Part 3. My life with Holmes
I shamelessly used ideas of dear librarianmum for my plot holes)))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2774710/
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairing: domSherlock\ subJohn
Rating: R for this chapter
Status: 3.1\9
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 1 season
part 1
part 2
After a heated argument with the Detective Inspector, involving much shouting and swearing, Holmes subsided almost sulkily into his armchair, grabbing his laptop and muttering about GPS locations. In John’s opinion Lestrade did not look even amused, just asking Holmes to cooperate.
“Her phone!” shouted detective. “It’s so obvious even your team could get that clue.”
He started tapping instructions feverishly into his laptop ignoring them all.
“He means that if victim’s phone was not found on her or in her suitcase then it could be with murderer.” John tried to smooth things by explaining Holmes’s reasoning as he understood it so far. And everything was ok until GPS clue gave nothing.
“Noooo! It can’t be right.” After that came new round of shouting.
When Mrs Hudson came in to report the arrival of a commissioned taxi - and started to get involved in the row too, Holmes left them abruptly, not bothering with explanations or even sharing his guesses. And the team had no choice but to depart. Not least because it had become obvious that they had wasted their time searching for non-existent drugs, of that fact, John was for some reason absolutely sure now.
He liked Sally, even Anderson he found more-or-less tolerable, but they, in fact Lestrade's entire team, clearly disliked Holmes. John had heard and learned a lot of interesting things about his employer and prospective flatmate, and it all boiled down to one thing - the world's one consulting detective was not easy to cope with. Well, John was not much surprised, all things considered.
“Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” Lestrade was genuinely puzzled.
“You know him better than I do, Greg,” was John's calm answer. He began to feel a bit suspicious about the ease with which others seemed to accept his sudden appearance in the detective’s life.
“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don't.”
“So why do you put up with him?” It was John's turn to be puzzled.
“Because I'm desperate, that's why.”
And John knew that feeling all too well. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to the DI. In parting, Lestrade made a strange remark, the sense of which John did not want to ponder.
“And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we are very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”
John could only guess what Greg had in mind telling him that. He really didn’t believe that he could have a positive impact on a person like Holmes. Therefore he decided to simply ignore the possible hint.
After Lestrade's hasty withdrawal, John was standing at a loss in the middle of the empty room. The laptop screen glowed blue, its low hum sounding loud in the resounding silence. He looked around with regret, wondering how less than a day his life had turned from a bit boring and monotonous to complete chaos.
But now he was by himself again, John could return to his other problems, punctured by late night calls. And he should be where he was really needed, which meant that he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself and just leave.
The laptop suddenly beeped and lit up, drawing John's attention. He’d forgotten Holmes’ muttering over it earlier on, and moved towards it curiously. The screen showed a GPS-system, which appeared to be tracking a phone, and he suddenly realised what Sherlock had been doing. But the detective had left without waiting getting any result as it seemed. A chill ran down his spine. What was it Mrs Hudson had said earlier… a taxi?
The system had found the phone and, hence, the killer, but this time the red dot was moving indicating the route being taken along the streets of London. His heart skipped a beat. Perhaps for just moments like this, he let his life turn into chaos over and over again, but now he couldn’t care less.
John picked up the laptop and quickly ran down the stairs, grabbing his jacket along the way. Outside he jumped into the first taxi and gave directions. Before rushing in an unknown direction pursuing a potential murderer, he had to be prepared. And to be more accurate -armed.
Sitting back as the taxi drove through streets of London, John could only think about whether or not he would be in time. His intuition was telling him that this might be the last night in Holmes’ life. He was very sure the posh git had deliberately gone on his own to meet the killer while they all were arguing back at Baker Street.
When the dot finally stopped moving, John shouted the final directions to the taxi driver, and they arrived in a dark, empty street. After overpaying the less-than-impressed driver, John jumped out and ran over to check out an abandoned cab. Nothing remarkable, except for a scrappy photo. And nothing more. Nothing that could tell him anything about the man who had already sentenced four people to death.
He checked the laptop again. Unfortunately, no matter how modern the GPS-system was, it couldn’t specify in which of the two absolutely identical buildings he should look for Holmes and the mysterious killer. The only thing he could do was to choose at random and hope he was not mistaken. For the sake of speed, he dropped the laptop onto the back seat of the cab and made his decision.
