Part 3. My life with Holmes - 3.2

[lenap_trap]

I had to devide part 3 into 2 part beacuse the post was too large....

Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta:  librarianmum http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2774710/
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairing: pre-slah domSherlock\ subJohn
Rating: R for this chapter
Status: 3.2\9
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 1 season
part 1
part 2
part 3.1



“You were in my room.”

“And? You don’t even sleep there.”  John had only just stepped in when he was forced to make excuses. More precisely, he hoped that his voice did not sound apologetic although he did not know who he was trying to convince. He had only glanced at Holmes’ bedroom once just to check the correctness of his assumptions, and, of course, he was right.

Holmes pulled up the corner of his mouth. He quickly ran his eyes up and down John and frowned. Watson suppressed the desire to follow the other man's example and also look at himself. He smelled of the pub, which was not a bit surprising, but in spite of this there was nothing odd or strange in his appearance. Dark jeans and handy jacket, not new, but he never sought out fashion unlike some, if expensive shirts and suits were any indicator.

“I had to hurry up and get across town just for this?” John decided to clarify. For some reason he did not hope that the detective would dissuade him otherwise.

“Not only,” - Holmes vaguely replied, and when John tried to take off his jacket quickly added. “Don’t bother - we're going out. And take your gun, it might be useful. Don't pull a face, of course I know you have a weapon.”

In fact, with these simple words, began three very difficult days for John, during which he really had not eaten, slept in total no more than 15 hours and accompanied Holmes to the kind of places that he had tried to avoid at all cost, even during his troubled youth. And he did not have to shoot, even though all sorts of things happened to them.

It was strange to see how appropriate Holmes looked in the luxury apartment where the murder was committed, but also in the London slums where the investigation led them. John had to make calls to Lestrade with a breathless voice while running to report their movements. He did not relish the idea that because of the detective's negligence, the evidence would never get to court or worse, because of an inability to produce it in court, to trial at all.

Holmes had not slept, ate almost nothing and still managed to look fresh and rested at the end of the third day when the case was triumphantly solved, John was barely standing on his feet and was dreaming of finally sleeping in his bad, without having to sound calm and cheerful while talking to a drunken Harry.

Being a good citizen, John voluntarily endured the tedious preparation and signing of numerous protocols and statements. The whole time he was talking to Lestrade's team, Holmes nervously cut circles around them but evidently preferred not to intervene. When his patience was finally exhausted, he just rudely grabbed John by the arm and led him away from the bustling police, crowd of curious people, cars, hubbub and the entire bustle.

“That’s the first and the last time you will so uselessly waste my time. Tomorrow Lestrade will appear with the necessary papers and you'll just sign them where needed.”

In the taxi on their way back home, John almost fell asleep, but different thoughts were keeping him from finally sliding into oblivion. Holmes had not just untied a high-profile case, he had also reopened a dead case. And more than once John had had occasion to contemplate the detective's genius and utter disregard for the feelings of others. He’d waved off threats and insults as easily as he waved off “not interesting” cases. And for all his actions he had always had one excuse - functioning sociopath.

They were met with peace and quiet at Baker Street. John stood in the kitchen over the kettle and could not decide whether he could live without a cuppa and couple of crackers, which he knew were waiting for him on the high shelf in the left cabinet over the sink. He’d put them there himself three days ago.

“Now you don’t have to waste time reading Lestrade's reports. You saw with your own eyes how I work and how good I am.”  Holmes stood behind him. John felt the hot breath on his hair, which made him very uncomfortable.

“Indeed.  I don’t need to worry about that, do I?” John muttered, not without sarcasm, his remarks addressed to the kettle. Suddenly, his arm was grabbed and he was pulled around aggressively.

Gray eyes peered intently into his face. John did not know what Holmes wanted to see in his features and what he actually saw. If not for the strong hand holding him confidently, he would have slid to the floor out of sheer exhaustion. It seemed that the idea of having a late tea was not a good one.

If Holmes needed a companion he was ready to become one, God only knew, the man really needed one. John nervously licked his chapped lips trying to find the sand that did not exist.

