Disguise, part 2/6
:: previous part ::
John is more than preoccupied during his entire shift.
Even walking the entire way to the surgery wasn't enough. Recently he's been splurging on cabs more often than not, but his mind had been churning so viciously as he walked out of their flat that he knew that he would bite someone's head off if he didn't find a way to calm himself down.
Sarah waves at him as he comes in. John can do little more than nod at her, escaping to the examination room and brewing a stiff cup of tea, then discarding it in anger.
The first patient he sees (a young woman, clearly at Uni) is for nothing more complicated than a shot, but his mind feels foggy throughout the entire consultation. Twice the woman rouses him from his reverie with a gentle: "Doctor?" as he's poised mid-injection. Once he finds himself poised with the needle dangerously close to her chin. That won't do. At all.
He is able to focus just enough to administer the shot, make some notes on her chart, offer a falsely cheerful pleasantry or two, and send her off to Prudence with a note that he needs a few minutes to call the lab for some other patient's results.
As the woman (he can't remember her name) walks out, the sharp ginger of her hair swirls in his vision and his mind closes in on itself, blocking out everything but John's belaboured thoughts.
November 1992 -- Wild Things
John dances with abandon in the middle of the dance floor. He's out with a few mates from medical school, having (a lot of) drinks and letting off some much-deserved steam. They've just finished dissecting an entire cadaver; John can name each muscle, bone, and nerve, and it's high time he got well and truly pissed.
As the night wears on, his mates beg off one by one, but John's not tired, not interested in going back to his small, cramped flat and waking up back to the reality of medicine. No, John needs tonight. He needs to let loose, forget about life, school, reality, and just pretend for a night that he's a normal bloke with a normal life. Not a scholarship student with a drunk for an older sister and an orphan, to boot.
He feels eyes on him and turns around, his face heating when he catches the eye of a bloke over by the bar. He's tall, ginger, and very lean. His legs seem to go on forever. His nose is sharp, and his hair is very clearly full of product to make it curl and fall so attractively. John can feel the man's gaze travel up his body, stopping at his waist, then chest, before he looks back into John's eyes and smiles. The smile is what does it -- it's almost shy, as though he didn't mean to be caught checking John out so obviously.
John must be drunk, must be out of his mind, because (bloody hell) he can feel his body start to respond. Warmth spreads through him, fills his head, and he looks around for a moment.
He looks back up at the bloke across the room, the coloured lighting of the nightclub painting his hair. The bloke smiles at him, lifts his drink.
Why the bloody hell not?
John nods at him, then crosses the room deliberately.
~*~
The buzzer sounds, startling John; he blinks rapidly. He hasn't thought about that in years. Not since ... well, not since everything went to hell following that night.
He yawns, for want of something better to do, scrubs his hands over his eyes, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
"Get a bloody grip," he whispers to himself, then answers the buzzer.
Two hours later, he's on his fifth patient and counting down the hours left in this shift. His concentration is shit and he can't remember a single detail about any of the people he's seen all morning.
"... so, I've this rash on -- on my, er, down there." The man (what was his name?) sitting on the table goes red and gestures toward his crotch. "It's -- I've had it a while now, and I just --" He looks at John, his eyes almost pleading.
"It's all right, Mr--" what was his name? "Mr... uh--"
" ... Tyler."
John tries to smile. "I'll have a look and we'll get you fixed up, Mr Tyler." He gestures to the folded garment laying on the edge of the table. "Go ahead and remove your trousers and pants, let the gown open in back, and I'll be back in a moment to examine you."
He steps out of the examination room, pulls the door shut, and leans against the wall. Today is really not his best day.
~*~
November 1992 -- Wild Things
It doesn't take them long. Not long at all.
One drink, then a brief but dizzying snog in the loo, and John follows Brad home without a second thought. His mind is helplessly blank and he can't take his eyes off Brad's body as he walks. John thinks he must be a dancer, or at least a performer of some kind, because he is unreasonably fluid with every movement, even walking up the bloody stairs.
Once they're inside, Brad crowds John back against the door, sliding his hands under John's tee shirt and licking a slow, sexy line at the edge of John's jaw. "God, you're lovely," he whispers, his lips a maddening tease at John's ear, "compact and smart, and perfect to unwrap."
John's stomach flips dangerously. It's been a long time since he's got off with anyone, but with every push of Brad's body against John's, it's impossibly difficult to forget that he's actually doing this with a man.
Brad has got to be younger than John -- how is he so fine with this? But then he swoops his body against John's in a slow wave: knees thighs groin stomach chest and John ... John just -- god, he wants this, his mind be damned. Fuck it, he thinks, fuck it all. Brad's teeth score his neck and John hears himself gasp, and then-- then, he just lets go.
~*~
John empties his pockets of crumpled prescription pad papers, sweets wrappers, and four pens that clearly must have multiplied as he's quite sure he's only used one or two today at most. It takes far longer than it ought to, but his mind feels like it's an old computer running far too many programs at once, sluggish and unresponsive to even the simplest things.
Sarah walks down the hallway with a chart in her hand. "John? Did you order flucloxacillin for Mrs. Vintner?"
John has to think about that for a long moment. Vintner... was it the older woman? Or the thirty-two year old?
"Which one was she, then?" John wonders aloud. "'Cat lady?' Or 'afraid of sex?'"
Sarah looks at him like his mother used to just before she would use her 'I'm extremely disappointed in you, John' voice. She frowns but says nothing, simply looking down at the chart. "Caucasian female," she reads. "Early 60's."
John pauses a moment, dragging his fingertips over the edges of his jumper and digging them into his pockets. He's blanking on the exact result of her exam. It was--
"I'm sure that's right, yeah."
"Did you read her chart?"
"Of course I read her chart."
"John." Sarah's voice goes dangerously low. "You ordered flucloxacillin for a woman over the age of sixty who has a history of penicillin allergies."
John's heart drops. He looks at the orders on the chart: his own jerky handwriting, then skims over the medical history in her file. Sarah's right. He'd ordered it for her skin infection without even thinking, without even checking her chart.
"I can't have done," he whispers.
Sarah looks at him with concern. There's a small wrinkle between her eyebrows that he doesn't see very often, only when she's very worried. Sarah is not a worrier.
"John. Are you alright?"
John's mind races with possibilities. Had Sarah not caught this, Mrs. Vintner might have gone into shock and possibly died. John could have been responsible for the death of one of their patients, and all for a stupid, first year medical student oversight.
"I'm fine. Thanks for catching that. I don't know how I missed it."
The wrinkle between Sarah's eyebrows deepens. She asks again, "Are you alright, John?"
"I'm fine, Sarah. I am."
His heart won't stop racing.
~*~
December 1992 -- Southeast London
John wakes up with a start, rubbing his eyes and groaning at himself when he feels the puddle of drool soaking his pillowcase. The sunlight shining through his window is bright. So bright. Too bright.
Bloody fucking hell.
He sits up in bed and blinks at the clock. He's late. Late again, and, god, this time he might not be able to talk his way out of it. He rolls out of bed and stumbles around the room, grabbing trousers and tee shirts and sniffing them until he finds one that smells less offensive than the others, and pulls them on as he looks wildly around the tiny flat for his satchel.
When he finds it, he tears out of the flat and heads to Saint Bart's. It takes a full five minutes before he realizes that he's got no shoes on.
~*~
John stands in the middle of the empty examination room with his hands clenched. Every time he relaxes them they start to shake. And not in any of that 'intermittent tremor' shit that his therapist likes to talk about. Full on, teeth-rattling, actual shakes of his hand. John wants to throw things. He wants to beat his fists into the wall, render every piece of furniture in the room useless, and howl out his rage. He wants to throttle Sherlock, tear the bloody disguise in pieces from his body and push him... punch him, shout at him, shake him until he's merely normal and ask whywhywhywhywhy?
Rage continues to fill him, gets under his skin and bursts out. John's skin is fire, and he's actually surprised when he looks down and doesn't see charred flesh.
The door opens and Sarah comes in, holding a chart. He takes a long, low breath and presses his lips together for a moment before he can open his mouth.
"How is Mrs. Vintner?"
"She's fine. Nothing permanent, John."
John presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wants to ask if she's sacking him. He wants to apologise for his negligence, should offer his resignation, but he can't open his mouth. He can't stop the fear growing inside him that today is the day he's about to lose everything.
Again.
"John." Sarah's voice is quiet. He doesn't look at her. "John, are you alright?"
"Fine."
"John." Sarah tries again. "Is there something you want to talk about? Something going on?"
He doesn't say anything. He can't. What would he say? 'Oh, it's nothing, just I saw the first bloke I ever shagged again today and, whoa ... as it turns out, it's my flatmate, and he's just been toying with me all this bloody time. Or maybe: 'Yeah, no worries, Sarah. Just had a flashback to something I thought was an amazing night from my past that ended up only being some meaningless shag, completely did my head in enough that it nearly cost me medical school and my scholarship -- which I tried for years to forget -- and oh, by the way, it was Sherlock and now I want to hurt things.'
"Are we done?" he asks, gestures to the stack of charts on the desk. "... paperwork, yeah?"
She looks at him for a long moment and takes a deep, obvious breath.
"Alright, yeah, paperwork. Don't come in tomorrow, John--" she looks at him sharply, but her eyes are soft. "Take a day or two, please."
His throat tightens. "Alright, yeah. Sarah, thanks."
John watches her as she leaves. He doesn't deserve her kindness.
~*~
John walks out of the surgery, his mind numb, definitely worse for the wear. He looks back through the doorway and sees Prudence frowning at a patient, then glances across the street at the newsstand and he sighs.
Everywhere.
On the next block is the coffee shop where he first met Sherlock as 'Kate;' behind him is the street where he and Sherlock chased Tina during the phony vaccine case. He can't go home because Sherlock will be there, can't go to the market because he'll remember their laughter after John figured out Sherlock's disguise in the grocery line. He can't go to the newsstand, the surgery, the laundromat, the fitness centre; he can't even catch a cab. Because everything... everything is Sherlock.
Fucking hell.
So he does what everyone in his bloody family has done when things become far too much to handle all at once.
He goes to the pub.
~*~
It's loud, noisy, and crowded. It's exactly what John needs right now. He reckons it's too loud to think in here, or rather, he hopes it's too loud to think in here. Thinking is not always John's very best endeavour.
After ordering a pint, John glances around while he waits for it. There's a rugby match on the telly and three tables of patrons avidly cheering on various players. One of the men is clearly not interested in the goings on, but is trying to appear that way to his mates. Across the way there are a couple of groups of Uni students, celebrating exams and flirting heavily with each other; John thinks he can see one bloke with his hand on two different arses.
John shakes his head. He was never that bloke.