Running alone through dark corridors was not as exciting as runing after Holmes driven by instincts and knowledge of all the dead ends and detours. In addition, John could not allow something to happen to the detective. Even with their brief acquaintance and uncertain prospect of working together, he felt responsible for the other man’s life.
He guessed that drugs were not only one of Holmes's addictions. Excitement mixed with adrenaline and desire to prove that he was smarter than everyone else, was a much more dangerous mixture. Add to this his inflated self-importance and the apparent disregard for his own safety and as result, it appeared that no one else but John Watson was available to help him. He had to methodically search for Holmes floor by floor in the dark.
“Sherlock!”
A dim light in the window of the opposite building had accidentally attracted his attention, and it eventually became the only chance of salvation for Holmes in the current circumstances. The detective was also very lucky that John had great night vision and was able to shoot straight.
He did not want to kill. Pulling a gun out of the table's drawer while a taxi was waiting for him, John did not think he would have to shoot in cold blood. And worse - kill someone. And now his main priority was to be as far away from the killed cabbie, from the police he had anonymously called and from Holmes as humanly possible.
But first he had to retrieve the laptop from the abandoned cab, try to discreetly return it to Baker Street and finally return to his business. Affairs that, in general, were not associated with saving life of an arrogant detective.
He was able to distinguish the sounds of approaching sirens and quickened his pace. John only once allowed himself to turn around. He could see a dark figure frozen on the porch but chose to ignore the man. He knew the heavy feeling of being watched when every action, every movement were stored and analyzed.
John turned and took out his phone.
“Where are you?... All right, I will be there in 40 minutes or so.” He very much hoped that he would actually get to Harry's apartment in 40 minutes. Although he’d managed to delay the family reunion he still could not avoid it.
The sound of his footsteps echoed hollowly in the dark street, bouncing off the walls of abandoned buildings and warehouses. A decent citizen had nothing to do in this area of London this late at night, so John just pulled up the collar higher, holding back a desire to start running.
No sane cabbie would have picked him here, so Watson had already walked two blocks. Only near a busy highway was he able to catch a cab, which drove him to Harry’s flat.
He heard loud shouts even from the stairs. It was surprising that the neighbours hadn’t called the police. Although it was also very possible that they were just accustomed to this. John had to knock a long time before he was finally heard. All the way here, he had been mentally preparing himself to what would come.
Clara and Harry. Harry and Clara. And he himself.
“Harry.”
“Oh, my baby-brother….” Matted blond hair and pale face. He didn’t want to remember his sister like this.
“John, tell her!”
“No more of it! Especially for him!”
“You've to go to the clinic! You need help!”
He’d seen variations of this scene many times. However quickly he came, everything went according to the same scenario and ended about the same. Clara, his sister’s ex, slammed the door and he could tend to his sister. And every damn time he could not get rid of the feeling that what was happening suited absolutely everyone except him.
When he’d finally put Harry to bed, tidied up slightly and left, it was already very late at night. John had seriously considered the option of staying overnight on a narrow uncomfortable couch, but the prospect of communicating with his hung-over sister in the morning did not appeal to him.
Imagine his surprise when a familiar beautiful woman came out to him from a familiar car.
“Doctor Watson.”
“Hello there,” John greeted her sadly. He had no desire to deal with either Holmes right now. “Tell Mycroft, I'm tired, need to go home and will meet him any time tomorrow.”
After a short pause, spent as he guessed on passing his request to her superior, he was still kindly waved towards the car.
“Get in. Please.”
The trip was comfortable but not particularly pleasant. And the presence of a beautiful woman who was typing constantly did not brighten his mood in the slightest. After a brief exchange of courtesies, John knew only her fake name and that she had no desire to maintain a conversation with him. He could only silently watch the changing scenery outside and think.
He had a strong suspicion that, from now on, everything that happened to him would be somehow connected with Sherlock bloody Holmes.
It was kind to give him a lift to his flat so he did not have to go back through the city. He would hardly have been able to explain himself to a random patrol if they found the gun on him.
The dark flat greeted him with silence. Only after turning on the lights did John realize what had confused him in the outline of familiar objects. His things were nowhere to be seen. He examined the wardrobe and the bedside tables - there was nothing left. And he knew exactly who was behind this.