John Watson did not consider himself someone special or significant. Just an ordinary man with ordinary desires. Ok, maybe not every normal person would leave a successful medical career, family and friends to enlist in the army. Perhaps not every doctor that gave the Hippocratic oath, would take a gun and use it for its intended purpose. Maybe not every written-off surgeon with a slight tremor in his hands would earn his money pulling out bullets and patching up criminals, thieves and murderers. But no one could say he didn’t consider himself the most ordinary man with simple needs.

For months, his most cherished wishes had been to help his sister and sort out his gambling debts. So when he was taken upstairs to his room, rudely pushed into the bed and ordered to sleep, John just took everything as it was.

He had energy only to pull off a sweater and throw off his shoes. He knew too well that in the morning he would feel uncomfortable. John could not bear to sleep in street clothes, it was too close to his restless sleep on duty in a field hospital in Afghanistan. The idea of the shower was rejected as inappropriate and not feasible at this time.

John ran his thumb wearily over his lips. They were burning as if he had been kissed.

To his surprise, Holmes didn’t mention a word about what had happened in the kitchen that night, not in the morning nor a few days later.  Which John would have been happy to forget but could not get out of his head.

Lestrade came just two days later, with all the necessary papers. As Holmes had predicted, Greg gave him some blanks and reports to sign. John without any hesitation agreed to be a witness at the trial, which aroused deep gratitude in the DI.  He would have agreed anyway, but he was pleased to know that he would be helping not just to bring some justice but also assisting DI Gregory Lestrade, who he was developing a great deal of respect for.

He liked Lestrade. Honest, open, a little trite, always impeccably dressed and always pleasant to talk to. A couple of times they even went to pub to have a pint. John was aware that Greg was in the process of divorcing, and spent all his time at work was not the most useful solution in his situation. And now they had another thing in common to discuss - Sherlock Holmes.

John had long ceased to visit his psychoanalyst. From the beginning he regarded their sessions as useless and redundant, but one advice he nevertheless decided to follow: to write a blog. Besides, now he had something to write about. Previously, he simply could not share the impression of extracting two bullets without anaesthesia in a dark room of a random club, but now he enthusiastically wrote in his blog about Holmes and their cases.

John Watson shut the lid of his laptop with a loud bang and reached for the phone. He well remembered that he had left it lying on the table this morning just after breakfast. There was no sign of it under books or anywhere on the table now. John checked all surfaces in the room on which he could automatically have left his mobile. The only logical explanation, the first coming to his mind was one - Holmes.

Only the detective might need his phone when he had a few on himself already. John strongly suspected not of them belonged to Holmes; who the rightful owners were, he could only dimly guess.

But the constant disappearance of his mobile into Holmes’ hands was not the detective’s only oddity. John did not see how, or where, he slept or ate. Holmes even got dressed somewhere else.

And this other place was, of course, his other apartment, where he probably ate normally and slept in peace, not tormented by the awful sound described as “playing the violin” by Holmes.  Where he could look into his cupboards and fridge without finding something shocking in the form of body parts or something equally dreadful.  Unlike John.

Holmes usually just suddenly appeared in his life and inexorably changed John's day to suit himself. Most often, when John was least expecting it, and was just going to drink tea or have a snack, or watch TV, or take a bath, or go to bed or head for one of Bill's shifts, so in the latter case, he would urgently have to find a replacement.

This time was no exception. John heard the door slamming just as he began to brew his tea. Reaching for the top shelf, where he had hidden all the clean mugs, John took out one more cup and made tea for two.

John put the two cups on the table and pushed one in the direction of the detective standing in the kitchen doorway. Holmes watched him while typing something into a phone. John's phone. What a git.

“What do I need to do to make you stop nicking my phone?”

“You can start calling me by my name. At least in your thoughts for now.”

“Hurry up,” Holmes impatiently tapped his fingers on the table.

John was not going to indulge the desires of a certain detective at the expense of his own health, so he did not hurry and chewed his dinner properly. It was his first normal meal in two days. At this rate, he wouldn’t need to worry about gaining any weight at all.

Injury, prolonged recovery and the constant stress in which he had lived since his return to civilian life had not had the best effect on his appearance. Now he constantly had to conceal the loss of muscle mass under shirts and sweaters. And coexistence with Holmes meant irregular meals and a constant lack of sleep.

“I'm almost finished.”

“Eating is boring.”  Holmes frowned and with a theatrical gesture pushed the plate away from John.

