Sherlock Fic: A Cure for Boredom
Fic: A Cure for Boredom
Author: wendymr
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rated: PG
Spoilers: None for S2 - set after S1
Disclaimer: Not mine, only borrowing
Summary: John might not be a genius like his flatmate, but he’s no idiot and he does have bright ideas every now and then. Like now.
Written for dameruth during fandom_stocking 2011 and posted on AO3 at the time, but never got around to posting on LJ.
A Cure for Boredom
“Bored!”
Sherlock flops onto the sofa, full-length, on his back, his arms folded across his chest in full corpse mode. His lips are curved petulantly and his eyes stare up at the ceiling. John does a mental inventory of all weapons in the flat; there are enough bullet-holes in the walls already, thank you very much, and the only reason Mrs Hudson hasn’t given them a bill for the repairs is that she’s worried any contractor she brings in will report her to the police.
“Bored!” Sherlock’s pitch is higher this time. John fantasises about prescriptions for valium or high-grade sleeping pills. Or a strait-jacket and gag.
He pulls out a straight-backed chair and turns it to face the couch. “What do you usually do when you’re bored?”
“Complain to Lestrade. Or Mycroft.”
Oh, god, that figures. “And... you have?”
“Lestrade’s blocked my texts. And Mycroft’s ignoring me.”
Probably very sensible, John can’t help thinking. “So you’re complaining to me instead?”
Sherlock’s gaze drifts over to him. “You’re listening, aren’t you?”
“I could just go out and leave you, you know,” he points out.
Sherlock’s lips tighten and his fingers twitch. Ah. No. Going out is not a good idea. He’d have to take his gun with him, and even then there’s no knowing what other dangerous objects Sherlock has around the flat. Not to mention illegal substances. The thought of arriving home to find a bored and high Sherlock Holmes is terrifying.
“Is there anything else you do?” he asks instead. “Play your violin?”
“Boring.”
“Don’t you have an experiment on the go? I’m sure I saw some severed toes in the fridge-”
“Boring.”
“Well, I don’t know!” Finding himself start to lose patience, John takes a deep breath. “Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed?”
“Bor-”
“And, when you come back, I’ll have a surprise for you.”
Sherlock looks at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of surprise?”
“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?” He crosses his fingers behind his back.
Sherlock swings himself upright. “I suppose,” he announces grandly, “I could do that.”
John gives him an innocent smile. “Good.”
As Sherlock leaves the room, John closes his eyes slowly. Now what has he let himself in for? He’s got about ten minutes to come up with a surprise for Sherlock, or god only knows what his flatmate will do next.
All right, Captain Watson, time to use some of that strategy training they kept sending you on. He stands, takes a deep breath and walks to the window, thinking.
***
If only he knew London better. He’d thought he knew the city, once upon a time, but that was before several tours in Afghanistan - and before meeting Sherlock I carry the London A-Z engraved on my brain Holmes.
If he knew London better, he could take Sherlock out, distract him by showing him some new and interesting places-
Wait.
Turn that around.
Sherlock’s the expert on London. Obvious, now that he thinks of it. John grins; he might not be a genius like his flatmate, but he’s no idiot and he does have bright ideas every now and then. Like now.
Oh, yes. This should keep Sherlock amused for at least four or five hours, if not more.
***
“I’m dressed. Where’s my surprise?”
John turns to see Sherlock standing in the middle of the living-room, dressed impeccably, right down to the purple silk shirt that looks better on him than any item of clothing has a right to on a man.
He raises his gaze to Sherlock’s face. “It’s more of a surprise activity.” He gestures towards the window. “I thought I’d set you a challenge.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up at this, but he says nothing.
“You know London pretty well, right?”
“No, John, I do not,” Sherlock says, biting off every word. “I know London impeccably well. I doubt even a taxi-driver knows this city better than I do.”