Jumping several steps at once, John hastened to go down in the hope that that the black car had not had time to move far and there would be no need for him to get to Baker Street on foot with no hope of catching a taxi. To his surprise the car was still present at the very same spot.
“Want a lift?” asked Anthea, not looking up from the screen.
“If you would be so kind.” John didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm.
He did not even have to say the address. As soon as the door slammed behind him, the car moved forward smoothly, and again he was left only to enjoy the night life.
Despite the very late hour, the door was opened by Mrs. Hudson who gently patted him on the shoulder and pushed him towards the stairs. Of course, first of all he had to make sure that his conjectures were correct.
“I’m here to bring your laptop back and make sure…” John pushed the door open wide and abruptly broke off. The room was full of boxes, he even saw a sleeve of one of his sweaters hanging invitingly from one.
“I decided not to delay your move in here,” explained Holmes, rising to meet him. It was as if nothing had happened earlier that evening. “But I didn’t unpack until you chose a bedroom.”
John rubbed his eyes wearily and gathered his thoughts. His prepared speech was forgotten in instant. He just needed more time to think over what had happened to him.
“Is there a bedroom upstairs?”
“Yes.”
John threw the laptop on a chair and walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.
++**++
Something prevented him from sleeping peacefully. Some kind of idea, a vague sense of anxiety at the edge of consciousness. His usual nightmares gently flowed from a dream to an uneasy slumber full of the sounds of an unknown building and the street outside.
John finally woke up and tried to make out the outlines of his new room in semidarkness. After his dramatic departure from the living room, he had flown up the stairs and immediately locked the door. Looking around and not noticing anything unusual, he had turned to a closet to find clean linen and made the bed. This simple activity had calmed him down, so in the end he was able to get some sleep.
Thoughts tossed clumsily around his head, not allowing him to focus on anything in particular. After all the walking and excitement, John felt drained and exhausted and now couldn’t sleep properly.
Why, of all the possible people, had Holmes chosen him? Why had he, John Watson, decided to trust Holmes? He found it easy to get on with people, being by nature a friendly and sociable person, but to become friends with him, a potential candidate had to pass the test, as John called it himself. If they got the required number of points at that level - welcome to the next. And it had been like that for the entirety of his adult life.
It was much easier in the Army. The system not only stripped you of your individuality but also allowed you to see everything in a different light, including relationships. First and foremost, relationships.
He had never had occasion to complain of the speed of his reaction to sudden threats, but as he drew his gun from under the pillowand pointed it at the other man's chest, he already knew he was too late. Did not have time to react, to remove the safety catch and, most important - to notice a threat.
Of all things, John Watson did not like to lie even in cases of extreme necessity, least of all to himself. And he could not ignore the facts when they were so obvious. From the very first minutes of their strange acquaintance he had not seen a threat in Sherlock Holmes.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to make sure you are comfortable.” Holmes pushed his hand with the gun to the side.
“And? Satisfied?” John tried to pull a blanket higher to shield his body from that piercing gaze, but all his attempts were unsuccessful.
“Yes…. You're very quiet and have trained yourself not to cry even while having nightmares.”
John sat down sharply; he did not want to sleep any more. But he also wanted to shove the man now sitting on his bed onto the floor. Or simply to explain the basic rules of conduct with strangers who did not like it when someone broke into their bedroom in the middle of the night. But in the end he just decided to radically change the subject of their discussion. Ok, he doubted that he would get rid of Holmes that easily, but one could always try. And now he had the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.
“What does Mycroft do for a living?”
“As my dear brother likes to say, he has a minor position in the British government.”
“Hardly believable.”
“Still he is perhaps the most dangerous man in your life, but right now I’m not interested in discussing my brother.” Hot breath suddenly enveloped the skin near his ear. John tried to more away, but an escape route was blocked by his own pillow.
“Then maybe you need help with something? Some experiment?” John wanted to move their talk as quickly as possible to a professional basis.
The silence was his only answer. Then he felt the bed shifting under the weight of Holmes, as he rolled over to other side. John could not help but notice displeasure when it was so clearly demonstrated.
“How do you feel about the violin?”
“Sorry what?”
“I play violin when I think. And sometimes I don't talk for days. We need to know the worst about each other.”
