A Good Man (Part 2)
Part 2 of "A Good Man"
“Bloody Hell John, what in God’s name were you thinking-“she threw stood in the doorway with a distinct look of disgust as she took in the flat. “You’re not twenty again in case you had some misconception.”
John looked up from his place on the couch with a bleary eyed reaction. The half opened bottle of wine sat next to him, as did his third pack of cigarettes. He lay on the couch barely giving her so much as a passing notice, “What’ya doing here Harry?”
His voice slurred slightly and he wanted nothing more than to lie back on the couch and pass out back into oblivion.
“Cleaning up your fucking mess, that’s what,” well she always could curse like a sailor even at the best of times. “Awful hypocritical if I do say bro.” She grabbed the wastebasket and began stuffing the old take out boxes, bottles, and other misdemeanors into it.
“Who’s hypocritical? I'm simply following the proud Watson heritage,” he slung back the bottle just before she ripped it out of his hand. There was a moment when he thought he might fight her for it, but some things were too ingrained even when he hit rock bottom.
“John, be serious, you’ve never drunk like this. God knows you barely drink at all, even in uni, and look I’m willing to accept your other vices, but this is going too far.” She walked to the small kitchen pouring out the rest of the bottle as he lit up another cig.
By the time she returned the smoke had formed about his head and she could see the remnants of the others in the ashtray at the table. Harry felt a headache coming on,
“Just how many have you had today anyway?”
A giggle slipped from his lips, dark and perverse that nearly sent Harry stumbling back out of the flat completely, “Three pack problem-“ the joke was lost on her, but the words were brittle enough to hurt.
“Shit John this is ridiculous. What if I went and downed one of these bottles hmm?” She held up what was left of the scotch. “You know I could. Here I’m going on two years sober, and perhaps I should just pour myself a glass-“she paused watching her now angry brother, “Would you stop if I did that.”
“Stop it Harry. Not fair, different situation,” his voice was harsh and he turned his back to her.
“It bloody well is not! You screwed up! Just like I did, and Mary loved you, and don’t you dare tell me she wasn’t everything you wanted. I know you John, right down to your idiotic jumpers and your teen fantasies. I think I know when someone screws up like that. Shove over will you,” he grunted as she forced him over on the couch running a hand over his back. “Johnny-“
“I think I’m well aware Harriet.”
Her fingers ran in circles along his back, just like the time he came down sick when he was fourteen and Mum had been out of town. Harry had done the same thing, making some terrible soup concoction and forcing ginger beer down his throat. She’d rubbed his back, and watched over him for hours. He’d protested he was too old to be coddled, but they both seen through the lie.
Just the once, but it was a good memory-even when it turned into a bout of pneumonia and he’d landed in the hospital for three days. She’d done her best, and he could remember her crying when their Mum had told her they’d have to take him to the A&E.
“Do you miss him that much?” her voice was soft and her fingers never stopped, even as his body grew taut. He was like a bullet ready to be shot, and Harry was worried he might shut off again. “You don’t have to tell me Johnny, but-“
The shuddering breath was all she needed to know. She could feel his heart speed up, and recognized the symptoms even as the nearly inaudible reply came.
“Yes. I suppose I do.”
---
It was a bit ridiculous when you began seeing a dead man everywhere you look.
Glimpses on the telly, on the street, in half hidden shots in the post, there was a while when everywhere he looked it was all he could do to not see Sherlock.
Even after his marriage fell to pieces, and then Harry, God help her, helped patch him back together, that much hadn’t changed.
Like tonight, when the man he saw looked very little like the consulting detective at all. For one, his hair wasn’t even the right color, it was ginger , John didn’t even like gingers.
Perhaps it was the second drink he’d had at the bar, or the fact he was far too old to be frequenting a bar like this. Except his dates had grown boring, and he couldn’t bring himself to watch another woman get hurt.
It wasn’t what he really wanted right now anyway, rather a quick fuck sounded genius.
So he’d talked himself into the club, and now he was being plagued by ghosts again.