The bartender hands him his pint and John drops coins onto the bar, nodding at him in thanks. He spies a table in the far corner, with a single chair, crammed into a tiny space. It's perfect. He makes his way over to the table and huffs his breath as he sits down. In a short moment he's drunk almost half his pint, then sits back and shuts his eyes for a long moment, savouring the yeasty tang on his tongue.
Nectar of the bloody gods.
~*~
November 1992
"Oh god."
John is going to come. John is going to come from a (fucking unbelievable) blow job and it's only been four minutes. John is going to come and possibly cry from the pleasure of it. Brad pulls off his cock for a minute, looking up at John as he lazily teases the glans with the tip of his tongue, and somehow manages to grin wryly.
"Christ," John gasps out. "You're really bloody good at that."
"You've no idea."
"No, I really do. So fucking good."
Brad slides up his body, stopping to lick at various sensitive places that John has never found erotic before (his inner elbow? That shouldn't make him any harder than he is -- but, god, it does) and pressing his long, lithe body against John's. They rock against each other -- once, twice -- and John thinks he might possibly die from all of the sensation.
"Fucking hell," he breathes, grabbing Brad's arse and planting one of his feet flat on the bed so he can keep pushing upward, again and again and again. John reaches up and grabs Brad's neck, pulling their faces together and pressing his tongue into Brad's mouth.
They're sweaty and (oh god) naked and John has never been so content as to want to kiss someone for the next hundred thousand days or so, but he does. He does. John tastes the corners of Brad's mouth, touches his teeth, sucks his tongue. He curls his hand around the base of Brad's skull and shuts his eyes to memorize everything.
"John, god. I--" Brad's mouth is still touching his. He can feel the vibrations and the air at the same time. John breathes the words in; he wants to keep them deep inside. Opening his eyes, he looks into the dark brown of Brad's and holds his gaze. He slides his hips upward, feels Brad's gasp before he hears it, does it again.
"Like that?" he whispers against Brad's lips.
"I like you," Brad breathes back against him.
And John feels like he might break apart.
~*~
John blinks and looks around the pub. He's nearly done with his second pint, but not nearly ready to leave, so he signals one of the barmaids for another and stretches his hand, rolling his fingers and flexing them inward and out.
Movement catches his eye and he turns automatically. The bloke he'd noticed before, the one barely watching the match, is looking at him. John nods, smiles, then glances away. When John looks back a few moments later he's still looking. John feels his cheeks heat with pleasure, then his stomach drops.
It's probably Sherlock. In another bloody disguise, flirting with John to make him think that someone might be legitimately interested in him, only to dash that adrenaline rush to the ground all over again.
John frowns, looks away. Sometimes reality is far worse than he likes to remember.
~*~
November 1992
Brad licks his way across John's neck, scrapes his bottom teeth against John's skin and makes him gasp, then he moves back and sits on his heels between John's open legs. He splays his hands just above John's knees, then slides them upward, carefully moving over John's inner thighs like a blind man might learn Braille.
John gasps out something that might be words; Brad's hands are teasing him right on the far edge of tickling and he's not sure if any words have managed to stay inside his head at this point.
When Brad gets to the top of John's thighs he slides around to his buttocks and pulls his hips upward, leaning down to kiss his stomach ... over and over.
"Christ. Christ, oh, Christ, Brad."
John has never felt so fucking alive -- not during sport, not upon winning his scholarship, not even the (only) time he tried cocaine. God, he wants this. He wants this so badly and he's not even drunk anymore. He wants night after night of falling into bed with someone who wants him, who will listen to the horror stories of dissection and recitation and evil, vindictive professors. John wants to learn every inch of Brad's body, commit it to memory. He wants this every day: Brad to look at him this way, to gasp his name like he does, to touch him so reverently.
With a quick manoeuvre, John wriggles out of Brad's grasp, then presses him back so his head is at the foot of the bed, and covers his body with his own. John rubs his chin, his face over the entirety of Brad's body, slipping his tongue out every few moments to taste an errant patch of warmth, and breathing in fragrant skin. He catches Brad's wrists and lifts them overhead, pinning them with one hand. Kissing down the underskin of Brad's arm, John can feel Brad writhe against him, buck upward, cry out his name. He gets to the cave of hair of Brad's underarm and inhales. It's a strong scent: warm and very male. His mouth all but waters. John traces the edge of his underarm with his tongue. It's sharp, but not at all unpleasant, and the noises Brad keeps making are going in a direct line to John's cock.
"John ... John ... John."
His name has never sounded so sexually charged before, so much like poetry. Brad writhes next to him, arches upward and gasps with every touch of John's tongue. Every word, every grunt, every gasp is like a drop of rain on a parched summer day and John can't get enough. He presses his open mouth to Brad's underarm, teases, and licks soft lines over every inch.
"God, oh god, I ... I-- John."
Brad pulls his wrist out of John's grasp, curls it around him and pulls John awkwardly on top of him. John's still half on the bed; his spine is twisted uncomfortably, but when Brad crushes his mouth against John's, John can find little reason to care. He kisses back with closed eyes and dizzying thoughts, and thinks he must have done something right in his life, if he's allowed to feel like this.
~*~
This time John isn't sure what to think when the memory fades. He hasn't thought about this, hasn't let himself think about it in years. Not after everything fell so utterly apart.
John feels like he's been through a wringer in the past twenty-four hours. First he and Sherlock had been out on a case, then hauled into Scotland Yard for a mistaken identity from the gym -- for the very same case -- and John had awakened this morning feeling remarkably chipper for only a few hours of sleep. Today he's pinged back and forth between anger, disgust, rage, fatigue, and loathing. He's exhausted.
He takes a sip of his lager then glances around the pub. The door opens and he watches three more patrons walk in.
And, oh, would you look at that?
Sherlock Holmes, the cause of all of this, striding in like he has a right to be here.
John doesn't look away. He's not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing that, yes, in fact, it is remarkably easy to get John Watson to fall for you. You just have to flirt with him, stroke his ego a few times, and oh yes, be sure to give him the shag of his life, way back when he's young and impressionable, ruin him for anyone else, and then tell him that it was all a bloody mistake.
He stares defiantly at Sherlock, not moving his gaze, waiting to be seen. He straightens his fingers, then curls them in toward his palm, once, twice.
After a moment Sherlock does see him; John can see his body freeze almost imperceptibly. His expression doesn't change, he looks John over from head to toe, nods briefly, then walks over to the bar and leans over to talk to the bartender. He hands him something -- a folded paper, perhaps -- then spins on his heel and exits the bar.
And here it is, again. John, all by himself. As per usual.
~*~
December 1992
John sits with one leg crossed, bouncing his foot erratically, waiting. He's been sitting in the Director's office for fifteen minutes now; he's rather certain that Doctor Canterbury (Director of Medical Education) is making him wait on purpose.
Looking around, John examines the artwork: tastefully framed, well drawn, but medical shite nevertheless. Bones, muscles, freeways of blood vessels. He's always found the human body fascinating, even beautiful, but now it just annoys him.
He glances at the clock. Fuck. He's due for clinic duty and rounds in twenty minutes. John half hopes that Canterbury'll keep him too long and then he'll have a legitimate excuse for skipping.
On Canterbury's desk he can see his file. It's a lot thicker than it was, even two months ago when he had called John in to offer a bit of sympathy for Harry's alcohol poisoning that nearly cost her her life. The file is open to a page near the end. John squints, he can just make out some of it.
As of yesterday, John Watson has missed class six times since 22 November and is behind on three full assignments. He is in serious danger of failing.
He can see the signature of his supervising professor and frowns. Six classes? John scowls. He's sure it's been no more than four.
Just as he's considering flipping through his file to read more of the incriminating evidence, the door pushes open and Canterbury walks in. John stands up (politeness might do well for him here) and nods respectfully.
"Mr. Watson," he says, nodding at John to sit down and doing so himself.
"Sir."
Canterbury glances through John's file, presses his lips together and looks up at John. He pulls out a sheet of paper, turns it and slides it across the desk to John. Leaning forward, John can see it's a printout of his transcript. Two years, top marks, but with four classes in danger of failing this term.
This isn't news to him.
"Yes, sir?" he says.
"You can see it all here, son. You're a smart lad." John bristles at the endearment. He's nobody's son. He doesn't say a word.
Canterbury looks at him for a long moment, clearly waiting. "Watson. I've asked you in here so we can talk about your future here. A conversation is one in which both parties participate-- " he cuts himself off. John can see the anger in his eyes.
"What do you want me to say, sir? My marks are rubbish; I know it."
He shakes his head. "Mr. Watson -- what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No, sir."
"So, you're telling me that you've been a model student for two years, and now you're in danger of failing and yet you cannot give me a reason why?"
"No, sir."
"I'm not sure I believe you."
John swallows. "I don't ... have a good answer." That, at least, is the truth.
Canterbury's eyes soften. "Is it your sister?"
John bristles. "Harry has nothing to do with this."
Canterbury pauses for a long moment, looking John over, then presses his hands against the arms of his chair and stands, moving around the desk to lean against the front of it.
"You're a private person; I know this. I'm not going to make you tell me anything, nor am I going to pry into parts of your life that I'm sure are none of my business." He takes a breath. "I know a bit about your situation, about what you've faced in the past few years. I empathize, I do. But..."
John's heart drops; he fears the worst. Usually, speeches like this end in really bad news that burn away a little part of his heart.
"I can only do so much. You've got a great mind; you're more than capable of doing this work. It's possible that you've just got a bit off track recently and you need a little hel-- that what you need is a new direction."
"Sir?"
"Mr. Watson, this is what I can offer you: ten days. I've intervened with your instructors and they're offering this as a personal favour to me. You have ten days to complete your missing assignments, to catch up with your coursework. You are required to show up for lessons, to participate -- basically, to be a bloody beacon of medical brilliance."
John's heart leaps; he can barely believe it. A week ago he was certain that they were going to kick him out, and now he's got a chance to fix it.
Canterbury looks very seriously at him. "But this is it, though. A doctor needs to be calm in a crisis... able to confront any challenge and meet it head on. You show me you can do this, and I'll keep you in. But--" his gaze is stern "--if you miss a single assignment, a single class, if any piece of work you turn in is sub-par, then you're out. Studying at St. Bart's is a privilege. I expect you to treat it as such."
John takes a shallow breath. "Thank you, sir. I won't ... I mean, I appr-- I mean, thank you."
"Yes ... well." He looks at John for a long moment, his gaze pensive. "You know, Mr. Watson, before I practiced here at Bart's I was a Senior Medical Officer in the RAMC."
John looks at him in surprise. "You were?"
"I was. It really helped me ... find a bit of myself. Just thought you might find that of interest."
John nods at him. "Thank you, sir."
"Yes. alright. Now--" he looks at the clock. "I believe you're on duty starting in five minutes. I think it's about bloody time you got the hell out of my office."
