - ?” but doesn’t stay to catch the rest. It mightn’t have been him they were referring to anyway.
God, being an author has made him a paranoid snob.
Once home, inspiration drives him to his laptop; his fingers pound on his keyboard. Oh, Jim, clever, clever, psychotic Jim. Yes, maybe Sherlock is intrigued, but ultimately Jim reveals himself as irredeemable, especially when he straps bombs to Watson. Who cares if Jim is fashionably dressed and maybe Irish (yes, Irish, like John’s first physical therapist who was the ultimate prick, but wait, would that seem racist or something, maybe he should sound Irish but kind of not Irish, fuck, even fictional Jim is such a problem) and good looking if you squint? Not Sherlock, certainly
who was upon me in an instant, tugging the coat and vest off.
“I’m fine!” I had to reassure multiple times. “Sherlock, I’m fine!”
“Right, yes.” He scratched his head with his gun, and I winced but could say nothing, equally rattled as I was. “That was, uh, that was quite good, what you offered to do.”
“Yes,” I replied and could say nothing more. A warm feeling overcame me. Though I would never want to experience it again, I could only appreciate Sherlock’s concern for me. In fact, I
There is a knock on the door.
John looks at his watch. Nearly nine! And nearly finished with his draft. Slowly he makes his way to answer.
His neighbor stands before him.
John doesn’t know what to say, but this comes out of his mouth: “Please tell me you’re not wanting to borrow my mobile.”
His neighbor smirks. “No. Are you Arthur Doyle?”
“Something like that.”
“You mean, of course, that your name is actually John Watson?”
“Right. That. Yes.”
“Mm. I expect you didn’t know that I was meant to meet you today. That film offer, while still valid, was actually arranged by my cousin James. He asked a friend of ours to set it up. I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.”
John says incredulously, “You wanted to meet me? We’re neighbors!”
His neighbor raises an eyebrow and frowns. “I wanted to meet Arthur Doyle, obviously.” He pauses. “Are you sure you’re him? The detective work in those books is very clever.”
Implying, rather rudely, that John is not.
“Look here, you, uh -”
“Sherlock,” his neighbor supplies helpfully.
“Look here, Sherlock! I may not be a gen - wait, what? Sherlock? Your name is Sherlock. Is this a prank? I don’t appreciate being mocked -”
“That is my name. You’re welcome to ask my mother. It’s the reason I picked up your book, but your writing is actually the reason I continued to read it and why I bought the second one. I always fancied I saw a bit of myself in your character, and now that I’ve met you, I believe I see why.”
“Now, wait, listen, that - that’s - about that - I don’t even know you!”
Sherlock smirks. “No, though I suspect you want to.”
John blinks. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now.” He retreats further into his flat. “I think I’m going mad.”
His neighbor follows. “I think that there’s a better way to chat up your neighbor than two lengthy love letters published for the world to see.”
“They aren’t love letters,” John snaps. “My God, Sherlock, I’ve got your personality spot on, haven’t I?”
“So he is based on me!” Sherlock looks triumphant and smug, and John wants to kiss the expression off his face. Or maybe punch it off, he hasn’t quite decided.
John never in his life thought his neighbor would find out. He never in his life thought his neighbor might be interested. But, “Are you here because you know I’m Doyle? Or because of something else?” He tries not to sound hopeful.
“I had no idea of your interest, until today. You were always in a rush to get inside.”
John says, “My leg really is bad. It’s not imagined, it won’t be cured by running. And I may have put you - Sherlock, my, oh, you know what I mean - on some kind of pedestal.”
“Will it disappoint you if I’m not like him? I don’t play the violin. I’m not a genius like he is. I do have moods. Potential partners should know the worst about each other before they date, don’t you agree?”
John’s smile is starting to hurt his face, but he can’t stop. “I’ve almost finished the draft of the third book. Would you like to read it?”
“Very much,” Sherlock says. John invites him in properly. “Were you actually in Afghanistan?” he asks.
“No,” John replies. “But I thought Watson should be brave and useful.”
“I haven’t known him for very long, but I think he must be,” Sherlock says. “Even without Afghanistan.”
Later, John wakes up after having slept on the sofa, head pillowed on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Interesting what you’ve done with my cousin,” Sherlock comments mildly.
“To be fair, I didn’t know he was your cousin when I made him my evil villain.”
“I think The Consulting Criminal is too telling. What about The Great Game?”
John yawns and leans against Sherlock again. “Sounds good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes. His thoughts drift to the fourth book. He likes the idea of a whodunit-slash-murder-mystery set up, maybe with hounds. Werewolves. Something like that. Oh! Maybe Watson and Sherlock must be the criminals. But why? Blackmail? Maybe. Is someone blackmailing them? Nah. Maybe Miss Adler is being blackmailed.
"You'll have to tell me all about yourself," John continues sleepily. "What do you do? Who is the well-dressed man? So many questions."
"I am, actually, a consultant," he thinks Sherlock says.
And John should really discuss with his editor the potential of a more obvious homoerotic presence in the novels. It’s not too farfetched, after all.