John smothers a grin; he knew Sherlock’s hackles would rise at the hint of any insult to his abilities. “I don’t - well, not as well as I used to, and not as well as you. Been meaning to do something about that - you know, take a walking tour or something.”
“Useless!” Sherlock looks as if he’s been force-fed malt-vinegar. “Those idiots barely know anything.”
“Well, yes. Hence the challenge.” He stands at parade rest, head still tilted back to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “You can give me a guided tour. Find six places I’ve never been to, never heard of and that I actually find really interesting. All right?”
He’s chosen his words carefully based on his knowledge of his friend. Sherlock hates being beaten, and the suggestion that he knows neither London nor John well enough to meet the challenge should be enough to make him determined not to lose.
“Six, you say?” Sherlock snaps his heels together. “Easy!” He whirls around, grabbing his coat and scarf mid-spin. “Come on, then! Time and tide wait for no man!”
***
The first place Sherlock takes him to is Kingsbury, in north-west London, a bit north of Wembley. “While you’re still fresh and can do a bit of walking,” his friend explains as they exit the taxi on the corner of Buck Lane and Highfield Avenue.
John glances around - and then stops to stare. “What is that?”
Sherlock smiles, the epitome of smug satisfaction. “I take it I succeeded?”
John waves a hand in disbelief at the building - he can’t call it a house - in front of him. “It’s like some sort of mediaeval castle!”
Sherlock comes to stand beside him. “An architect called Ernest George Trobridge designed a number of houses in this suburb. They’re all either like this or are thatched cottages. There’s an excellent example of a cottage a few minutes from here - if you can put your jaw back into place and start walking.”
“In a minute, Sherlock. This is amazing.”
“Yes, yes.” Sherlock’s not trying very hard to stifle a triumphant smirk. “We haven’t got all day, though. You said six places, and that’s a lot to fit in.”
He did say six, didn’t he? Shame. He’d be happy to spend most of the day just wandering around here listening to Sherlock talk about the architecture of these amazing houses. Well, maybe he can find a way to get Sherlock to come back with him another time.
***
In the taxi - Sherlock still refuses to take the Tube - his friend gives directions back to Central London, but won’t say where they’re going. However, when they get out in Russell Square, Sherlock turns to him.
“Museums, John! London has hundreds of them, and I bet you haven’t been to more than a handful. I have worked out which might interest you most, and we will go to two of them.” He starts walking, and John falls into step beside him. “I considered the Churchill Museum,” Sherlock continues, “but then concluded that you have probably visited there already.”
John can’t help a smile; Sherlock does know him better than he imagined. “Yeah, went there and to the Cabinet War Rooms on my last leave.”
“As I deduced. I dismissed the Bank of England museum and the Brunel Museum; they would be of more interest to me than to you. So, instead, you may choose two of three museums in this location.”
“Ah-ah,” he tells Sherlock. “I said you were to choose.” Actually, he wouldn’t have minded either the Bank of England or Brunel; something else to do another day?
“If you insist.” Sherlock purses his lips, then nods. “The Cartoon Museum first, then the Dickens Museum.”
“There’s a Cartoon Museum in London?”
“There is. Little Russell Street, very close to the British Museum.”
There is indeed, and John can’t believe he’s never heard of it before. Again, he’d happily spend hours here, but has to content himself with a couple of the collections and a souvenir book - which Sherlock insists on paying for - before Sherlock hustles him out again and on to the Dickens Museum.
When they exit the second museum at almost half-past one, John has to admit that Sherlock’s scored top marks so far - and that he makes an excellent tour guide, full of snippets of obscure information as well as the essentials. His only complaint is that it’s at times a bit like one of those awful ‘Eight European capitals in a week!’ tours where you never get enough time to see anything properly.
But that is his own fault. Next time, he’ll tell Sherlock it has to be one attraction per day for six days.