The ginger didn’t as much as look at him. Tall, skinny, and at least the hair was the right length. He couldn’t quite catch his face, although he could tell the faint scars on his arm from using. Light, barely perceivable in the dark club, but he could recognize a high when he saw one.
He considered walking over knowing very well the man was too young, too dangerous for his tastes, but it was then that another man slid up next to him with an intrigued look in his eyes, “I wouldn’t get involved if I were you, that one’s trouble.”
John turned with a snort, “Who’s to say that’s not what I’m looking for?”
The man laughed, “Maybe so, but I can promise you I’m just as much with half the baggage he’ll give you.” A wink as he waved to the bartender, “Another round for me and my friend here!”
A glance at the man’s dark hair, light complexion, and warm eyes and it was enough.
John turned away from the ginger, it was what he came for in the first place anyway, and it was enough.
---
“Harry tells me your practice is doing well.”
John had always found it remarkable how easy it was to talk to Clara compared to his sister. Easier even now that Clara had been wiped nearly completely from his map. Too similar to Mary, too many memories.
He took a sip of the tea, his eyes glancing out the window as he nodded, “I suppose. Better than before at least.”
“You really should stop in sometime. Harry would love to see you,” he could hear the rest of what she didn’t say. The bits on how well he was doing after the break down the year before, and that his sister wanted to show off their new flat and how well she and Clara were patched up.
Better even than the first time around.
He loved Harry, he really did, but sometimes she just needed to leave well enough alone.
“I’ll try Clara, no promises, but if work lightens up a bit we’ll see. Difficult to get away, influenza season and all,” it was a shoddy excuse but partially true. Too bad most of the cases were just colds and infections. Nothing as serious as that and if anything his left patients angrier once he told them he couldn’t do more than prescribe bed rest and fluids.
It was days like this that left him at the matches, at least giving him something to risk. Too safe, that’s what his life had become again, safe. Even his break with Mary had provided some sort of excitement in his life, wrong or no.
She reached out and brushed his hand, sisterly affection that even his own kin barely knew how to impart, “It gets better John. I promise. It’s only been a year, and I’m certain you’ll find someone. You’re too sweet not to,” her laugh was infectious when she added, “Much sweeter then Harry ever was.”
Even he had to laugh at that, “Have to agree with you there. I don’t think ‘sweet’ was ever something Harry was accused of being. Passionate, tyrannical, a horror-“
“John!”
He grinned, “Which is why we love her. I know Clara, I know, and I’m trying.”
God knows he was, too bad the problem had nothing to do with his ex-wife; somehow he thought it would make the situation far simpler.
---
He’d finally stopped jerking his head every time he saw a dark coat on the street.
But it didn’t stop him from staring at the man outside Scotland Yard. Just a glance, a catch of dark hair, a battered coat, a shine in his eyes…
And then he was gone.
---
“Bloody hell,” his arm ached, his leg ached, it had been too long since John had really assisted on a case. The current one had been intriguing though, and Lestrade had offered to let him come along asking if he’d be willing to take a look at some of the wounds on the body.
Dangerous, a mystery, it was everything Sherlock would have loved in a case, so much so that when he’d opened the front page and read about it the whole thing was impossible to ignore.
He’d texted Lestrade, and while he might not be Holmes, John felt it might be interesting to attempt to apply his methods.
His clinic was closed for the day anyway, and he might as well do something beyond watching rubbish television for once.
The whole case was as fascinating as he had expected, although both he and Lestrade had come up empty handed. He told the DI he’d return the next day to look over the body once it was in the mortuary, but now it was as though all his old injuries had come back tenfold.
No making dinner then, better to simply pick up something on the way home.
A ten minute fight with the chip-and-pin machine, and he was headed back to the flat when he ran completely into an old man.
The groceries fell, and the parcel the other man had been holding fell to the ground as well. He’d been just outside his door as well, and now he found himself helping the older man up who grunted as though in pain.
“Christ,” he said helping him up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” he’d still been thinking of the wounds on Adair’s body.
