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"And then, if you would believe it, it turned out he'd shoved a fireman up his nose too," John went on. "To go after the cat."
Sherlock nodded, apparently deeply captivated by John's successful exploration of a three-year-old's psyche, when a voice from just behind them said, "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock turned around. The speaker was--well, John had gotten used to Sherlock's clients often having a certain glamour, but this was ridiculous. She was a woman of supermodel proportions, green-eyed and auburn-haired, pearls at her throat and ears. John was fairly certain her shoes were worth more than one of his paycheques. Next to her was a man that resembled a beagle in evening dress, with a shrewd expression and a receding hairline. He looked extremely unhappy to see Sherlock.
"It is you!" she exclaimed, then looked embarrassed to have called out to him on a public street. She had one hand over her mouth. "I've often wished I could apologise for what I did to you. I shouldn't have--it was awful of me. You'd proposed, I'd accepted, but Charles--" she glanced at the man at her shoulder with a genuine and affectionate expression, and he returned it with a grimace, "--well, he was Charles." She looked at Sherlock again, who appeared to have frozen, and put her hand on his arm. And she didn't melt or set afire or anything. "I'm sorry, you probably never wanted to see me again, but I just--when I saw you, I had to say something. Please believe me that I never meant to hurt you."
"I believe you," Sherlock said quickly, and when John looked up at him, Sherlock seemed almost. . . pained. The expression on his face certainly spoke of some distaste, anyway. John gave himself a vicious pinch on the wrist. "Please, don't give it another thought."
She smiled and now patted his arm, before finally letting her hand fall away. "You were always so sweet. If Charles hadn't--" She glanced at Charles again, who gave her another one of those grimaces that John realised was supposed to be a reassuring grin. "Well, that's all in the past now. Have you. . . is there. . . ?"
Sherlock demonstrated some heretofore unknown (but strongly suspected) ability to actually read normal human social cues, because he shook his head.
"There will be," she said. "I'm sure of it." She leaned forward--at her height, in those heels, she didn't even have to tilt her head up very far--and gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek. She did not spontaneously combust, although from the look on Sherlock's face he might have preferred it if she had. "Thank you."
And then she was gone, with a sad smile and a wave. Sherlock stared after her with an undecipherable expression. John collected his jaw off the pavement. (Metaphorically. One can never be too careful about one's metaphors around Sherlock Holmes.)
"Who was that?" John queried, once they'd begun moving again, thankfully in the opposite direction of whoever-that-was and Charles.
"Madeline Chilcott," Sherlock replied curtly. "Or I suppose she might be Madeline Stuart now, but she expressed a preference for keeping her own name."
"Oh." John chewed over what he was about to say next. He didn't want to stir up any bad memories--although he wasn't sure there was a way he could possibly stir them up any more--but he was burning with the need to know. "And you were--engaged?"
Sherlock, oddly enough, opened his mouth, looked at John, and then shut it again. Then he said, "It was a long time ago."
"Ah," said John. Then, "I'm sorry. I won't bring it up anymore."
"Please," said Sherlock, and he sounded so relieved that John's heart went out to him.
-----
It made sense, John thought as he got ready for bed that night. Not really my area, Sherlock had said, that first night, and the skittishness he'd shown at the prospect of John's (completely imaginary and totally fictional) interest. The utter disdain he'd always shown for romance; the way he sneered and rolled his eyes at the tabloid headlines and soap opera storylines. Mawkish, he called them. Sentimental. Pointless. Dull.
No one was born like that. Sherlock hadn't just decided one day that he didn't need love, or affection, or romance. Once upon a time he'd felt very deeply, enough that he'd proposed to this woman, who'd promptly turned around and left him for doggish Charles, and it'd left a mark so deep that it'd barely scabbed over. John had seen it happen before.
And she was insane, wasn't she? Christ, just--just look at him! Sherlock was stunning, in mind and in body. And sweet, she'd called him, so she'd known a charming, gentler Sherlock, before her rejection had turned him hardedged and brittle. What did Snoopy have against that? Probably money, John sniffed, and punched his pillow several times, with more force than was perhaps strictly necessary.
-----
"She was flirting with you," said John, after Veronica Smith's footsteps had receded down the steps.
"Was she?" Sherlock made himself horizontal and stared at the ceiling. "I hadn't noticed."
"When a woman sits close to you, and comes back from the loo wearing makeup, and wears progressively lower-cut tops around you, yes, she is generally flirting with you," John said patiently, and sat down in his chair. He picked up the newspaper.
"Really." A tiny line appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows. "How disturbing."
John put down the newspaper with a crackle. "You cannot be this clueless. You were engaged!"
Sherlock froze with both hands steepled over his chin.
John sighed. "Look. I'm sorry. I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again."
"Indeed," Sherlock said, a trifle icily.
"But you--it's just--one bad apple doesn't mean you need to throw out the whole barrel! And you said yourself, it was a long time ago."
"Ye-es," Sherlock said. "Years. Ago."
"There you have it," John said, with satisfaction. "No need to give up on the entire human race." And he brought the newspaper back up.
He had made it partway through an article about the protests in Cairo before Sherlock said, carefully, as if John were an explosive about to detonate, "Are you counseling me to forget my broken heart and pursue a romantic relationship?"
John lowered his newspaper. Sherlock was now sitting up on the couch, crosslegged. He looked honestly puzzled. "Yes," said John.
"Why?"