***
As they come out onto John Street, Sherlock’s already waving his hand for a taxi. John catches his arm. “Can’t we stop and have some lunch? I know you’ve another three to go, but-”
“Trust me, John,” Sherlock says smoothly, opening the door of a taxi that’s conveniently just stopped for him. “Rootmaster on Brick Lane,” he tells the driver.
Okay, somewhere else he’s never heard of. John sits back and waits; Sherlock clearly has no intention of giving him any more details.
Ten minutes later, the taxi pulls up next to... a big red Routemaster bus that’s got an awning and tables and chairs next to it. “This is a restaurant?”
“Apparently, they call it a Bustaurant.” Sherlock’s lip curls. “However, it meets your criteria for somewhere you have never heard of and would find interesting.” He strides forward, arms swinging confidently, and mounts the steps. “Table for two, please, upper deck.”
As they ease into surprisingly comfortable seats on the top of the bus, Sherlock adds, “It’s a vegan restaurant, unfortunately, but you can’t have everything.”
John shrugs. “I’m used to vegetarian and vegan food. Afghanistan, remember. Anyway, this location trumps everything, as far as I’m concerned.”
Sherlock smiles, actually looking relieved. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to-”
“Lose part of the challenge?”
“Well, obviously.” Sherlock glances out the window. “Let you down.”
“What? Me?” Did he hear that correctly?
Sherlock turns back, and abruptly the full force of his gaze is on John. “I know I’m not easy to live with at the best of times, and impossible at the worst. I know this morning you felt that you had to stay with me for my own well-being. I’m sure you had plenty of other things you could have done today, but instead you came up with something to keep me occupied and stop my brain from atrophying with boredom-”
“Well, more to stop you from blowing up the flat, really,” John says, a bit awkwardly. Sherlock almost never thanks him, let alone for this sort of personal stuff, and he rarely acknowledges anything their friendship might mean to him.
“If you say so, John,” Sherlock says, but he reaches across the table and covers John’s hand briefly with his.
***
It’s a longer journey this time, all the way across the river and out to Eltham. Sherlock again says nothing about their destination, but he sits rather closer to the centre of the taxi seat this time, and John catches him giving John occasional sly, even awkward glances.
When they get out, Sherlock says, “I assume you’ve heard of Shooters Hill?”
John frowns. “Vaguely. Isn’t it related to archery or something?”
“Possibly. It’s unclear whether that is the derivation of the name.” Sherlock leads the way along a winding, tree-lined road. “I felt that you might like the opportunity to walk off your lunch.”
“And you very thoughtfully decided that an uphill walk would do the trick. Very kind of you, Sherlock.”
“Ah, but... there.” Another odd, but intriguing building. “Sevendroog Castle. Built in 1784 to commemorate Sir William James’ capture of Sevendroog in India. A theodolite which was installed in the tower in 1797 and used to link up England and France trigonometrically is now in the London Science Museum. The castle has a reasonable amount of scientific significance, but sadly is now in need of repair.”
“Ah. Money?”
“As always.”
John strolls along by Sherlock’s side for a while. “You could always persuade Mycroft to pull some strings.”
Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn’t hiss at the sound of his brother’s name, for once. Instead, he lays a hand in the small of John’s back, urging him to walk on.
***
Another taxi ride to the final site, and they’re going further away from London, towards Bromley. This time, Sherlock does reveal some information on the way. “You’ve heard of Bedlam, of course, John.”
“Of course. First hospital for the mentally ill, but completely lacking any of the compassion or understanding you’d expect, let alone any actual treatment. They even let the general public in to point and laugh.”
Sherlock’s lips twitch. “A bit like Care in the Community, then? Anyway,” he continues, “did you know there’s a museum? The Bethlem Royal Hospital Museum,” he clarifies.
Actually, John had been vaguely aware of it, but he’s never been there and now that Sherlock’s giving him the opportunity he really does want to see it. “I had no idea,” he lies.
Sherlock gives him a sharp look, but lets it go at that. “There isn’t much from the hospital on view at any time, but they do have alms-boxes and restraint devices, as well as some of the archive documents.”