The older man glared, sharp eyes behind the deep wrinkles and heavy eyebrows. A light beard touching his face, and white hair that looked rather wild all things considered, perhaps a professor then given how he was dressed and the books under his arms.
“Should watch where you’re going boy,” hissed the man causing John to wince. “Got enough aches without being run down on the pavement.”
John felt he could hardly be called a boy, but let the comment go. He saw the old man favoring his hip and frowned, “Listen. I am sorry-“
“Sorry?” he snapped. “Should be glad I didn’t break something.” He rubbed his wrist with a look of pain on his face.
John considered his options for a moment, but perhaps it helped that the case had put him in a relatively good mood.
“Look. If you’d like you could come in and I’ll give you something for the wrist,” he paused seeing the man’s skeptical expression, “I’m a doctor, and I do feel bad about the whole thing. If it’s hurting you that much I could take a look to double check.“
The man grumbled something under his breath, but after a longer moment nodded, “Fine. I imagine a spot of tea might make up for it.”
Which was an odd thing to say, but John let it drop as he opened the door to his flat.
“Take a seat wherever,“ he said before setting his things on the kitchen table and going to heat up water. He could hear the man shifting in his living room, and by the time he’d come back out the man appeared to be examining his bookshelf. John let it pass and began setting out a pot and turned to fetch the paracetamol.
“You really should work on your collection, it might assist with your writing,” the change in the voice caused John to swerve as his eyes flickered to the man. “Although of late you seemed to have stopped writing altogether to my utter disappointment. While I still find your notions far romanticized, I admit to finding the stories both nostalgic and far more interesting than any dispatches that Mycroft might provide. Although admittedly less accurate.”
The bottle slipped from his hand, and he felt his mouth go dry. There was a buzzing in his ears, and for a brief moment John thought he may very well pass out completely. He nearly did anyway, if Sherlock hadn’t darted across the room to help him to a chair.
He’d discarded the disguise, the latex and wig lay in a pile by the door, and funnily enough without him John was half surprised he hadn’t noticed the damn coat and suit first.
The too thin face, the bright eyes, although his voice resembled nothing in either accent or texture to the old man.
Sherlock moved away, and John grabbed for his hand. The detective paused, and brushed a quick hand through John’s hair, “My dear John, I am simply fetching a restorative before you pass out completely. I did not quite expect such a dramatic reaction.”
John could feel a giggle rising in his lips, by the time the man reappeared from his kitchen with both a glass of water and a tumbler of brandy; he was nearly doubled over in laughter.
“John do try to breathe,” John grabbed for the brandy first, drinking it down without so much as a second thought. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder as John’s laughter turned less hysterical and began calming. “Let me try to explain…”
“My God is that even possible?” Another chuckle as John stared at Sherlock, “My dead flat mate’s talking to me. Obviously I’ve cracked well and good, suppose it should have been expected given recent events.” He paused reaching out to brush Sherlock’s cheek, “Rather solid for a hallucination though.”
“You’ve seen me before?” the detective raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“Yeah, suppose you could say that, usually when I’m helping Lestrade. Course you’ve never spoken to me before, this is rather new…” He chuckled again, “What am I going to tell Harry, she already knew I was nuts-“
Sherlock paused and grabbed both of John’s shoulders forcing him to look at him,
“John, whatever idiot assumption you have going on in your head I am quite real I assure you. I regret that I was unable to inform you of the events after the falls, but both Mycroft and I agreed it would be impossible to keep up the ruse if you had been aware.” His lips pursed and John could swear he saw a faint tint in the too pale detective’s cheeks, “I find that I did want for you company, however.”
Sherlock turned his head slightly aside, and John felt the breathe run out of him. His body went numb and he said softly, “It is you.”
“That’s what I have been trying to tell you.”
“No shit,” it was hard to breath and his hand tightened around the arm chair. “Sherlock-“
Sherlock turned his head and before John could say another word the man pressed his lips roughly against the doctor’s. It was swift, or would have been, John suspected, had he not threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair dragging him closer. He could taste left over cigarettes and stale coffee, not necessarily the most pleasant but then he was kissing Sherlock bloody Holmes which was really all that mattered at that moment.