~*~
John takes the stairs two at a time. When he walks in he sees Sherlock in the armchair, reading a book. He looks John up and down, slides a bookmark into his place, and shuts the book.
And that -- even that simple action -- makes his blood boil. John clenches his fists again; presses his lips together. He's never been good going into combat with a hot head, and John's been preparing for a bloody battle all day. Of course, now with Sherlock sitting here, undisguised, looking pulled together and as calm as he always is, John's mind blanks. Where in the living hell does he even start?
"Are you planning on speaking any time soon?"
John shakes his head a bit to clear the thought-fog. "... sorry?"
"I said: 'are you planning on speaking any time soon?' You've stood there a full minute already. I was in the middle of an interesting--"
And there it is. John's anger bursts through him again.
"Shut up."
"I'm sorry?"
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. Don't talk. Don't deduce anything. Just shut your bloody face and listen."
Sherlock cocks his head at him, blinks, but doesn't open his mouth.
"You have to stop this. You have to stop all of it. Explain to me, please Sherlock, because I don't understand. You follow me around; try to fool me in every normal facet of my life. You disguise yourself so brilliantly; no one's ever looked at you skeptically, least of all me. Every single, bloody disguise flirts with me, turns me on, and ... for what?"
John paces to the fireplace, comes back. "You have to explain it me, because I've been running it through my head all day, Sherlock, and I really don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
John presses his hands to his eyes. "You aren't serious."
"Am I not?"
John is livid now. "Did you not get enough of me back then? Is that it? Didn't quite get as far with me as you'd hoped? Didn't get to stick your gigantic prick inside me, so when I conveniently dropped back into your life you thought you'd work back up to it?"
Sherlock's face is blank, which infuriates John even more. "Was that the whole, elaborate plan? All of the disguises, all of the flirting, and all because you didn't get to fuck me?"
Something occurs to him.
"Jesus Christ, have you been planning this since ... since then?" John knows Sherlock's ridiculously accurate memory. He wouldn't put it past him. Turning on his heel, John paces across the room, then back again. He looks at Sherlock again; he is radiating so much heat from his anger that he might combust from it.
"Is that what you want, then?" John starts unbuttoning his shirt. "You want to fuck me, Sherlock? Fine. Who am I to get in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes? Especially when he's on a case."
He drops his shirt and reaches to tug the hem of his tee shirt out of his waist. "Just make sure to use plenty of lube; I've had a bit of a dry spell recently."
Sherlock is lightly running his thumb over the knee of his trousers; his face has a look of deep concentration on it. He watches John intently.
"Well?" John frowns at him, paces to the fireplace again -- why can't he stand still?
"Well what? I'm listening to you, John." Sherlock follows him with eyes that have shifted into a sort of indulgent tolerance. "You say whatever you need to say to ... me."
John is used to this, he's used to Sherlock showing not one shred of sentiment, even when those around him are charged up and emotional. Sherlock has convinced himself that he's a sociopath, that he doesn't actually have emotions. Which is a load of utter tripe, but John coddles him, lets him believe such rubbish if it helps with his work.
But, how -- how? -- is he sitting there so calmly? Did that really mean so little to him? Is he really such a fucking good actor that all through that night -- every bloody minute -- he never felt a thing? Even after all this time, after everything, John still held onto a thread of hope that there'd been some other reason that it ended the way it did.
"Like that?" he'd asked Brad, all those years ago.
"I like you."
John's throat stings for a minute; he swallows against it, licks his lip.
"Well ... " John's voice sounds far too quiet. "That whole time, all those years ago. I thought you'd liked it ... liked me."
Sherlock freezes; his eyes widen. The room goes dead silent. He stares at John, but his eyes cloud over. He's not here, he's somewhere inside his head.
"Sherlock?" John says quietly. He steps forward in concern.
But Sherlock doesn't answer. After two long, silent minutes Sherlock stands abruptly, reaches for his coat, and is out the door.
John stands in the middle of the room, his mind an all too familiar muddle of confusion.
What in the hell just happened?
~*~
November 1992
John wakes to a sense of idyllic contentment. He feels really, really good. Yawning, he glances around. It's dark out, only a bit of moonlight shining through, lighting stripes over the duvet. John's on his back, his muscles pleasantly relaxed, and there's a warm arm draped across his stomach, long hair tickling his shoulder.
Brad.
Behind his eyes, John's memory flashes images at him: sweaty, tangled legs, the view of Brad's hair tumbling into his eyes. His stomach aches at the vivid memories -- whispered words that slipped under his skin and still run through his blood, the feel of their lips pressing and sliding and so very real. John smiles, oddly okay with the images flashing behind his eyes. God, this entire situation ... it's been a while since he's had such a good night, and -- well, John considers it for a moment. Really, this is the only time he has ever let go, the only time he's opened himself to someone else with such abandon.
He can't stop smiling.
Brad takes a deep breath, his exhalation blowing over John's nipple, and John's stomach tightens. He kisses the top of Brad's head, then slides over onto his side until he's facing Brad, curls his arm over Brad's skin and closes his eyes contentedly.
After a moment, there's a sharp exhalation of breath and the bed moves as Brad jerks away. When John opens his eyes, Brad's are wide and aghast. Brad bounds out of bed and pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He glances at the clock several times, toward the door, then toward the window, his face disbelieving.
"Brad?" John asks quietly. "What's going on?"
Brad doesn't look at him, paces to the window to look out, then back to the door of the bedroom, peering out and then back to John.
John tries to quell the uneasiness rising inside him. He slides out of bed, glancing around for his boxers and spies them tangled in the duvet. After pulling them on, he walks over to Brad, touches his shoulder. Brad tenses in alarm.
"It's four o'clock in the morning," he says hurriedly. "You can't be-- I can't believe we--"
John feels a growing sense of apprehension. Brad's eyes are nothing like they were before: fond and so hungry for John. Now they're wide, suspicious, cold.
"Hey," he says quietly. John steps forward, right into Brad's space, touches the warm skin over his hip lightly. Brad looks at John's lips, down over his body, and back to his eyes. His eyes soften briefly and he swallows.
"It's okay," John says. "Whatever it is ... I can hel--"
"You've got to go."
Brad kicks into motion, walking around them room and grabbing articles of John's discarded clothing. He's almost manic in his energy. Brad pushes the bundle into John's arms and pushes him through the open bedroom door. John is bewildered by the entire state of affairs. He finally stops Brad's shoving, plants his feet.
"Brad, seriously. What's going on? Just tell me; whatever it is -- it's fine... it's all fine. We'll figure this out."
John's mind is racing. What could it be? A flatmate? A boyfriend? Regret? He can't fathom what has changed so suddenly, what changed between them in ten bloody minutes. Not two hours ago Brad had been above him, gasping as they both strained toward completion, rocking together with John's hand covering them both. Not two hours ago, Brad had pressed his forehead against John's, breathing his lips before kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering, "my god John, that was-- you are ... remarkable."
But now Brad stands there, his body ridiculous lines of beauty in the moonlight, and his gaze is incongruous with everything else that has transpired tonight.
"This?" Brad all but spits the word at John. "What is this?"
"Brad," John casts around for anything to say that won't spook him, "I meant ... well, that whatever this--"
"This," Brad says, gesturing between the two of them, "isn't anything."
Which, really, John should have known. You don't meet someone interesting at half eleven in the middle of a club in London. You don't find anyone with whom you'd want more than a quick shag on a night like this, least of all someone you'd want to see again (and again and again).
He should have known.
John swallows. "Yeah, alright." He pulls on his trousers quickly, steps awkwardly into his trainers, wriggling his feet past the laces, and turns his shirt right-side out. Not the best way to end a brilliant night, but John's got his pride.
He pulls on his shirt, reaches for the door handle, but turns to look back at Brad before he opens the door. "Still, though, this was fun."
"This?" Brad's eyes cloud over, unreadable. "This was an experiment. And a failed one at that."
When John pulls the door shut behind him the strident sound of the door echoes around him for a moment while he stands there, dumbfounded. He rather wishes he could shut the very same door around his heart.
~*~
November 1992
John bangs into his tiny cramped flat, tosses his keys across the room and throws himself down on the sofa. He's rather a bit aware of the ridiculousness of such histrionics (he grew up with Harry, after all), but he can't be arsed to care right now.
He stares at the ceiling, his head back on the edge of the sofa, then throws his arm across his eyes, staring into the darkness of his elbow. His mind races with alternate possibilities, with what if?, with what in the living fuck just happened?
What he wants -- what he tries not to listen for -- is the romantic-movie sounds that come with the realisation of a grand misunderstanding. The sound of footsteps on the stairs, a light knock on the door, a voice calling out to him -- reassuring him -- that it was all a mistake. Then: an embrace, inelegant kisses, and naked, sweaty fumblings that fog his mind with lust.
But John's not stupid. Nothing like that actually happens in life, least of all that of a short, orphaned Englishman trying to make a steady go at medical college in spite of all of the obstacles that keep blundering into his path. The sofa cushion is itchy, irritating against his neck. He reaches back to scratch it, then rubs lightly against a sensitive spot as his mind explodes into a memory.
Brad above him, pushing against him, John sliding up onto his elbows to lick his mouth and banging his head against the headboard. Laughing, both of them laughing, Brad's eyes... darkened, impossibly fond, and only, only for John.
John pushes himself away from the back of the sofa. It makes his skin crawl. He can't sit here. He stands, walks into the bathroom and pulls off his shirt. He'll have a shower, clean up, wash everything about last night down the drain. Glancing into the mirror, he spies a darkened mark on his neck and frowns. When he looks down, there's another on his hip, and John mentally calculates -- there are probably at least four more on other parts of his body.
Then, a gasp behind him, and John's heart sinks. He shuts his eyes and wills himself invisible, wishes himself anywhere else but here.
"John?"
He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. Martha stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, raking over the obvious evidence from his night.
"I can't believe you," she says, her voice rising as she speaks. "I was here all night," her eyes are accusing, "I waited for you."
Fuck.
John remembers now the conversation, remembers promising Martha that he'd meet her back here after hanging out with his mates, had promised they'd have some time together.
But, god, one glance, one (perfect) kiss from Brad, and John forgot everything, severed his connections... and all for the promise of something beautiful.
"Martha," he turns to her. "I can explain. I can."
"Forget it, John," she says, looks pointedly at the obvious marks on his body. "There's nothing to explain."
And really, there isn't. Martha hadn't once crossed his mind throughout the entire night.
"I hope it was worth it," she says quietly. "I hope her father isn't a professor at Saint Bart's, too. That might make your romantic entanglements a bit too precarious to navigate."
She steps forward, then slaps John across the face, hard. "Fuck you," she says, her voice cold.
Then she turns and walks out.
John braces his hands on the sides of the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection is clear for a moment, then swims in front of him.
Christ, what a bloody mess. He just needs to forget, needs to turn off his mind for a little while.