He could not help but marvel at the other man's mind and attention to details, even while he was quietly, to himself heartily, wanting to punch Holmes. Feelings of hostility lived peacefully side by side with a sense of admiration for the man.

“You know you are just impossible, right?”

“And you are not the only one constantly reminding me of that. Boring.”

John chuckled and hurried to pull on his jacket. Any delay could lead to him being exposed to the cold air as he was - in a shirt and light sweater. Two days ago, when he was just agonizing over the mundane dilemma of whether to make himself tea or watch TV, he hadn’t expected Holmes to suddenly appear, though he should have foreseen this particular scenario - namely to be forcibly pulled out into the street without a coat to escort Holmes to the next case.

Typically the detective's clients were fairly wealthy or even extremely rich, but often his attention was attracted by the cases of the most ordinary people. The main thing they had in common was that they were interesting and could help to dispel the boredom from which Holmes suffered constantly. Another call from Lestrade promised just such a complicated incident.

Greg shook John's hand with obvious relief when they finally arrived at the crime scene.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Sorry?”

“You are good influence on Sherlock. When you are with him, his company can be even tolerable.”

“What’s happened here?” John decided to quickly change the subject.

“Murder.”  The DI smiled at him. At that, John glanced reproachfully into Greg’s warm brown eyes and shook his head. Greg even tried to look guilty.

“Young male. The identity of the victim is being established. No traces of housebreaking.”

John looked around with some attention. A normal flat, the most commonplace, however expensive, furnishings. He watched Holmes enough to figure out how he applied his method. Of course, he was far from Sherlock in his observation skills, but he might as well try.

The body position was clearly indicating the fact that the death was sudden and, apparently, came almost instantly. And if the door was still intact then the victim had let his own killer in or he had entered in a different way. John checked the windows, one was open, and all the surrounding buildings outside. They were really too far away for a sniper. An examination of the body revealed nothing special to him. The guy had had no chance, and the shot in the head was a clear indicator of this.

After watching Holmes’ usual chaotic behaviour, John decided to join Lestrade near the wall. When Sherlock was in the mood, he willingly shared with them his conclusions and how he came up to them. But it seemed that today was not such a day.

“Sniper.”  Holmes delivered his verdict aloud, returning again to his study of the corpse.

Lestrade went to the window and shook his head in doubt.

“It's impossible.”

“It was a first-class sniper,” Holmes answered irritably. “John, let's go.”

Only at the exit of the building, was Watson able to catch up with the detective. While he was saying a polite goodbye, Holmes was already pushing the door and apparently was not going to wait for him.

“Care to share your thoughts?”, John asked, not really expecting to get an answer. He was curious, even though his role as a glorified errand boy, who was only needed so the detective wouldn’t look ridiculous talking to himself in cabs or on the street, had never been particularly attractive to him.

Holmes, as expected, did not answer, passionately typing on his phone.

“You know, if it was a sniper, it’s only logical to check the trajectory of the bullet, find a building from which he presumably could shoot. Then check out who had access to it and so on.”

“You watch TV too much, John. And that is police work…. Besides, they still won't find him. Our sniper is too clever for that. So we'll go another way.”

John was surprised by the so-easily slipped in "our" and "we", but he decided not to give any value to it. And the next two days he decided to classify as a useful public work, during which he was lucky to be able to show once at Baker Street and get a change of clothes. He grabbed what was clean and went out again. And if he knew beforehand that the nights would be so bloody cold, he would have dressed more warmly. There was also a four-hour shift from Bill where he was fortunate to get some decent sleep, apart from that, he was out of luck.

Dinner was a nice but personally for him a rather vital exception, because while on the trail of an investigation Holmes ate nothing on principle, saying that refusing food sharpened his mental abilities. John was glad that such a rule was not extended to him.

At the exit of a restaurant, following yet another meal that was only consumed by the doctor,  Holmes suddenly stopped to change direction, so John had to swerve at the last moment to avoid bumping into the detective's back.

A familiar polished black car was parked near the curb. When they approached, the door swung open and Mycroft himself appeared before their eyes in an impeccable suit and…. with an umbrella.

“Good evening, John.”

“Hello, Mycroft.”  John was a little confused.

“What of the sniper?” Holmes senior asked, not wasting any more time.

“Without a doubt, it's the same person,” Sherlock answered briefly, and winced as if from toothache.

part 4