“You started smoking again,” of course that would be the first thing Sherlock said when he pulled away. “You never even used patches when we shared a flat.”
“Yeah well things change in four years,” the words had more bite then he’d meant them too.
Sherlock seemed to take the response in stride, and nodded again, “Yes I suppose they do.” He bent down, this time a quick kiss followed by a smile, “Obviously not all for the worse though. Mycroft’s kept 221 B for me, although I am afraid I may have given Mrs. Hudson quite a shock. I was worried a bit for her heart when she saw me.”
“I can only imagine,” John said as his own nerves had still not quite recovered.
“You can move back in tomorrow if you like. She misses you I believe. I am afraid; however, that I shall have to fill you with the rest of the details later. There is a case that has a dire need for assistance, and it is imperative that I finish some final business before I am able to look into properly.” His eyes were bright and excited, and John felt his body tremor in anticipation.
“Might be dangerous,” Sherlock’s smile was infectious. “Want to come?”
“Yes. Oh God, yes.”
-----
Notes: I stole quite a bit from cannon, things that I found fascinating about Watson and that I’m afraid I’ve abused quite a bit for my own purposes. The idea spawned from some private research, as well as the want to incorporate Mary. I feel I’ve been a bit cruel here, but I took things to stride. For one, I didn’t wish to have her die because given John’s past in Sherlock I frankly felt it would be too much following Sherlock’s death and the effects from the war (there was baggage there I didn’t want to deal with, the least of which included the gun in his drawer).
Instead I decided to focus on his other vices, and while John Watson is quite definitely a good man the fact remains that he is noted to be both a womanizer and gambler in canon. With the parallel of Harry to stem from, I decided it was believable enough.
You’ll have to forgive the errors, my previous fandoms never required a Brit pick so this fic is somewhat lacking. I did what I could (oh god the research), but given the length I have no doubt those unsightly Americanisms creeped in.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always loved.
“Bloody Hell John, what in God’s name were you thinking-“she threw stood in the doorway with a distinct look of disgust as she took in the flat. “You’re not twenty again in case you had some misconception.”
John looked up from his place on the couch with a bleary eyed reaction. The half opened bottle of wine sat next to him, as did his third pack of cigarettes. He lay on the couch barely giving her so much as a passing notice, “What’ya doing here Harry?”
His voice slurred slightly and he wanted nothing more than to lie back on the couch and pass out back into oblivion.
“Cleaning up your fucking mess, that’s what,” well she always could curse like a sailor even at the best of times. “Awful hypocritical if I do say bro.” She grabbed the wastebasket and began stuffing the old take out boxes, bottles, and other misdemeanors into it.
“Who’s hypocritical? I'm simply following the proud Watson heritage,” he slung back the bottle just before she ripped it out of his hand. There was a moment when he thought he might fight her for it, but some things were too ingrained even when he hit rock bottom.
“John, be serious, you’ve never drunk like this. God knows you barely drink at all, even in uni, and look I’m willing to accept your other vices, but this is going too far.” She walked to the small kitchen pouring out the rest of the bottle as he lit up another cig.
By the time she returned the smoke had formed about his head and she could see the remnants of the others in the ashtray at the table. Harry felt a headache coming on,
“Just how many have you had today anyway?”
A giggle slipped from his lips, dark and perverse that nearly sent Harry stumbling back out of the flat completely, “Three pack problem-“ the joke was lost on her, but the words were brittle enough to hurt.
“Shit John this is ridiculous. What if I went and downed one of these bottles hmm?” She held up what was left of the scotch. “You know I could. Here I’m going on two years sober, and perhaps I should just pour myself a glass-“she paused watching her now angry brother, “Would you stop if I did that.”
“Stop it Harry. Not fair, different situation,” his voice was harsh and he turned his back to her.