“I don't think it's the worst,” growled John. It seemed he was not the only one who liked to change the subject in the middle of a conversation.
“You're right but you will have time to get used to me.” And with that enigmatic comment, Holmes left the room, much to John’s relief.
++**++
The next morning began with John Watson searching for his toothbrush. He first of all dragged a few boxes with his stuff upstairs. Arranging the sweaters and shirts on the shelves, he quietly wondered at how carefully his clothes were folded and how all the fragile items were packed.
Homes had had no more than two hours to arrange his hasty move-in, though there were not a lot of things to begin with. And John did not like the idea of someone else digging through his underwear. Although, most likely, everything had been organized by Mycroft.
Remembering the night invasion, he checked the lock. There were no visible signs of a break-in, but he clearly remembered locking the door from the inside. Well, he understood hints, although that didn’t mean he had to like it.
A careful and thoughtful examination of his new room in the morning light did not reveal anything interesting. A completely normal room. Mrs. Hudson was a nice old lady, but she did not really bother to care for her own property when with a proper approach these apartments could bring her considerable income.
An inspection of the bathroom and kitchen showed mixed results. John reluctantly agreed that it was possible to live in comfort in his new surroundings, but for now he should conduct a spring clean. Which he was going to do immediately after breakfast and a trip to the nearest supermarket for the necessary cleaning products. And after the inspection of the contents of the refrigerator and kitchen shelves he had to abandon the idea of breakfast in the flat as there was nothing more or less suitable for the purpose.
Only once he was outside did he realize that he had not seen Holmes that morning. And he was not sure he wanted to.
After a long-awaited sip of tea and a light breakfast in the café downstairs, John decided to visit Lestrade; he wanted to clarify something with Greg.
The DI's department at New Scotland Yard was full of hustle and sounds as usual. Lestrade waved at him in greeting through the glass. It seemed his phone conversation was not a pleasant one, so John decided to wait for him outside the office.
He did not believe that Sally Donovan just wanted to come over for a casual chat. They had never really talked, just exchanged meaningless words of greeting and that was all.
“Hello, John.”
“Good morning, Sally. How are things?”
“The criminal world of London will never leave us without work… John, what links you to Sherlock Holmes?” He liked Sergeant Donovan for her bluntness, though sometimes her straightforwardness made him feel slightly awkward.
“I…. I will work as his assistant.” John put his clenched hands in his jacket pockets, wondering why he felt like he was confessing to something shameful.
“I understand. He is a true genius. But I want to give you some advice. Stay as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible.”
“Why?”
“Do you know why he is here? He is not paid or anything. He just likes it. He gets off on it. The more complicated the case, the better. And know what, John? Someday it won't be enough. One day we'll stand around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to put it there.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he is a sociopath. Sociopaths get bored. You are a good man and I really don't want to see you become a victim of his boredom.”
John shuddered. He knew that it was too late for that kind of warning. And, once again, it was all about the one and only Sherlock bloody Holmes.
“John, come in.” He exchanged a firm handshake with Lestrade. “Sorry for keeping you waiting.”
“Greg, do you have some free time now?”
“For you - of course. You wanted to know something?” Lestrade nodded to a chair.
“I wanted to ask you about Holmes. Greg, you mentioned that you’ve known him for a long…”
“Yes, I mentioned that we’ve known each other for more than five years, but it doesn't mean anything. I refer to him in the most extreme cases. You saw for yourself he is not the most pleasant person to work with. Moreover, he refuses to even glance at most of the files considering them to be not worthy of his attention and time. Will you be his assistant?”
“Yes. The pay is good and…”
“I don't want you to think that I, or someone from the team, don't want you to work with him,” Lestrade hastily interrupted him, ruffling his hair restlessly. “Quite the contrary.”
“You think I can have a good influence on him?”
“I'm sure of that. And John… If I only knew…. I mean…”
Lestrade fell silent, not finishing his thought. John even thought that the DI was a little embarrassed. It seemed a good moment to make his rather unusual request.
“Greg, can I have a look at the cases Holmes has helped with?”
Lestrade nodded wearily and promised to give him a list of every single one involving Holmes and only asked in return that it remained between them. Of course John agreed; he just wanted to know for himself that Holmes was really as good as everything suggested he was. It was one thing to tell the history of one's life at one glance, and quite another to solve crimes and bring justice.