John nudges Sherlock with his arm. “I’m already sold, don’t worry.”
They walk into the museum together, shoulder to shoulder.
***
Later, they’re dining - John’s treat this time - in a riverside restaurant south of the Thames, on their way back to Baker Street. John’s weary, but in a good way; he’ll sleep well tonight with no nightmares, and he knows he’ll remember this as one of the best days he’s had in years.
He leans across the table and - encouraged by Sherlock’s gesture at lunchtime - covers Sherlock’s hand with his. “Thank you. This was a brilliant day. I’d love to do it again some time.”
He’s about to pull his hand back when Sherlock turns his palm-upright and grips his hand. “You’re most welcome.”
Something almost like an electric shock shoots through him, and he can’t tear his gaze away from Sherlock. He wants to speak, but his mouth’s dry.
Sherlock leans forward. “Does this count as something else you didn’t know, John?”
“Sher-” His throat’s dry and he has to stop and try again. “Sherlock, what-?”
Sherlock’s fingers stroke his wrist. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Or that you don’t feel the same.”
The shock’s wearing off now, and relief - exhilaration - is settling in. He nods. He didn’t really know, not until now, but it explains a lot. Yes, he does love Sherlock Holmes. Probably has since not very long after they met.
And, as soon as he gets Sherlock home, he’s going to snog him to within an inch of his life.
If he has anything to do with it, Sherlock will have no excuse to be bored ever again.
- end
Notes
Photograph of Highfort Court, Kingsbury, copyright thesixthland, found here.
More about Kingsbury here.
The Cartoon Museum does indeed exist - and holds this cartoon among its collection! (Caption, if you can’t read it: Ffolkes, "I'm worried about Holmes. Up till now it's just been chemistry, playing the violin and cocaine, NOW it's Mrs Hudson")
The Rootmaster website is down, unfortunately, but this blog has descriptions and some pretty good photographs.
The Sevendroog Castle website is here.
Bethlem Royal Hospital website is here.
Author: wendymr
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rated: PG
Spoilers: None for S2 - set after S1
Disclaimer: Not mine, only borrowing
Summary: John might not be a genius like his flatmate, but he’s no idiot and he does have bright ideas every now and then. Like now.
Written for dameruth during fandom_stocking 2011 and posted on AO3 at the time, but never got around to posting on LJ.
A Cure for Boredom
“Bored!”
Sherlock flops onto the sofa, full-length, on his back, his arms folded across his chest in full corpse mode. His lips are curved petulantly and his eyes stare up at the ceiling. John does a mental inventory of all weapons in the flat; there are enough bullet-holes in the walls already, thank you very much, and the only reason Mrs Hudson hasn’t given them a bill for the repairs is that she’s worried any contractor she brings in will report her to the police.
“Bored!” Sherlock’s pitch is higher this time. John fantasises about prescriptions for valium or high-grade sleeping pills. Or a strait-jacket and gag.
He pulls out a straight-backed chair and turns it to face the couch. “What do you usually do when you’re bored?”
“Complain to Lestrade. Or Mycroft.”
Oh, god, that figures. “And... you have?”
“Lestrade’s blocked my texts. And Mycroft’s ignoring me.”
Probably very sensible, John can’t help thinking. “So you’re complaining to me instead?”
Sherlock’s gaze drifts over to him. “You’re listening, aren’t you?”
“I could just go out and leave you, you know,” he points out.
Sherlock’s lips tighten and his fingers twitch. Ah. No. Going out is not a good idea. He’d have to take his gun with him, and even then there’s no knowing what other dangerous objects Sherlock has around the flat. Not to mention illegal substances. The thought of arriving home to find a bored and high Sherlock Holmes is terrifying.
“Is there anything else you do?” he asks instead. “Play your violin?”
“Boring.”
“Don’t you have an experiment on the go? I’m sure I saw some severed toes in the fridge-”
“Boring.”