“It bloody well is not! You screwed up! Just like I did, and Mary loved you, and don’t you dare tell me she wasn’t everything you wanted. I know you John, right down to your idiotic jumpers and your teen fantasies. I think I know when someone screws up like that. Shove over will you,” he grunted as she forced him over on the couch running a hand over his back. “Johnny-“
“I think I’m well aware Harriet.”
Her fingers ran in circles along his back, just like the time he came down sick when he was fourteen and Mum had been out of town. Harry had done the same thing, making some terrible soup concoction and forcing ginger beer down his throat. She’d rubbed his back, and watched over him for hours. He’d protested he was too old to be coddled, but they both seen through the lie.
Just the once, but it was a good memory-even when it turned into a bout of pneumonia and he’d landed in the hospital for three days. She’d done her best, and he could remember her crying when their Mum had told her they’d have to take him to the A&E.
“Do you miss him that much?” her voice was soft and her fingers never stopped, even as his body grew taut. He was like a bullet ready to be shot, and Harry was worried he might shut off again. “You don’t have to tell me Johnny, but-“
The shuddering breath was all she needed to know. She could feel his heart speed up, and recognized the symptoms even as the nearly inaudible reply came.
“Yes. I suppose I do.”
---
It was a bit ridiculous when you began seeing a dead man everywhere you look.
Glimpses on the telly, on the street, in half hidden shots in the post, there was a while when everywhere he looked it was all he could do to not see Sherlock.
Even after his marriage fell to pieces, and then Harry, God help her, helped patch him back together, that much hadn’t changed.
Like tonight, when the man he saw looked very little like the consulting detective at all. For one, his hair wasn’t even the right color, it was ginger , John didn’t even like gingers.
Perhaps it was the second drink he’d had at the bar, or the fact he was far too old to be frequenting a bar like this. Except his dates had grown boring, and he couldn’t bring himself to watch another woman get hurt.
It wasn’t what he really wanted right now anyway, rather a quick fuck sounded genius.
So he’d talked himself into the club, and now he was being plagued by ghosts again.
The ginger didn’t as much as look at him. Tall, skinny, and at least the hair was the right length. He couldn’t quite catch his face, although he could tell the faint scars on his arm from using. Light, barely perceivable in the dark club, but he could recognize a high when he saw one.
He considered walking over knowing very well the man was too young, too dangerous for his tastes, but it was then that another man slid up next to him with an intrigued look in his eyes, “I wouldn’t get involved if I were you, that one’s trouble.”
John turned with a snort, “Who’s to say that’s not what I’m looking for?”
The man laughed, “Maybe so, but I can promise you I’m just as much with half the baggage he’ll give you.” A wink as he waved to the bartender, “Another round for me and my friend here!”
A glance at the man’s dark hair, light complexion, and warm eyes and it was enough.
John turned away from the ginger, it was what he came for in the first place anyway, and it was enough.
---
“Harry tells me your practice is doing well.”
John had always found it remarkable how easy it was to talk to Clara compared to his sister. Easier even now that Clara had been wiped nearly completely from his map. Too similar to Mary, too many memories.
He took a sip of the tea, his eyes glancing out the window as he nodded, “I suppose. Better than before at least.”
“You really should stop in sometime. Harry would love to see you,” he could hear the rest of what she didn’t say. The bits on how well he was doing after the break down the year before, and that his sister wanted to show off their new flat and how well she and Clara were patched up.
Better even than the first time around.
He loved Harry, he really did, but sometimes she just needed to leave well enough alone.
“I’ll try Clara, no promises, but if work lightens up a bit we’ll see. Difficult to get away, influenza season and all,” it was a shoddy excuse but partially true. Too bad most of the cases were just colds and infections. Nothing as serious as that and if anything his left patients angrier once he told them he couldn’t do more than prescribe bed rest and fluids.
It was days like this that left him at the matches, at least giving him something to risk. Too safe, that’s what his life had become again, safe. Even his break with Mary had provided some sort of excitement in his life, wrong or no.