John remembers a bottle he'd confiscated from Harry one night when she'd been inconsolable over her most recent crisis of emotion. It's barely been opened, still in the lower cabinet where he put it months ago. John spins on his heel and walks into the makeshift kitchen, pulls the bottle from its hiding place in the back of the cabinet and stares down at the clear liquid swirling and reflecting his indiscretions in vivid detail.
Vodka.
He takes a deep breath, his mind hovering on the edge of decision.
John wants -- he needs -- to forget.
He shuts his eyes and twists the bottle open.
~*~
A small eternity passes, and John comes back to himself with an abrupt shudder. He blinks, looks around. He's still in the middle of the room, exactly where he'd been when Sherlock walked out.
He has no idea how much time has passed -- were he Sherlock he'd be able to tell by the angle of the moonlight, but John lost that talent as soon as he left Afghanistan.
It's so quiet here, so quiet that John can hear the blood pounding in his ears, can catalogue the pathways his thoughts are travelling, can feel the inches of cotton fabric against his skin. He wants to tear it off, pull his thoughts out in one long thread, coil them up and toss them into the fireplace. His skin feels too small for his body, his brain too big for his head.
It's post-Afghanistan all over again: the sparse bedsit with too much time and too little distraction. But this time his mind isn't racing with echoes of war, this time he's gone far back beyond that. He's digging into memories he'd long ago buried, unearthing post-adolescent anguish that no one should have to re-live past the age of thirty.
He throws open the window, breathing the breeze and gulping lungfuls of London as if it could somehow heal his spirit. John watches the cars pass, sees a few passersby, and can't decide if the ache inside him is because he wants to see Sherlock's purposeful stride down the street or because he doesn't.
He crosses to the kitchen, but for what he has no idea. After a moment John finds the kettle in his hand and a mug in the other. Ahh, well, tea then. The Englishman's cure for everything. He drops a teabag into his mug, gets out sugar and milk and stops for a moment to wait.
Leaning against the counter, John examines the debris in front of him: four new jars with mould aging attractively, a glass jar with clean eyedroppers, a pile of slides and petri dishes just waiting for their next bit of research. It's so bloody calming; it makes his heart ache a little.
When the kettle boils, he fixes the tea, adding a bit more milk than normal.
The clutter around him makes his eyes ache; he needs a blank surface -- just one. He grabs a wash bucket and stacks all of the dishes, papers and various substances from the table inside. Then he moves the bucket to the side of the sink, scrubs the table with a wet tea towel, and sits down to a table that hasn't been cleared in all of the months he's lived here.
As he drinks his tea, John tries to think rationally. The whole 'conversation' (he can hear the sarcasm in his thoughts) before Sherlock walked out has left him feeling empty, left a lingering taste of bile in its wake. It's rare for Sherlock to listen more than a moment or two without offering his own deductions. Yet, he sat there, watching John, listening. Not saying a word. Why?
What could possibly keep Sherlock quiet for an entire conversation? Particularly, John thinks, a conversation where John was accusing him of some rather harsh things. Sherlock has never been one to sit by and let something go by when it can be corrected.
So, either John's accusations were spot on... or there's something else going on that he hasn't figured out yet.
John presses his fingers to his eyebrows, kneads his forehead. He's starting to get a headache. Then he smiles grimly and shakes his head. This is why he needs Sherlock. John's a sounding board, a good medical opinion, someone with whom Sherlock can talk aloud. But John is not the detective. He sees a lot, he observes a lot, but dammit, this is Sherlock's forte.
He remembers a case a few weeks ago where the suspect had amnesia. The police had found a hypnotist, called in a therapist, and as it turned out, it wasn't even the right person. The suspect really and truly hadn't known what was going on.
John remembers Sherlock's explanation to Dimmock: People are capable of lying, yes. They're capable of twisting the truth, of appearing unfazed, even in the middle of harsh cross-examination. But there are always clues. Belinda's eyes never changed, her hands were calm, steady, and her eyes moved in typical patterns over the environment around her. Detective Inspector, she's innocent. She didn't know.
And then, suddenly, it hits him.
Sherlock had watched him unflinchingly; his hands were calm, his eyes focused on John and so magnificently open. He'd never once jumped in to quarrel with John. It wasn't until the end that he'd had any sort of expressive reaction...
John sucks in his breath. Sherlock hadn't known.
Christ, and John had said such terrible things to him, accused him of such nasty motives. John scrubs his hand over his face. His mind aches and he has a sudden, irrational desire to tear out of the flat and search all of London until he finds Sherlock.
He goes so far as to stand up, to hurry over to the coat rack and grab his coat. When he wrenches open the door Sherlock is standing there. His cheeks are flushed, his hair windblown, and his eyes are wider, more earnest than John has ever seen them.
His mind flashes back and he can see Brad's eyes, can see his expressions superimposing on and then filling Sherlock's visage in front of him. A stab of regret, of want, shudders through him and John freezes.
Sherlock looks at John intently, holds his gaze.
"John," he says. "John."
John can hear the emphasis, the sincerity, as though Sherlock were speaking in capital letters.
"There are things I have to tell you."
~*~
December 1992
John wakes to a sharp bang and a foggy mind. It takes him more than a moment to open his eyes, to look around and remember where he is, what day it is -- Thursday. He's about seventy-five percent sure it's Thursday. The light is low, filtered. Either dawn or dusk, but he can't be sure. And as he dropped his clock a few days ago, that's of no use.
There's a muffled sound, a swear, and John sits upright. Someone is in the flat. His heart leaps and John rushes out of bed, more eager than he's been in months. Christ, maybe it wasn't a mistake, maybe...
John pulls open his bedroom door with an enormous grin. Then he freezes.
It's Martha.
Putting her things in a large box: shoes, cassette tapes, a few jumpers, books she'd read and left here even though he reminded her that he didn't have any time to read for fun with his coursework.
His heart sinks.
Of course it's Martha. How could it possibly have been anyone else?
John backs into his bedroom, pushes the door closed quietly and sits down heavily on his bed. He glances out the window: people headed home from work, carrying newspapers, bags from the market.
Dusk, then.
He's missed another whole day. Another class or two. John's missed so many he can scarcely keep track anymore.
He doesn't actually want to flunk out; he isn't actively seeking failure. John wants to be a doctor. He knows he'll be damn good at it -- better than anything else he's done. But he has no idea how many assignments he's missed, has long since stopped listening to the messages adding up on the answerphone.
Even if he wanted to -- he does; he must do -- how could he even begin to dig himself out of the mess that's piled on top of him like a mountain of snow?
There's another muffled sound, then John hears the slam of the door and Martha's heavy footsteps down to the street. Angry, again. All he's ever done is make her angry, and he's still not sure exactly what he (always) did wrong.
Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated?
All he wants is something interesting, something real, something that makes him think. And medicine had done, for years now.
What if he's gone and fucked it all up?
~*~
November 1992
John hangs up the phone with a grin. Yeah, he definitely needs a night out. It's been far too long, with far too much continuing to fall in front of him. John lifts his tee shirt, sniffs it. Yeah, he'll definitely have a shower.
He mentally calculates. It won't take him that long, and if he's going to meet them at Daniel's flat, the biggest time will be spent on the tube. Stretching his arms overhead, John pulls off his shirt and starts toward the bathroom. Then he stops mid-stride. Damn.
Martha.
They'd made some sort of plan for tonight... she was going to come over. He exhales, imagining their night. There will be some pleasant snogging, some even better petting, then something will piss her off and she'll start yelling at him about all the things he should be better at.
Which he should.
Except... why, though? Shouldn't he want to be a better boyfriend? Isn't that supposed to be a desired part of a relationship? Talking things through, fixing them, wanting to be a better person? John has no bloody clue.
He walks into the bathroom and turns on the water. He'll shower quickly, then stop off at Martha's and convince her he needs this, that he'll be back later and then they can have some time together.
That'll work. It has to.
~*~
John stares at Sherlock, aware that he hasn't taken a full breath since he pulled open the door to find Sherlock standing there.
They stand in the doorway for longer than they probably should. There are times that John (thinks he) can tell what Sherlock is thinking, times where they are completely in sync. Then there are times where John wishes he had a way to download Sherlock's train of thought like an mp3 and listen to it over and over again, absorb it into his mind until it makes sense.
John doesn't know which sort of time this is.
Here is what John wants: Sherlock to explain everything away, to tell him the entire Brad debacle was a mistake, a misunderstanding. He wants Sherlock to train his eyes on John, touch his face, confess that he desperately wants him too, that all of the bloody signals he sends out to John constantly mean exactly what John wants them to mean.
Here is what John knows: Sherlock has reasons for everything. Even if they aren't immediately obvious, they generally make quite a bit of sense when -- or if -- he explains them.
Here is the likely reality: John's been reading far too much into things and he's going to feel like a right idiot in approximately eight and half minutes.
Sherlock takes a breath, unbuttons his coat.
That simple act breaks through the plastic coating holding them still and John feels the sounds of London roar back into life and float behind him like a cushion.
John doesn't know what Sherlock is expecting, but he has to start talking, has to break down the mountains of unspoken apprehension between them.
"Sherlock." John tastes the word, rolls it around his tongue. It's still as savoury as it was the first time he'd said it, still a comforting weight and puzzle in his mouth.
"Sherlock," he says again. "You didn't - know."
Something John doesn't recognize -- relief? -- passes over Sherlock's face.
"I didn't."
Approximately nine questions careen around inside John's head, all begging for exit at the exact same time.
He walks into the living room, sits down in his favourite chair, hears Sherlock follow him.
"But how-- how can you ... possibly not know? Sherlock, it was you, it was definitely you. I may not have the same sort of memory, but--" his mind flashes images that still set his heart pounding dangerously "--that's something I know."
Sherlock is watching his face, reading John like he reads music.
"It's--" Sherlock starts, pauses. "It's -- well, I think the term in current vernacular right now is -- complicated."
John grins in spite of himself.
"I've shared with you that I was rather... wild for several years when I was younger."
John nods. "Go on."
"Were I to be gauche, I'd say that I was 'strung out.' For quite a while. I was heavily into cocaine, experimenting with morphine and a few other rather strong opiates. Mycroft refers to it as my 'dark period.' A lot of that time is still a blank for me."
"You deleted it?"
"My mind couldn't realistically hold onto it, not with the amount of sensation I was forcing in daily. Yes. I deleted it."
"So, you honestly don't remember?"
"... not exactly."
Sherlock sighs. Which would be surprising, because John can't remember when he's ever heard Sherlock sigh, but... in the context of this conversation, it's downright disconcerting.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock pauses a moment, glances down at his hands, then back up to John. He is sitting upright in the chair, ankles crossed, the model of a perfect gentleman. After a moment, though, he uncrosses his legs, leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. He looks right into John's eyes.
"Some things don't stay deleted."