“Well, I don’t know!” Finding himself start to lose patience, John takes a deep breath. “Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed?”
“Bor-”
“And, when you come back, I’ll have a surprise for you.”
Sherlock looks at him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of surprise?”
“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?” He crosses his fingers behind his back.
Sherlock swings himself upright. “I suppose,” he announces grandly, “I could do that.”
John gives him an innocent smile. “Good.”
As Sherlock leaves the room, John closes his eyes slowly. Now what has he let himself in for? He’s got about ten minutes to come up with a surprise for Sherlock, or god only knows what his flatmate will do next.
All right, Captain Watson, time to use some of that strategy training they kept sending you on. He stands, takes a deep breath and walks to the window, thinking.
***
If only he knew London better. He’d thought he knew the city, once upon a time, but that was before several tours in Afghanistan - and before meeting Sherlock I carry the London A-Z engraved on my brain Holmes.
If he knew London better, he could take Sherlock out, distract him by showing him some new and interesting places-
Wait.
Turn that around.
Sherlock’s the expert on London. Obvious, now that he thinks of it. John grins; he might not be a genius like his flatmate, but he’s no idiot and he does have bright ideas every now and then. Like now.
Oh, yes. This should keep Sherlock amused for at least four or five hours, if not more.
***
“I’m dressed. Where’s my surprise?”
John turns to see Sherlock standing in the middle of the living-room, dressed impeccably, right down to the purple silk shirt that looks better on him than any item of clothing has a right to on a man.
He raises his gaze to Sherlock’s face. “It’s more of a surprise activity.” He gestures towards the window. “I thought I’d set you a challenge.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up at this, but he says nothing.
“You know London pretty well, right?”
“No, John, I do not,” Sherlock says, biting off every word. “I know London impeccably well. I doubt even a taxi-driver knows this city better than I do.”
John smothers a grin; he knew Sherlock’s hackles would rise at the hint of any insult to his abilities. “I don’t - well, not as well as I used to, and not as well as you. Been meaning to do something about that - you know, take a walking tour or something.”
“Useless!” Sherlock looks as if he’s been force-fed malt-vinegar. “Those idiots barely know anything.”
“Well, yes. Hence the challenge.” He stands at parade rest, head still tilted back to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “You can give me a guided tour. Find six places I’ve never been to, never heard of and that I actually find really interesting. All right?”
He’s chosen his words carefully based on his knowledge of his friend. Sherlock hates being beaten, and the suggestion that he knows neither London nor John well enough to meet the challenge should be enough to make him determined not to lose.
“Six, you say?” Sherlock snaps his heels together. “Easy!” He whirls around, grabbing his coat and scarf mid-spin. “Come on, then! Time and tide wait for no man!”
***
The first place Sherlock takes him to is Kingsbury, in north-west London, a bit north of Wembley. “While you’re still fresh and can do a bit of walking,” his friend explains as they exit the taxi on the corner of Buck Lane and Highfield Avenue.
John glances around - and then stops to stare. “What is that?”
Sherlock smiles, the epitome of smug satisfaction. “I take it I succeeded?”
John waves a hand in disbelief at the building - he can’t call it a house - in front of him. “It’s like some sort of mediaeval castle!”
Sherlock comes to stand beside him. “An architect called Ernest George Trobridge designed a number of houses in this suburb. They’re all either like this or are thatched cottages. There’s an excellent example of a cottage a few minutes from here - if you can put your jaw back into place and start walking.”
“In a minute, Sherlock. This is amazing.”
“Yes, yes.” Sherlock’s not trying very hard to stifle a triumphant smirk. “We haven’t got all day, though. You said six places, and that’s a lot to fit in.”
He did say six, didn’t he? Shame. He’d be happy to spend most of the day just wandering around here listening to Sherlock talk about the architecture of these amazing houses. Well, maybe he can find a way to get Sherlock to come back with him another time.