She reached out and brushed his hand, sisterly affection that even his own kin barely knew how to impart, “It gets better John. I promise. It’s only been a year, and I’m certain you’ll find someone. You’re too sweet not to,” her laugh was infectious when she added, “Much sweeter then Harry ever was.”
Even he had to laugh at that, “Have to agree with you there. I don’t think ‘sweet’ was ever something Harry was accused of being. Passionate, tyrannical, a horror-“
“John!”
He grinned, “Which is why we love her. I know Clara, I know, and I’m trying.”
God knows he was, too bad the problem had nothing to do with his ex-wife; somehow he thought it would make the situation far simpler.
---
He’d finally stopped jerking his head every time he saw a dark coat on the street.
But it didn’t stop him from staring at the man outside Scotland Yard. Just a glance, a catch of dark hair, a battered coat, a shine in his eyes…
And then he was gone.
---
“Bloody hell,” his arm ached, his leg ached, it had been too long since John had really assisted on a case. The current one had been intriguing though, and Lestrade had offered to let him come along asking if he’d be willing to take a look at some of the wounds on the body.
Dangerous, a mystery, it was everything Sherlock would have loved in a case, so much so that when he’d opened the front page and read about it the whole thing was impossible to ignore.
He’d texted Lestrade, and while he might not be Holmes, John felt it might be interesting to attempt to apply his methods.
His clinic was closed for the day anyway, and he might as well do something beyond watching rubbish television for once.
The whole case was as fascinating as he had expected, although both he and Lestrade had come up empty handed. He told the DI he’d return the next day to look over the body once it was in the mortuary, but now it was as though all his old injuries had come back tenfold.
No making dinner then, better to simply pick up something on the way home.
A ten minute fight with the chip-and-pin machine, and he was headed back to the flat when he ran completely into an old man.
The groceries fell, and the parcel the other man had been holding fell to the ground as well. He’d been just outside his door as well, and now he found himself helping the older man up who grunted as though in pain.
“Christ,” he said helping him up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” he’d still been thinking of the wounds on Adair’s body.
The older man glared, sharp eyes behind the deep wrinkles and heavy eyebrows. A light beard touching his face, and white hair that looked rather wild all things considered, perhaps a professor then given how he was dressed and the books under his arms.
“Should watch where you’re going boy,” hissed the man causing John to wince. “Got enough aches without being run down on the pavement.”
John felt he could hardly be called a boy, but let the comment go. He saw the old man favoring his hip and frowned, “Listen. I am sorry-“
“Sorry?” he snapped. “Should be glad I didn’t break something.” He rubbed his wrist with a look of pain on his face.
John considered his options for a moment, but perhaps it helped that the case had put him in a relatively good mood.
“Look. If you’d like you could come in and I’ll give you something for the wrist,” he paused seeing the man’s skeptical expression, “I’m a doctor, and I do feel bad about the whole thing. If it’s hurting you that much I could take a look to double check.“
The man grumbled something under his breath, but after a longer moment nodded, “Fine. I imagine a spot of tea might make up for it.”
Which was an odd thing to say, but John let it drop as he opened the door to his flat.
“Take a seat wherever,“ he said before setting his things on the kitchen table and going to heat up water. He could hear the man shifting in his living room, and by the time he’d come back out the man appeared to be examining his bookshelf. John let it pass and began setting out a pot and turned to fetch the paracetamol.
“You really should work on your collection, it might assist with your writing,” the change in the voice caused John to swerve as his eyes flickered to the man. “Although of late you seemed to have stopped writing altogether to my utter disappointment. While I still find your notions far romanticized, I admit to finding the stories both nostalgic and far more interesting than any dispatches that Mycroft might provide. Although admittedly less accurate.”
The bottle slipped from his hand, and he felt his mouth go dry. There was a buzzing in his ears, and for a brief moment John thought he may very well pass out completely. He nearly did anyway, if Sherlock hadn’t darted across the room to help him to a chair.
He’d discarded the disguise, the latex and wig lay in a pile by the door, and funnily enough without him John was half surprised he hadn’t noticed the damn coat and suit first.