~*~
:: next part ::
John is more than preoccupied during his entire shift.
Even walking the entire way to the surgery wasn't enough. Recently he's been splurging on cabs more often than not, but his mind had been churning so viciously as he walked out of their flat that he knew that he would bite someone's head off if he didn't find a way to calm himself down.
Sarah waves at him as he comes in. John can do little more than nod at her, escaping to the examination room and brewing a stiff cup of tea, then discarding it in anger.
The first patient he sees (a young woman, clearly at Uni) is for nothing more complicated than a shot, but his mind feels foggy throughout the entire consultation. Twice the woman rouses him from his reverie with a gentle: "Doctor?" as he's poised mid-injection. Once he finds himself poised with the needle dangerously close to her chin. That won't do. At all.
He is able to focus just enough to administer the shot, make some notes on her chart, offer a falsely cheerful pleasantry or two, and send her off to Prudence with a note that he needs a few minutes to call the lab for some other patient's results.
As the woman (he can't remember her name) walks out, the sharp ginger of her hair swirls in his vision and his mind closes in on itself, blocking out everything but John's belaboured thoughts.
November 1992 -- Wild Things
John dances with abandon in the middle of the dance floor. He's out with a few mates from medical school, having (a lot of) drinks and letting off some much-deserved steam. They've just finished dissecting an entire cadaver; John can name each muscle, bone, and nerve, and it's high time he got well and truly pissed.
As the night wears on, his mates beg off one by one, but John's not tired, not interested in going back to his small, cramped flat and waking up back to the reality of medicine. No, John needs tonight. He needs to let loose, forget about life, school, reality, and just pretend for a night that he's a normal bloke with a normal life. Not a scholarship student with a drunk for an older sister and an orphan, to boot.
He feels eyes on him and turns around, his face heating when he catches the eye of a bloke over by the bar. He's tall, ginger, and very lean. His legs seem to go on forever. His nose is sharp, and his hair is very clearly full of product to make it curl and fall so attractively. John can feel the man's gaze travel up his body, stopping at his waist, then chest, before he looks back into John's eyes and smiles. The smile is what does it -- it's almost shy, as though he didn't mean to be caught checking John out so obviously.
John must be drunk, must be out of his mind, because (bloody hell) he can feel his body start to respond. Warmth spreads through him, fills his head, and he looks around for a moment.
He looks back up at the bloke across the room, the coloured lighting of the nightclub painting his hair. The bloke smiles at him, lifts his drink.
Why the bloody hell not?
John nods at him, then crosses the room deliberately.
~*~
The buzzer sounds, startling John; he blinks rapidly. He hasn't thought about that in years. Not since ... well, not since everything went to hell following that night.
He yawns, for want of something better to do, scrubs his hands over his eyes, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
"Get a bloody grip," he whispers to himself, then answers the buzzer.
Two hours later, he's on his fifth patient and counting down the hours left in this shift. His concentration is shit and he can't remember a single detail about any of the people he's seen all morning.
"... so, I've this rash on -- on my, er, down there." The man (what was his name?) sitting on the table goes red and gestures toward his crotch. "It's -- I've had it a while now, and I just --" He looks at John, his eyes almost pleading.
"It's all right, Mr--" what was his name? "Mr... uh--"
" ... Tyler."
John tries to smile. "I'll have a look and we'll get you fixed up, Mr Tyler." He gestures to the folded garment laying on the edge of the table. "Go ahead and remove your trousers and pants, let the gown open in back, and I'll be back in a moment to examine you."
He steps out of the examination room, pulls the door shut, and leans against the wall. Today is really not his best day.
~*~
November 1992 -- Wild Things
It doesn't take them long. Not long at all.
One drink, then a brief but dizzying snog in the loo, and John follows Brad home without a second thought. His mind is helplessly blank and he can't take his eyes off Brad's body as he walks. John thinks he must be a dancer, or at least a performer of some kind, because he is unreasonably fluid with every movement, even walking up the bloody stairs.
Once they're inside, Brad crowds John back against the door, sliding his hands under John's tee shirt and licking a slow, sexy line at the edge of John's jaw. "God, you're lovely," he whispers, his lips a maddening tease at John's ear, "compact and smart, and perfect to unwrap."
John's stomach flips dangerously. It's been a long time since he's got off with anyone, but with every push of Brad's body against John's, it's impossibly difficult to forget that he's actually doing this with a man.
Brad has got to be younger than John -- how is he so fine with this? But then he swoops his body against John's in a slow wave: knees thighs groin stomach chest and John ... John just -- god, he wants this, his mind be damned. Fuck it, he thinks, fuck it all. Brad's teeth score his neck and John hears himself gasp, and then-- then, he just lets go.
~*~
John empties his pockets of crumpled prescription pad papers, sweets wrappers, and four pens that clearly must have multiplied as he's quite sure he's only used one or two today at most. It takes far longer than it ought to, but his mind feels like it's an old computer running far too many programs at once, sluggish and unresponsive to even the simplest things.
Sarah walks down the hallway with a chart in her hand. "John? Did you order flucloxacillin for Mrs. Vintner?"
John has to think about that for a long moment. Vintner... was it the older woman? Or the thirty-two year old?
"Which one was she, then?" John wonders aloud. "'Cat lady?' Or 'afraid of sex?'"
Sarah looks at him like his mother used to just before she would use her 'I'm extremely disappointed in you, John' voice. She frowns but says nothing, simply looking down at the chart. "Caucasian female," she reads. "Early 60's."
John pauses a moment, dragging his fingertips over the edges of his jumper and digging them into his pockets. He's blanking on the exact result of her exam. It was--
"I'm sure that's right, yeah."
"Did you read her chart?"
"Of course I read her chart."
"John." Sarah's voice goes dangerously low. "You ordered flucloxacillin for a woman over the age of sixty who has a history of penicillin allergies."
John's heart drops. He looks at the orders on the chart: his own jerky handwriting, then skims over the medical history in her file. Sarah's right. He'd ordered it for her skin infection without even thinking, without even checking her chart.
"I can't have done," he whispers.
Sarah looks at him with concern. There's a small wrinkle between her eyebrows that he doesn't see very often, only when she's very worried. Sarah is not a worrier.
"John. Are you alright?"
John's mind races with possibilities. Had Sarah not caught this, Mrs. Vintner might have gone into shock and possibly died. John could have been responsible for the death of one of their patients, and all for a stupid, first year medical student oversight.
"I'm fine. Thanks for catching that. I don't know how I missed it."
The wrinkle between Sarah's eyebrows deepens. She asks again, "Are you alright, John?"
"I'm fine, Sarah. I am."
His heart won't stop racing.
~*~
December 1992 -- Southeast London
John wakes up with a start, rubbing his eyes and groaning at himself when he feels the puddle of drool soaking his pillowcase. The sunlight shining through his window is bright. So bright. Too bright.
Bloody fucking hell.
He sits up in bed and blinks at the clock. He's late. Late again, and, god, this time he might not be able to talk his way out of it. He rolls out of bed and stumbles around the room, grabbing trousers and tee shirts and sniffing them until he finds one that smells less offensive than the others, and pulls them on as he looks wildly around the tiny flat for his satchel.
When he finds it, he tears out of the flat and heads to Saint Bart's. It takes a full five minutes before he realizes that he's got no shoes on.
~*~
John stands in the middle of the empty examination room with his hands clenched. Every time he relaxes them they start to shake. And not in any of that 'intermittent tremor' shit that his therapist likes to talk about. Full on, teeth-rattling, actual shakes of his hand. John wants to throw things. He wants to beat his fists into the wall, render every piece of furniture in the room useless, and howl out his rage. He wants to throttle Sherlock, tear the bloody disguise in pieces from his body and push him... punch him, shout at him, shake him until he's merely normal and ask whywhywhywhywhy?
Rage continues to fill him, gets under his skin and bursts out. John's skin is fire, and he's actually surprised when he looks down and doesn't see charred flesh.
The door opens and Sarah comes in, holding a chart. He takes a long, low breath and presses his lips together for a moment before he can open his mouth.
"How is Mrs. Vintner?"
"She's fine. Nothing permanent, John."
John presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wants to ask if she's sacking him. He wants to apologise for his negligence, should offer his resignation, but he can't open his mouth. He can't stop the fear growing inside him that today is the day he's about to lose everything.
Again.
"John." Sarah's voice is quiet. He doesn't look at her. "John, are you alright?"
"Fine."
"John." Sarah tries again. "Is there something you want to talk about? Something going on?"
He doesn't say anything. He can't. What would he say? 'Oh, it's nothing, just I saw the first bloke I ever shagged again today and, whoa ... as it turns out, it's my flatmate, and he's just been toying with me all this bloody time. Or maybe: 'Yeah, no worries, Sarah. Just had a flashback to something I thought was an amazing night from my past that ended up only being some meaningless shag, completely did my head in enough that it nearly cost me medical school and my scholarship -- which I tried for years to forget -- and oh, by the way, it was Sherlock and now I want to hurt things.'
"Are we done?" he asks, gestures to the stack of charts on the desk. "... paperwork, yeah?"
She looks at him for a long moment and takes a deep, obvious breath.
"Alright, yeah, paperwork. Don't come in tomorrow, John--" she looks at him sharply, but her eyes are soft. "Take a day or two, please."
His throat tightens. "Alright, yeah. Sarah, thanks."
John watches her as she leaves. He doesn't deserve her kindness.
~*~
John walks out of the surgery, his mind numb, definitely worse for the wear. He looks back through the doorway and sees Prudence frowning at a patient, then glances across the street at the newsstand and he sighs.
Everywhere.
On the next block is the coffee shop where he first met Sherlock as 'Kate;' behind him is the street where he and Sherlock chased Tina during the phony vaccine case. He can't go home because Sherlock will be there, can't go to the market because he'll remember their laughter after John figured out Sherlock's disguise in the grocery line. He can't go to the newsstand, the surgery, the laundromat, the fitness centre; he can't even catch a cab. Because everything... everything is Sherlock.
Fucking hell.
So he does what everyone in his bloody family has done when things become far too much to handle all at once.
He goes to the pub.
~*~
It's loud, noisy, and crowded. It's exactly what John needs right now. He reckons it's too loud to think in here, or rather, he hopes it's too loud to think in here. Thinking is not always John's very best endeavour.
After ordering a pint, John glances around while he waits for it. There's a rugby match on the telly and three tables of patrons avidly cheering on various players. One of the men is clearly not interested in the goings on, but is trying to appear that way to his mates. Across the way there are a couple of groups of Uni students, celebrating exams and flirting heavily with each other; John thinks he can see one bloke with his hand on two different arses.
John shakes his head. He was never that bloke.