***
In the taxi - Sherlock still refuses to take the Tube - his friend gives directions back to Central London, but won’t say where they’re going. However, when they get out in Russell Square, Sherlock turns to him.
“Museums, John! London has hundreds of them, and I bet you haven’t been to more than a handful. I have worked out which might interest you most, and we will go to two of them.” He starts walking, and John falls into step beside him. “I considered the Churchill Museum,” Sherlock continues, “but then concluded that you have probably visited there already.”
John can’t help a smile; Sherlock does know him better than he imagined. “Yeah, went there and to the Cabinet War Rooms on my last leave.”
“As I deduced. I dismissed the Bank of England museum and the Brunel Museum; they would be of more interest to me than to you. So, instead, you may choose two of three museums in this location.”
“Ah-ah,” he tells Sherlock. “I said you were to choose.” Actually, he wouldn’t have minded either the Bank of England or Brunel; something else to do another day?
“If you insist.” Sherlock purses his lips, then nods. “The Cartoon Museum first, then the Dickens Museum.”
“There’s a Cartoon Museum in London?”
“There is. Little Russell Street, very close to the British Museum.”
There is indeed, and John can’t believe he’s never heard of it before. Again, he’d happily spend hours here, but has to content himself with a couple of the collections and a souvenir book - which Sherlock insists on paying for - before Sherlock hustles him out again and on to the Dickens Museum.
When they exit the second museum at almost half-past one, John has to admit that Sherlock’s scored top marks so far - and that he makes an excellent tour guide, full of snippets of obscure information as well as the essentials. His only complaint is that it’s at times a bit like one of those awful ‘Eight European capitals in a week!’ tours where you never get enough time to see anything properly.
But that is his own fault. Next time, he’ll tell Sherlock it has to be one attraction per day for six days.
***
As they come out onto John Street, Sherlock’s already waving his hand for a taxi. John catches his arm. “Can’t we stop and have some lunch? I know you’ve another three to go, but-”
“Trust me, John,” Sherlock says smoothly, opening the door of a taxi that’s conveniently just stopped for him. “Rootmaster on Brick Lane,” he tells the driver.
Okay, somewhere else he’s never heard of. John sits back and waits; Sherlock clearly has no intention of giving him any more details.
Ten minutes later, the taxi pulls up next to... a big red Routemaster bus that’s got an awning and tables and chairs next to it. “This is a restaurant?”
“Apparently, they call it a Bustaurant.” Sherlock’s lip curls. “However, it meets your criteria for somewhere you have never heard of and would find interesting.” He strides forward, arms swinging confidently, and mounts the steps. “Table for two, please, upper deck.”
As they ease into surprisingly comfortable seats on the top of the bus, Sherlock adds, “It’s a vegan restaurant, unfortunately, but you can’t have everything.”
John shrugs. “I’m used to vegetarian and vegan food. Afghanistan, remember. Anyway, this location trumps everything, as far as I’m concerned.”
Sherlock smiles, actually looking relieved. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to-”
“Lose part of the challenge?”
“Well, obviously.” Sherlock glances out the window. “Let you down.”
“What? Me?” Did he hear that correctly?
Sherlock turns back, and abruptly the full force of his gaze is on John. “I know I’m not easy to live with at the best of times, and impossible at the worst. I know this morning you felt that you had to stay with me for my own well-being. I’m sure you had plenty of other things you could have done today, but instead you came up with something to keep me occupied and stop my brain from atrophying with boredom-”
“Well, more to stop you from blowing up the flat, really,” John says, a bit awkwardly. Sherlock almost never thanks him, let alone for this sort of personal stuff, and he rarely acknowledges anything their friendship might mean to him.
“If you say so, John,” Sherlock says, but he reaches across the table and covers John’s hand briefly with his.
***
It’s a longer journey this time, all the way across the river and out to Eltham. Sherlock again says nothing about their destination, but he sits rather closer to the centre of the taxi seat this time, and John catches him giving John occasional sly, even awkward glances.