The too thin face, the bright eyes, although his voice resembled nothing in either accent or texture to the old man.
Sherlock moved away, and John grabbed for his hand. The detective paused, and brushed a quick hand through John’s hair, “My dear John, I am simply fetching a restorative before you pass out completely. I did not quite expect such a dramatic reaction.”
John could feel a giggle rising in his lips, by the time the man reappeared from his kitchen with both a glass of water and a tumbler of brandy; he was nearly doubled over in laughter.
“John do try to breathe,” John grabbed for the brandy first, drinking it down without so much as a second thought. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder as John’s laughter turned less hysterical and began calming. “Let me try to explain…”
“My God is that even possible?” Another chuckle as John stared at Sherlock, “My dead flat mate’s talking to me. Obviously I’ve cracked well and good, suppose it should have been expected given recent events.” He paused reaching out to brush Sherlock’s cheek, “Rather solid for a hallucination though.”
“You’ve seen me before?” the detective raised an eyebrow skeptically.
“Yeah, suppose you could say that, usually when I’m helping Lestrade. Course you’ve never spoken to me before, this is rather new…” He chuckled again, “What am I going to tell Harry, she already knew I was nuts-“
Sherlock paused and grabbed both of John’s shoulders forcing him to look at him,
“John, whatever idiot assumption you have going on in your head I am quite real I assure you. I regret that I was unable to inform you of the events after the falls, but both Mycroft and I agreed it would be impossible to keep up the ruse if you had been aware.” His lips pursed and John could swear he saw a faint tint in the too pale detective’s cheeks, “I find that I did want for you company, however.”
Sherlock turned his head slightly aside, and John felt the breathe run out of him. His body went numb and he said softly, “It is you.”
“That’s what I have been trying to tell you.”
“No shit,” it was hard to breath and his hand tightened around the arm chair. “Sherlock-“
Sherlock turned his head and before John could say another word the man pressed his lips roughly against the doctor’s. It was swift, or would have been, John suspected, had he not threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair dragging him closer. He could taste left over cigarettes and stale coffee, not necessarily the most pleasant but then he was kissing Sherlock bloody Holmes which was really all that mattered at that moment.
“You started smoking again,” of course that would be the first thing Sherlock said when he pulled away. “You never even used patches when we shared a flat.”
“Yeah well things change in four years,” the words had more bite then he’d meant them too.
Sherlock seemed to take the response in stride, and nodded again, “Yes I suppose they do.” He bent down, this time a quick kiss followed by a smile, “Obviously not all for the worse though. Mycroft’s kept 221 B for me, although I am afraid I may have given Mrs. Hudson quite a shock. I was worried a bit for her heart when she saw me.”
“I can only imagine,” John said as his own nerves had still not quite recovered.
“You can move back in tomorrow if you like. She misses you I believe. I am afraid; however, that I shall have to fill you with the rest of the details later. There is a case that has a dire need for assistance, and it is imperative that I finish some final business before I am able to look into properly.” His eyes were bright and excited, and John felt his body tremor in anticipation.
“Might be dangerous,” Sherlock’s smile was infectious. “Want to come?”
“Yes. Oh God, yes.”
-----
Notes: I stole quite a bit from cannon, things that I found fascinating about Watson and that I’m afraid I’ve abused quite a bit for my own purposes. The idea spawned from some private research, as well as the want to incorporate Mary. I feel I’ve been a bit cruel here, but I took things to stride. For one, I didn’t wish to have her die because given John’s past in Sherlock I frankly felt it would be too much following Sherlock’s death and the effects from the war (there was baggage there I didn’t want to deal with, the least of which included the gun in his drawer).
Instead I decided to focus on his other vices, and while John Watson is quite definitely a good man the fact remains that he is noted to be both a womanizer and gambler in canon. With the parallel of Harry to stem from, I decided it was believable enough.
You’ll have to forgive the errors, my previous fandoms never required a Brit pick so this fic is somewhat lacking. I did what I could (oh god the research), but given the length I have no doubt those unsightly Americanisms creeped in.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always loved.