The bartender hands him his pint and John drops coins onto the bar, nodding at him in thanks. He spies a table in the far corner, with a single chair, crammed into a tiny space. It's perfect. He makes his way over to the table and huffs his breath as he sits down. In a short moment he's drunk almost half his pint, then sits back and shuts his eyes for a long moment, savouring the yeasty tang on his tongue.
Nectar of the bloody gods.
~*~
November 1992
"Oh god."
John is going to come. John is going to come from a (fucking unbelievable) blow job and it's only been four minutes. John is going to come and possibly cry from the pleasure of it. Brad pulls off his cock for a minute, looking up at John as he lazily teases the glans with the tip of his tongue, and somehow manages to grin wryly.
"Christ," John gasps out. "You're really bloody good at that."
"You've no idea."
"No, I really do. So fucking good."
Brad slides up his body, stopping to lick at various sensitive places that John has never found erotic before (his inner elbow? That shouldn't make him any harder than he is -- but, god, it does) and pressing his long, lithe body against John's. They rock against each other -- once, twice -- and John thinks he might possibly die from all of the sensation.
"Fucking hell," he breathes, grabbing Brad's arse and planting one of his feet flat on the bed so he can keep pushing upward, again and again and again. John reaches up and grabs Brad's neck, pulling their faces together and pressing his tongue into Brad's mouth.
They're sweaty and (oh god) naked and John has never been so content as to want to kiss someone for the next hundred thousand days or so, but he does. He does. John tastes the corners of Brad's mouth, touches his teeth, sucks his tongue. He curls his hand around the base of Brad's skull and shuts his eyes to memorize everything.
"John, god. I--" Brad's mouth is still touching his. He can feel the vibrations and the air at the same time. John breathes the words in; he wants to keep them deep inside. Opening his eyes, he looks into the dark brown of Brad's and holds his gaze. He slides his hips upward, feels Brad's gasp before he hears it, does it again.
"Like that?" he whispers against Brad's lips.
"I like you," Brad breathes back against him.
And John feels like he might break apart.
~*~
John blinks and looks around the pub. He's nearly done with his second pint, but not nearly ready to leave, so he signals one of the barmaids for another and stretches his hand, rolling his fingers and flexing them inward and out.
Movement catches his eye and he turns automatically. The bloke he'd noticed before, the one barely watching the match, is looking at him. John nods, smiles, then glances away. When John looks back a few moments later he's still looking. John feels his cheeks heat with pleasure, then his stomach drops.
It's probably Sherlock. In another bloody disguise, flirting with John to make him think that someone might be legitimately interested in him, only to dash that adrenaline rush to the ground all over again.
John frowns, looks away. Sometimes reality is far worse than he likes to remember.
~*~
November 1992
Brad licks his way across John's neck, scrapes his bottom teeth against John's skin and makes him gasp, then he moves back and sits on his heels between John's open legs. He splays his hands just above John's knees, then slides them upward, carefully moving over John's inner thighs like a blind man might learn Braille.
John gasps out something that might be words; Brad's hands are teasing him right on the far edge of tickling and he's not sure if any words have managed to stay inside his head at this point.
When Brad gets to the top of John's thighs he slides around to his buttocks and pulls his hips upward, leaning down to kiss his stomach ... over and over.
"Christ. Christ, oh, Christ, Brad."
John has never felt so fucking alive -- not during sport, not upon winning his scholarship, not even the (only) time he tried cocaine. God, he wants this. He wants this so badly and he's not even drunk anymore. He wants night after night of falling into bed with someone who wants him, who will listen to the horror stories of dissection and recitation and evil, vindictive professors. John wants to learn every inch of Brad's body, commit it to memory. He wants this every day: Brad to look at him this way, to gasp his name like he does, to touch him so reverently.
With a quick manoeuvre, John wriggles out of Brad's grasp, then presses him back so his head is at the foot of the bed, and covers his body with his own. John rubs his chin, his face over the entirety of Brad's body, slipping his tongue out every few moments to taste an errant patch of warmth, and breathing in fragrant skin. He catches Brad's wrists and lifts them overhead, pinning them with one hand. Kissing down the underskin of Brad's arm, John can feel Brad writhe against him, buck upward, cry out his name. He gets to the cave of hair of Brad's underarm and inhales. It's a strong scent: warm and very male. His mouth all but waters. John traces the edge of his underarm with his tongue. It's sharp, but not at all unpleasant, and the noises Brad keeps making are going in a direct line to John's cock.
"John ... John ... John."
His name has never sounded so sexually charged before, so much like poetry. Brad writhes next to him, arches upward and gasps with every touch of John's tongue. Every word, every grunt, every gasp is like a drop of rain on a parched summer day and John can't get enough. He presses his open mouth to Brad's underarm, teases, and licks soft lines over every inch.
"God, oh god, I ... I-- John."
Brad pulls his wrist out of John's grasp, curls it around him and pulls John awkwardly on top of him. John's still half on the bed; his spine is twisted uncomfortably, but when Brad crushes his mouth against John's, John can find little reason to care. He kisses back with closed eyes and dizzying thoughts, and thinks he must have done something right in his life, if he's allowed to feel like this.
~*~
This time John isn't sure what to think when the memory fades. He hasn't thought about this, hasn't let himself think about it in years. Not after everything fell so utterly apart.
John feels like he's been through a wringer in the past twenty-four hours. First he and Sherlock had been out on a case, then hauled into Scotland Yard for a mistaken identity from the gym -- for the very same case -- and John had awakened this morning feeling remarkably chipper for only a few hours of sleep. Today he's pinged back and forth between anger, disgust, rage, fatigue, and loathing. He's exhausted.
He takes a sip of his lager then glances around the pub. The door opens and he watches three more patrons walk in.
And, oh, would you look at that?
Sherlock Holmes, the cause of all of this, striding in like he has a right to be here.
John doesn't look away. He's not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing that, yes, in fact, it is remarkably easy to get John Watson to fall for you. You just have to flirt with him, stroke his ego a few times, and oh yes, be sure to give him the shag of his life, way back when he's young and impressionable, ruin him for anyone else, and then tell him that it was all a bloody mistake.
He stares defiantly at Sherlock, not moving his gaze, waiting to be seen. He straightens his fingers, then curls them in toward his palm, once, twice.
After a moment Sherlock does see him; John can see his body freeze almost imperceptibly. His expression doesn't change, he looks John over from head to toe, nods briefly, then walks over to the bar and leans over to talk to the bartender. He hands him something -- a folded paper, perhaps -- then spins on his heel and exits the bar.
And here it is, again. John, all by himself. As per usual.
~*~
December 1992
John sits with one leg crossed, bouncing his foot erratically, waiting. He's been sitting in the Director's office for fifteen minutes now; he's rather certain that Doctor Canterbury (Director of Medical Education) is making him wait on purpose.
Looking around, John examines the artwork: tastefully framed, well drawn, but medical shite nevertheless. Bones, muscles, freeways of blood vessels. He's always found the human body fascinating, even beautiful, but now it just annoys him.
He glances at the clock. Fuck. He's due for clinic duty and rounds in twenty minutes. John half hopes that Canterbury'll keep him too long and then he'll have a legitimate excuse for skipping.
On Canterbury's desk he can see his file. It's a lot thicker than it was, even two months ago when he had called John in to offer a bit of sympathy for Harry's alcohol poisoning that nearly cost her her life. The file is open to a page near the end. John squints, he can just make out some of it.
As of yesterday, John Watson has missed class six times since 22 November and is behind on three full assignments. He is in serious danger of failing.
He can see the signature of his supervising professor and frowns. Six classes? John scowls. He's sure it's been no more than four.
Just as he's considering flipping through his file to read more of the incriminating evidence, the door pushes open and Canterbury walks in. John stands up (politeness might do well for him here) and nods respectfully.
"Mr. Watson," he says, nodding at John to sit down and doing so himself.
"Sir."
Canterbury glances through John's file, presses his lips together and looks up at John. He pulls out a sheet of paper, turns it and slides it across the desk to John. Leaning forward, John can see it's a printout of his transcript. Two years, top marks, but with four classes in danger of failing this term.
This isn't news to him.
"Yes, sir?" he says.
"You can see it all here, son. You're a smart lad." John bristles at the endearment. He's nobody's son. He doesn't say a word.
Canterbury looks at him for a long moment, clearly waiting. "Watson. I've asked you in here so we can talk about your future here. A conversation is one in which both parties participate-- " he cuts himself off. John can see the anger in his eyes.
"What do you want me to say, sir? My marks are rubbish; I know it."
He shakes his head. "Mr. Watson -- what's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No, sir."
"So, you're telling me that you've been a model student for two years, and now you're in danger of failing and yet you cannot give me a reason why?"
"No, sir."
"I'm not sure I believe you."
John swallows. "I don't ... have a good answer." That, at least, is the truth.
Canterbury's eyes soften. "Is it your sister?"
John bristles. "Harry has nothing to do with this."
Canterbury pauses for a long moment, looking John over, then presses his hands against the arms of his chair and stands, moving around the desk to lean against the front of it.
"You're a private person; I know this. I'm not going to make you tell me anything, nor am I going to pry into parts of your life that I'm sure are none of my business." He takes a breath. "I know a bit about your situation, about what you've faced in the past few years. I empathize, I do. But..."
John's heart drops; he fears the worst. Usually, speeches like this end in really bad news that burn away a little part of his heart.
"I can only do so much. You've got a great mind; you're more than capable of doing this work. It's possible that you've just got a bit off track recently and you need a little hel-- that what you need is a new direction."
"Sir?"
"Mr. Watson, this is what I can offer you: ten days. I've intervened with your instructors and they're offering this as a personal favour to me. You have ten days to complete your missing assignments, to catch up with your coursework. You are required to show up for lessons, to participate -- basically, to be a bloody beacon of medical brilliance."
John's heart leaps; he can barely believe it. A week ago he was certain that they were going to kick him out, and now he's got a chance to fix it.
Canterbury looks very seriously at him. "But this is it, though. A doctor needs to be calm in a crisis... able to confront any challenge and meet it head on. You show me you can do this, and I'll keep you in. But--" his gaze is stern "--if you miss a single assignment, a single class, if any piece of work you turn in is sub-par, then you're out. Studying at St. Bart's is a privilege. I expect you to treat it as such."
John takes a shallow breath. "Thank you, sir. I won't ... I mean, I appr-- I mean, thank you."
"Yes ... well." He looks at John for a long moment, his gaze pensive. "You know, Mr. Watson, before I practiced here at Bart's I was a Senior Medical Officer in the RAMC."
John looks at him in surprise. "You were?"
"I was. It really helped me ... find a bit of myself. Just thought you might find that of interest."
John nods at him. "Thank you, sir."
"Yes. alright. Now--" he looks at the clock. "I believe you're on duty starting in five minutes. I think it's about bloody time you got the hell out of my office."