After parting with Greg, John went to Tesco. And then, with his hands full of packages, he waited for Mrs. Hudson to open the door for him.
Cleaning up the kitchen floor he looked around with a sigh of relief. John had no plans to clean up or throw away any of Holmes’ experiments, he simply hoped to create some free space from the suspicious-looking bowls, pots and dishes. He suspected from the very start that it would not be easy for him. When he finally finished with the kitchen and bathroom, he felt hungry and a bit angry. Sinking wearily into the chair and stretching his legs, he wanted to rest a bit and then to try to prepare a simple late lunch, or early dinner all considering.
Mrs. Hudson, who had stopped by to drop off his newly cut key and to check on him, went through the small kitchen, she even looked in the fridge. Her behaviour spoke louder than words - she clearly did not expect much from him as a new tenant and was pleasantly surprised now.
“I’ll make you a cuppa,” she said, complacently.
“Damn it!... Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes…” John took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. He just liked for everything to be neat and in order, and really did not enjoy cleaning up after others.
“A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.” Now he was ashamed of his outburst. Mrs. Hudson did not deserve such behaviour. If anyone deserved it, it was Holmes, who was currently absent.
John always controlled his temper and emotions perfectly, but when his ordered boring life was collapsing under the pressure of circumstances, it was difficult for him to remain unmoved.
“Only this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper.”
“Couple of biscuits too. If you got them.”
“Not your housekeeper.”
John thought sadly that it seemed more likely that he’d be the housekeeper here. But he did not care. It was enough if he was well paid and not asked to do something illegal.
Holmes's behaviour indicated an inflated ego, inflated beyond any measure of self-esteem, a lack of respect for others, the rejection of basic social norms, a lack of self-preservation, but most of all, a confidence that the world revolved around him and for him. Add to this the knowledge that he could get away with almost anything, because of all the people who needed his help and assistance, and the detective became intolerable.
A sudden call distracted his sad thoughts. John apologized to Mrs. Hudson and hoped that later he would have an opportunity to learn from his elderly landlady something about Holmes. He also realized that she must know Holmes from a somewhat different angle than Lestrade and his team.
Clara's voice sounded frustrated and a little irritated.
“Are you free right now?”
“Where do you want to meet?” asked John; he decided to postpone the tea and the cookies for later.
“Pub on the corner.”
“When?”
“In an hour?”
“Deal.”
His day was not exactly full of work, important meetings or events, so John could afford an unscheduled meeting, and amazingly Clara, who had a full timejob, could apparently do so too.
He was met with the usual roar at the pub. He greeted the bartender and several regulars. He really liked the relaxed atmosphere and the sense that people did not care a bit about him. He was more than happy with that.
Clara had not arrived yet, so John took a pint and sat down at an empty table away from the entrance. He had never considered himself paranoid, though healthy suspicion was something he was rather comfortable with. And yes, he was somewhat surprised and not in a pleasant way that his sister's ex had called him and invited him to the type of establishment that she was not very fond of for obvious reasons.
Maybe it was too early to tell, but a vague sense of anxiety would not leave him. And if, a few months ago, he could put it down to coping with his adaption to civilian life and then on his confrontations with Harry, now he was simply not certain why he felt this way.
“Have you been waiting long?” asked Clara, sitting opposite him.
John looked at her over the edge of his glass; she looked overwrought and somewhat jerky.
“No. Not at all…”
After a moment's silence, she gave up:
“I… I'm sorry for my unexpected call,” she burst out and hesitated. Now John was really confused and agitated.
“What’s happened?”
Harry's ex wife relaxed at once:
“Perhaps this is all just nonsense, but lately it seems to me that I've been constantly watched… And not in the way that Harry watched me when she was at her jealous stage.”
“You think it's a stalker?”
“No…. I don't know. Sounds silly, but I can't shake this feeling of persecution.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual?” He had some not-unfounded suspicions of his own. Ok, he was pretty sure who could be behind this.
“Yes. No… I don't know! I just thought it would be a good idea to talk to you. You well.. have more experience in all this.. And…”
“I don't think it's something serious. But good you called me.”
His phone suddenly came to life forcing John to wince. The screen glowed invitingly.
Baker Street. Urgently. SH.
part - 3.2