When they get out, Sherlock says, “I assume you’ve heard of Shooters Hill?”
John frowns. “Vaguely. Isn’t it related to archery or something?”
“Possibly. It’s unclear whether that is the derivation of the name.” Sherlock leads the way along a winding, tree-lined road. “I felt that you might like the opportunity to walk off your lunch.”
“And you very thoughtfully decided that an uphill walk would do the trick. Very kind of you, Sherlock.”
“Ah, but... there.” Another odd, but intriguing building. “Sevendroog Castle. Built in 1784 to commemorate Sir William James’ capture of Sevendroog in India. A theodolite which was installed in the tower in 1797 and used to link up England and France trigonometrically is now in the London Science Museum. The castle has a reasonable amount of scientific significance, but sadly is now in need of repair.”
“Ah. Money?”
“As always.”
John strolls along by Sherlock’s side for a while. “You could always persuade Mycroft to pull some strings.”
Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn’t hiss at the sound of his brother’s name, for once. Instead, he lays a hand in the small of John’s back, urging him to walk on.
***
Another taxi ride to the final site, and they’re going further away from London, towards Bromley. This time, Sherlock does reveal some information on the way. “You’ve heard of Bedlam, of course, John.”
“Of course. First hospital for the mentally ill, but completely lacking any of the compassion or understanding you’d expect, let alone any actual treatment. They even let the general public in to point and laugh.”
Sherlock’s lips twitch. “A bit like Care in the Community, then? Anyway,” he continues, “did you know there’s a museum? The Bethlem Royal Hospital Museum,” he clarifies.
Actually, John had been vaguely aware of it, but he’s never been there and now that Sherlock’s giving him the opportunity he really does want to see it. “I had no idea,” he lies.
Sherlock gives him a sharp look, but lets it go at that. “There isn’t much from the hospital on view at any time, but they do have alms-boxes and restraint devices, as well as some of the archive documents.”
John nudges Sherlock with his arm. “I’m already sold, don’t worry.”
They walk into the museum together, shoulder to shoulder.
***
Later, they’re dining - John’s treat this time - in a riverside restaurant south of the Thames, on their way back to Baker Street. John’s weary, but in a good way; he’ll sleep well tonight with no nightmares, and he knows he’ll remember this as one of the best days he’s had in years.
He leans across the table and - encouraged by Sherlock’s gesture at lunchtime - covers Sherlock’s hand with his. “Thank you. This was a brilliant day. I’d love to do it again some time.”
He’s about to pull his hand back when Sherlock turns his palm-upright and grips his hand. “You’re most welcome.”
Something almost like an electric shock shoots through him, and he can’t tear his gaze away from Sherlock. He wants to speak, but his mouth’s dry.
Sherlock leans forward. “Does this count as something else you didn’t know, John?”
“Sher-” His throat’s dry and he has to stop and try again. “Sherlock, what-?”
Sherlock’s fingers stroke his wrist. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Or that you don’t feel the same.”
The shock’s wearing off now, and relief - exhilaration - is settling in. He nods. He didn’t really know, not until now, but it explains a lot. Yes, he does love Sherlock Holmes. Probably has since not very long after they met.
And, as soon as he gets Sherlock home, he’s going to snog him to within an inch of his life.
If he has anything to do with it, Sherlock will have no excuse to be bored ever again.
- end
Notes
Photograph of Highfort Court, Kingsbury, copyright thesixthland, found here.
More about Kingsbury here.
The Cartoon Museum does indeed exist - and holds this cartoon among its collection! (Caption, if you can’t read it: Ffolkes, "I'm worried about Holmes. Up till now it's just been chemistry, playing the violin and cocaine, NOW it's Mrs Hudson")
The Rootmaster website is down, unfortunately, but this blog has descriptions and some pretty good photographs.
The Sevendroog Castle website is here.
Bethlem Royal Hospital website is here.