~*~
John takes the stairs two at a time. When he walks in he sees Sherlock in the armchair, reading a book. He looks John up and down, slides a bookmark into his place, and shuts the book.
And that -- even that simple action -- makes his blood boil. John clenches his fists again; presses his lips together. He's never been good going into combat with a hot head, and John's been preparing for a bloody battle all day. Of course, now with Sherlock sitting here, undisguised, looking pulled together and as calm as he always is, John's mind blanks. Where in the living hell does he even start?
"Are you planning on speaking any time soon?"
John shakes his head a bit to clear the thought-fog. "... sorry?"
"I said: 'are you planning on speaking any time soon?' You've stood there a full minute already. I was in the middle of an interesting--"
And there it is. John's anger bursts through him again.
"Shut up."
"I'm sorry?"
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. Don't talk. Don't deduce anything. Just shut your bloody face and listen."
Sherlock cocks his head at him, blinks, but doesn't open his mouth.
"You have to stop this. You have to stop all of it. Explain to me, please Sherlock, because I don't understand. You follow me around; try to fool me in every normal facet of my life. You disguise yourself so brilliantly; no one's ever looked at you skeptically, least of all me. Every single, bloody disguise flirts with me, turns me on, and ... for what?"
John paces to the fireplace, comes back. "You have to explain it me, because I've been running it through my head all day, Sherlock, and I really don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
John presses his hands to his eyes. "You aren't serious."
"Am I not?"
John is livid now. "Did you not get enough of me back then? Is that it? Didn't quite get as far with me as you'd hoped? Didn't get to stick your gigantic prick inside me, so when I conveniently dropped back into your life you thought you'd work back up to it?"
Sherlock's face is blank, which infuriates John even more. "Was that the whole, elaborate plan? All of the disguises, all of the flirting, and all because you didn't get to fuck me?"
Something occurs to him.
"Jesus Christ, have you been planning this since ... since then?" John knows Sherlock's ridiculously accurate memory. He wouldn't put it past him. Turning on his heel, John paces across the room, then back again. He looks at Sherlock again; he is radiating so much heat from his anger that he might combust from it.
"Is that what you want, then?" John starts unbuttoning his shirt. "You want to fuck me, Sherlock? Fine. Who am I to get in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes? Especially when he's on a case."
He drops his shirt and reaches to tug the hem of his tee shirt out of his waist. "Just make sure to use plenty of lube; I've had a bit of a dry spell recently."
Sherlock is lightly running his thumb over the knee of his trousers; his face has a look of deep concentration on it. He watches John intently.
"Well?" John frowns at him, paces to the fireplace again -- why can't he stand still?
"Well what? I'm listening to you, John." Sherlock follows him with eyes that have shifted into a sort of indulgent tolerance. "You say whatever you need to say to ... me."
John is used to this, he's used to Sherlock showing not one shred of sentiment, even when those around him are charged up and emotional. Sherlock has convinced himself that he's a sociopath, that he doesn't actually have emotions. Which is a load of utter tripe, but John coddles him, lets him believe such rubbish if it helps with his work.
But, how -- how? -- is he sitting there so calmly? Did that really mean so little to him? Is he really such a fucking good actor that all through that night -- every bloody minute -- he never felt a thing? Even after all this time, after everything, John still held onto a thread of hope that there'd been some other reason that it ended the way it did.
"Like that?" he'd asked Brad, all those years ago.
"I like you."
John's throat stings for a minute; he swallows against it, licks his lip.
"Well ... " John's voice sounds far too quiet. "That whole time, all those years ago. I thought you'd liked it ... liked me."
Sherlock freezes; his eyes widen. The room goes dead silent. He stares at John, but his eyes cloud over. He's not here, he's somewhere inside his head.
"Sherlock?" John says quietly. He steps forward in concern.
But Sherlock doesn't answer. After two long, silent minutes Sherlock stands abruptly, reaches for his coat, and is out the door.
John stands in the middle of the room, his mind an all too familiar muddle of confusion.
What in the hell just happened?
~*~
November 1992
John wakes to a sense of idyllic contentment. He feels really, really good. Yawning, he glances around. It's dark out, only a bit of moonlight shining through, lighting stripes over the duvet. John's on his back, his muscles pleasantly relaxed, and there's a warm arm draped across his stomach, long hair tickling his shoulder.
Brad.
Behind his eyes, John's memory flashes images at him: sweaty, tangled legs, the view of Brad's hair tumbling into his eyes. His stomach aches at the vivid memories -- whispered words that slipped under his skin and still run through his blood, the feel of their lips pressing and sliding and so very real. John smiles, oddly okay with the images flashing behind his eyes. God, this entire situation ... it's been a while since he's had such a good night, and -- well, John considers it for a moment. Really, this is the only time he has ever let go, the only time he's opened himself to someone else with such abandon.
He can't stop smiling.
Brad takes a deep breath, his exhalation blowing over John's nipple, and John's stomach tightens. He kisses the top of Brad's head, then slides over onto his side until he's facing Brad, curls his arm over Brad's skin and closes his eyes contentedly.
After a moment, there's a sharp exhalation of breath and the bed moves as Brad jerks away. When John opens his eyes, Brad's are wide and aghast. Brad bounds out of bed and pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He glances at the clock several times, toward the door, then toward the window, his face disbelieving.
"Brad?" John asks quietly. "What's going on?"
Brad doesn't look at him, paces to the window to look out, then back to the door of the bedroom, peering out and then back to John.
John tries to quell the uneasiness rising inside him. He slides out of bed, glancing around for his boxers and spies them tangled in the duvet. After pulling them on, he walks over to Brad, touches his shoulder. Brad tenses in alarm.
"It's four o'clock in the morning," he says hurriedly. "You can't be-- I can't believe we--"
John feels a growing sense of apprehension. Brad's eyes are nothing like they were before: fond and so hungry for John. Now they're wide, suspicious, cold.
"Hey," he says quietly. John steps forward, right into Brad's space, touches the warm skin over his hip lightly. Brad looks at John's lips, down over his body, and back to his eyes. His eyes soften briefly and he swallows.
"It's okay," John says. "Whatever it is ... I can hel--"
"You've got to go."
Brad kicks into motion, walking around them room and grabbing articles of John's discarded clothing. He's almost manic in his energy. Brad pushes the bundle into John's arms and pushes him through the open bedroom door. John is bewildered by the entire state of affairs. He finally stops Brad's shoving, plants his feet.
"Brad, seriously. What's going on? Just tell me; whatever it is -- it's fine... it's all fine. We'll figure this out."
John's mind is racing. What could it be? A flatmate? A boyfriend? Regret? He can't fathom what has changed so suddenly, what changed between them in ten bloody minutes. Not two hours ago Brad had been above him, gasping as they both strained toward completion, rocking together with John's hand covering them both. Not two hours ago, Brad had pressed his forehead against John's, breathing his lips before kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering, "my god John, that was-- you are ... remarkable."
But now Brad stands there, his body ridiculous lines of beauty in the moonlight, and his gaze is incongruous with everything else that has transpired tonight.
"This?" Brad all but spits the word at John. "What is this?"
"Brad," John casts around for anything to say that won't spook him, "I meant ... well, that whatever this--"
"This," Brad says, gesturing between the two of them, "isn't anything."
Which, really, John should have known. You don't meet someone interesting at half eleven in the middle of a club in London. You don't find anyone with whom you'd want more than a quick shag on a night like this, least of all someone you'd want to see again (and again and again).
He should have known.
John swallows. "Yeah, alright." He pulls on his trousers quickly, steps awkwardly into his trainers, wriggling his feet past the laces, and turns his shirt right-side out. Not the best way to end a brilliant night, but John's got his pride.
He pulls on his shirt, reaches for the door handle, but turns to look back at Brad before he opens the door. "Still, though, this was fun."
"This?" Brad's eyes cloud over, unreadable. "This was an experiment. And a failed one at that."
When John pulls the door shut behind him the strident sound of the door echoes around him for a moment while he stands there, dumbfounded. He rather wishes he could shut the very same door around his heart.
~*~
November 1992
John bangs into his tiny cramped flat, tosses his keys across the room and throws himself down on the sofa. He's rather a bit aware of the ridiculousness of such histrionics (he grew up with Harry, after all), but he can't be arsed to care right now.
He stares at the ceiling, his head back on the edge of the sofa, then throws his arm across his eyes, staring into the darkness of his elbow. His mind races with alternate possibilities, with what if?, with what in the living fuck just happened?
What he wants -- what he tries not to listen for -- is the romantic-movie sounds that come with the realisation of a grand misunderstanding. The sound of footsteps on the stairs, a light knock on the door, a voice calling out to him -- reassuring him -- that it was all a mistake. Then: an embrace, inelegant kisses, and naked, sweaty fumblings that fog his mind with lust.
But John's not stupid. Nothing like that actually happens in life, least of all that of a short, orphaned Englishman trying to make a steady go at medical college in spite of all of the obstacles that keep blundering into his path. The sofa cushion is itchy, irritating against his neck. He reaches back to scratch it, then rubs lightly against a sensitive spot as his mind explodes into a memory.
Brad above him, pushing against him, John sliding up onto his elbows to lick his mouth and banging his head against the headboard. Laughing, both of them laughing, Brad's eyes... darkened, impossibly fond, and only, only for John.
John pushes himself away from the back of the sofa. It makes his skin crawl. He can't sit here. He stands, walks into the bathroom and pulls off his shirt. He'll have a shower, clean up, wash everything about last night down the drain. Glancing into the mirror, he spies a darkened mark on his neck and frowns. When he looks down, there's another on his hip, and John mentally calculates -- there are probably at least four more on other parts of his body.
Then, a gasp behind him, and John's heart sinks. He shuts his eyes and wills himself invisible, wishes himself anywhere else but here.
"John?"
He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. Martha stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, raking over the obvious evidence from his night.
"I can't believe you," she says, her voice rising as she speaks. "I was here all night," her eyes are accusing, "I waited for you."
Fuck.
John remembers now the conversation, remembers promising Martha that he'd meet her back here after hanging out with his mates, had promised they'd have some time together.
But, god, one glance, one (perfect) kiss from Brad, and John forgot everything, severed his connections... and all for the promise of something beautiful.
"Martha," he turns to her. "I can explain. I can."
"Forget it, John," she says, looks pointedly at the obvious marks on his body. "There's nothing to explain."
And really, there isn't. Martha hadn't once crossed his mind throughout the entire night.
"I hope it was worth it," she says quietly. "I hope her father isn't a professor at Saint Bart's, too. That might make your romantic entanglements a bit too precarious to navigate."
She steps forward, then slaps John across the face, hard. "Fuck you," she says, her voice cold.
Then she turns and walks out.
John braces his hands on the sides of the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection is clear for a moment, then swims in front of him.
Christ, what a bloody mess. He just needs to forget, needs to turn off his mind for a little while.
John remembers a bottle he'd confiscated from Harry one night when she'd been inconsolable over her most recent crisis of emotion. It's barely been opened, still in the lower cabinet where he put it months ago. John spins on his heel and walks into the makeshift kitchen, pulls the bottle from its hiding place in the back of the cabinet and stares down at the clear liquid swirling and reflecting his indiscretions in vivid detail.
Vodka.
He takes a deep breath, his mind hovering on the edge of decision.
John wants -- he needs -- to forget.
He shuts his eyes and twists the bottle open.
~*~
A small eternity passes, and John comes back to himself with an abrupt shudder. He blinks, looks around. He's still in the middle of the room, exactly where he'd been when Sherlock walked out.
He has no idea how much time has passed -- were he Sherlock he'd be able to tell by the angle of the moonlight, but John lost that talent as soon as he left Afghanistan.
It's so quiet here, so quiet that John can hear the blood pounding in his ears, can catalogue the pathways his thoughts are travelling, can feel the inches of cotton fabric against his skin. He wants to tear it off, pull his thoughts out in one long thread, coil them up and toss them into the fireplace. His skin feels too small for his body, his brain too big for his head.
It's post-Afghanistan all over again: the sparse bedsit with too much time and too little distraction. But this time his mind isn't racing with echoes of war, this time he's gone far back beyond that. He's digging into memories he'd long ago buried, unearthing post-adolescent anguish that no one should have to re-live past the age of thirty.
He throws open the window, breathing the breeze and gulping lungfuls of London as if it could somehow heal his spirit. John watches the cars pass, sees a few passersby, and can't decide if the ache inside him is because he wants to see Sherlock's purposeful stride down the street or because he doesn't.
He crosses to the kitchen, but for what he has no idea. After a moment John finds the kettle in his hand and a mug in the other. Ahh, well, tea then. The Englishman's cure for everything. He drops a teabag into his mug, gets out sugar and milk and stops for a moment to wait.
Leaning against the counter, John examines the debris in front of him: four new jars with mould aging attractively, a glass jar with clean eyedroppers, a pile of slides and petri dishes just waiting for their next bit of research. It's so bloody calming; it makes his heart ache a little.
When the kettle boils, he fixes the tea, adding a bit more milk than normal.
The clutter around him makes his eyes ache; he needs a blank surface -- just one. He grabs a wash bucket and stacks all of the dishes, papers and various substances from the table inside. Then he moves the bucket to the side of the sink, scrubs the table with a wet tea towel, and sits down to a table that hasn't been cleared in all of the months he's lived here.
As he drinks his tea, John tries to think rationally. The whole 'conversation' (he can hear the sarcasm in his thoughts) before Sherlock walked out has left him feeling empty, left a lingering taste of bile in its wake. It's rare for Sherlock to listen more than a moment or two without offering his own deductions. Yet, he sat there, watching John, listening. Not saying a word. Why?
What could possibly keep Sherlock quiet for an entire conversation? Particularly, John thinks, a conversation where John was accusing him of some rather harsh things. Sherlock has never been one to sit by and let something go by when it can be corrected.
So, either John's accusations were spot on... or there's something else going on that he hasn't figured out yet.
John presses his fingers to his eyebrows, kneads his forehead. He's starting to get a headache. Then he smiles grimly and shakes his head. This is why he needs Sherlock. John's a sounding board, a good medical opinion, someone with whom Sherlock can talk aloud. But John is not the detective. He sees a lot, he observes a lot, but dammit, this is Sherlock's forte.
He remembers a case a few weeks ago where the suspect had amnesia. The police had found a hypnotist, called in a therapist, and as it turned out, it wasn't even the right person. The suspect really and truly hadn't known what was going on.
John remembers Sherlock's explanation to Dimmock: People are capable of lying, yes. They're capable of twisting the truth, of appearing unfazed, even in the middle of harsh cross-examination. But there are always clues. Belinda's eyes never changed, her hands were calm, steady, and her eyes moved in typical patterns over the environment around her. Detective Inspector, she's innocent. She didn't know.
And then, suddenly, it hits him.
Sherlock had watched him unflinchingly; his hands were calm, his eyes focused on John and so magnificently open. He'd never once jumped in to quarrel with John. It wasn't until the end that he'd had any sort of expressive reaction...
John sucks in his breath. Sherlock hadn't known.
Christ, and John had said such terrible things to him, accused him of such nasty motives. John scrubs his hand over his face. His mind aches and he has a sudden, irrational desire to tear out of the flat and search all of London until he finds Sherlock.
He goes so far as to stand up, to hurry over to the coat rack and grab his coat. When he wrenches open the door Sherlock is standing there. His cheeks are flushed, his hair windblown, and his eyes are wider, more earnest than John has ever seen them.
His mind flashes back and he can see Brad's eyes, can see his expressions superimposing on and then filling Sherlock's visage in front of him. A stab of regret, of want, shudders through him and John freezes.
Sherlock looks at John intently, holds his gaze.
"John," he says. "John."
John can hear the emphasis, the sincerity, as though Sherlock were speaking in capital letters.
"There are things I have to tell you."
~*~
December 1992
John wakes to a sharp bang and a foggy mind. It takes him more than a moment to open his eyes, to look around and remember where he is, what day it is -- Thursday. He's about seventy-five percent sure it's Thursday. The light is low, filtered. Either dawn or dusk, but he can't be sure. And as he dropped his clock a few days ago, that's of no use.
There's a muffled sound, a swear, and John sits upright. Someone is in the flat. His heart leaps and John rushes out of bed, more eager than he's been in months. Christ, maybe it wasn't a mistake, maybe...
John pulls open his bedroom door with an enormous grin. Then he freezes.
It's Martha.
Putting her things in a large box: shoes, cassette tapes, a few jumpers, books she'd read and left here even though he reminded her that he didn't have any time to read for fun with his coursework.
His heart sinks.
Of course it's Martha. How could it possibly have been anyone else?
John backs into his bedroom, pushes the door closed quietly and sits down heavily on his bed. He glances out the window: people headed home from work, carrying newspapers, bags from the market.
Dusk, then.
He's missed another whole day. Another class or two. John's missed so many he can scarcely keep track anymore.
He doesn't actually want to flunk out; he isn't actively seeking failure. John wants to be a doctor. He knows he'll be damn good at it -- better than anything else he's done. But he has no idea how many assignments he's missed, has long since stopped listening to the messages adding up on the answerphone.
Even if he wanted to -- he does; he must do -- how could he even begin to dig himself out of the mess that's piled on top of him like a mountain of snow?
There's another muffled sound, then John hears the slam of the door and Martha's heavy footsteps down to the street. Angry, again. All he's ever done is make her angry, and he's still not sure exactly what he (always) did wrong.
Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated?
All he wants is something interesting, something real, something that makes him think. And medicine had done, for years now.
What if he's gone and fucked it all up?
~*~
November 1992
John hangs up the phone with a grin. Yeah, he definitely needs a night out. It's been far too long, with far too much continuing to fall in front of him. John lifts his tee shirt, sniffs it. Yeah, he'll definitely have a shower.
He mentally calculates. It won't take him that long, and if he's going to meet them at Daniel's flat, the biggest time will be spent on the tube. Stretching his arms overhead, John pulls off his shirt and starts toward the bathroom. Then he stops mid-stride. Damn.
Martha.
They'd made some sort of plan for tonight... she was going to come over. He exhales, imagining their night. There will be some pleasant snogging, some even better petting, then something will piss her off and she'll start yelling at him about all the things he should be better at.
Which he should.
Except... why, though? Shouldn't he want to be a better boyfriend? Isn't that supposed to be a desired part of a relationship? Talking things through, fixing them, wanting to be a better person? John has no bloody clue.
He walks into the bathroom and turns on the water. He'll shower quickly, then stop off at Martha's and convince her he needs this, that he'll be back later and then they can have some time together.
That'll work. It has to.
~*~
John stares at Sherlock, aware that he hasn't taken a full breath since he pulled open the door to find Sherlock standing there.
They stand in the doorway for longer than they probably should. There are times that John (thinks he) can tell what Sherlock is thinking, times where they are completely in sync. Then there are times where John wishes he had a way to download Sherlock's train of thought like an mp3 and listen to it over and over again, absorb it into his mind until it makes sense.
John doesn't know which sort of time this is.
Here is what John wants: Sherlock to explain everything away, to tell him the entire Brad debacle was a mistake, a misunderstanding. He wants Sherlock to train his eyes on John, touch his face, confess that he desperately wants him too, that all of the bloody signals he sends out to John constantly mean exactly what John wants them to mean.
Here is what John knows: Sherlock has reasons for everything. Even if they aren't immediately obvious, they generally make quite a bit of sense when -- or if -- he explains them.
Here is the likely reality: John's been reading far too much into things and he's going to feel like a right idiot in approximately eight and half minutes.
Sherlock takes a breath, unbuttons his coat.
That simple act breaks through the plastic coating holding them still and John feels the sounds of London roar back into life and float behind him like a cushion.
John doesn't know what Sherlock is expecting, but he has to start talking, has to break down the mountains of unspoken apprehension between them.
"Sherlock." John tastes the word, rolls it around his tongue. It's still as savoury as it was the first time he'd said it, still a comforting weight and puzzle in his mouth.
"Sherlock," he says again. "You didn't - know."
Something John doesn't recognize -- relief? -- passes over Sherlock's face.
"I didn't."
Approximately nine questions careen around inside John's head, all begging for exit at the exact same time.
He walks into the living room, sits down in his favourite chair, hears Sherlock follow him.
"But how-- how can you ... possibly not know? Sherlock, it was you, it was definitely you. I may not have the same sort of memory, but--" his mind flashes images that still set his heart pounding dangerously "--that's something I know."
Sherlock is watching his face, reading John like he reads music.
"It's--" Sherlock starts, pauses. "It's -- well, I think the term in current vernacular right now is -- complicated."
John grins in spite of himself.
"I've shared with you that I was rather... wild for several years when I was younger."
John nods. "Go on."
"Were I to be gauche, I'd say that I was 'strung out.' For quite a while. I was heavily into cocaine, experimenting with morphine and a few other rather strong opiates. Mycroft refers to it as my 'dark period.' A lot of that time is still a blank for me."
"You deleted it?"
"My mind couldn't realistically hold onto it, not with the amount of sensation I was forcing in daily. Yes. I deleted it."
"So, you honestly don't remember?"
"... not exactly."
Sherlock sighs. Which would be surprising, because John can't remember when he's ever heard Sherlock sigh, but... in the context of this conversation, it's downright disconcerting.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock pauses a moment, glances down at his hands, then back up to John. He is sitting upright in the chair, ankles crossed, the model of a perfect gentleman. After a moment, though, he uncrosses his legs, leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. He looks right into John's eyes.
"Some things don't stay deleted."
~*~
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