John had never heard Sherlock sound this mystified in his entire life, not even the time John had tried to explain to him the complicated social game that was the Christmas card list. He sighed. "Because it's not good for you. And because you're brilliant and gorgeous, and you don't need to be alone for the rest of your life just because some horrible harpy threw you over for a beagle. You could have a hundred women hanging off of you if you only knew that."
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "That's very kind of you, John, but--" Sherlock abruptly stopped, tongue against his teeth, and then finally concluded, "she wasn't a horrible harpy."
"Mates' code," John said, settling back into his chair. "She used you up and threw you away; I'm obligated to think of her as a horrible harpy."
"Ah." Sherlock sank back down onto the couch, hands now folded over his chest. "Well. In that case."
-----
"Would you like to get a cup of coffee?"
John almost choked on his own tongue, and he whipped his head around so fast it was amazing he didn't do himself an injury. Molly looked about the same as he felt, her eyes open large like a rabbit in headlights. Sherlock, for his part, was as distant and unruffled as ever, and did not look up from his examination of the victim's fingernails.
"Er, yes?" Molly squeaked. "Black, two sugars?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I meant a date, Molly. Or have you given up?"
"N-no!" Molly gasped. "I mean, yes! Let's. Get. A coffee. Now?"
"No, you're working now, and I believe it's generally frowned upon to depart in the middle of work for a date. But your shift ends today at. . . three, doesn't it? You can meet me at the Coffee Republic at the corner at, let's say ten after. That will give me enough time to see a man about a dog, and you enough time to freshen up, or whatever it is you do before dates." Sherlock let the hand drop back unceremoniously to the table. "I think I'm done here, if you would?"
"Yes, of course," Molly said, but it took her a few moments before she could collect herself enough to zip the bodybag back up and sequester the corpse away. John felt a bit faint himself.
On the way out, John asked, "Did you just--"
"Yes." Sherlock flung up one hand. His ability to get a cab at any time, any place in London was perhaps an odd superpower, but a useful one.
John wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. Why? was a stupid question, because Sherlock never did anything without purpose, he certainly never did anything that he didn't want to do, and it wasn't really any of John's business to begin with, now was it? Perhaps Why now? was a more accurate query. Molly had been throwing herself at Sherlock for as long as John had known them, and Sherlock had never displayed any interest before.
Fortunately, Sherlock was also psychic. "You were the one advising that I forget my broken heart. I believe you used some sort of odd metaphor involving apples a barrel. Now get in the cab."
John got in the cab. There wasn't much else to do. "And Molly is. . . an apple?"
Sherlock hummed.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock tilted his head at John. John wondered if Sherlock knew what he was doing when he did that, the way it exposed the line of his jaw. Of course he did. Sherlock knew everything. "Sherlock, are you leading her on? Because that's not nice."
Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. She fancies me because I'm intelligent and outrageous and she sees me on average three times a month. Fifteen minutes at close quarters in a coffeeshop will change that. People like that television show about that arrogant bully doctor, but they would hardly want him as their actual doctor."
This entire conversation was so surreal that the only reasonable response was: "You watch House?"
"Melodrama, poor writing, and medical implausibility aside, I find him very sensible," Sherlock replied.
The date must have gone exactly as Sherlock predicted, because when next they saw Molly--two weeks later, when Sherlock needed to examine twins--she was professional and polite, and Sherlock did not repeat his invitation for coffee. It was sort of a relief, although John felt badly for her. She deserved better.
-----
This rather disturbing trend continued for a little over a month. Sherlock dated--or rather, went on dates with:
- A barista at Coffee Republic (thankfully, not the same one where he'd gone with Molly for coffee)
- Veronica Smith (?!)
- A first chair violinist with the London Symphony Orchestra (John had no idea how this happened, but he was not in the least surprised)
- A London University student (though John had never been precisely certain of Sherlock's age, he was fairly sure this was dodgy)
None of them lasted past one or two dates, probably because Sherlock was, so far as John could tell, still an abrasive and arrogant lunatic. He wondered about this, because it wasn't as if Sherlock wasn't perfectly aware of how people were supposed to behave, at least in a very general sense. John could tell because in that same amount of time, Sherlock had also:
- Entered two flats using the now-familiar "I'm one of your neighbours, and I forgot my key" ploy
- Charmed his way past a security guard at the Barbican
- Borrowed a kettle from Mrs. Hudson after ruining theirs (for the third time, and yes, with an experiment) and returned it in exactly the same condition in which it was given to them
So clearly Sherlock knew how to behave to get people to like him and perform favours for him, he just didn't exercise it on dates.
There was no discernible pattern in the people Sherlock dated, at least not in appearance, or even in gender. John wasn't even sure Sherlock was attracted to them. They were attracted to Sherlock, of course, but that required no stretch of the imagination. Little old ladies and straight men found Sherlock attractive. Probably farm animals found Sherlock attractive. (Oh God.) Sherlock, for his part, accepted phone numbers and email addresses, obligingly rang and emailed, and went on dates--but only ever one or two. (The University student was the only one that made it to two dates, actually, which John could only attribute to the folly of youth.) Then, if John asked, "How was your date?" or "What happened to Veronica?" Sherlock would merely reply, "He said he'd call me" or "She threw her drink in my face and stormed off after I observed that her tan was false and she'd never been to Australia." He never seemed very bothered by these rejections.
Then there was Sergeant Stanley Hopkins.
"If you like, we can discuss this more over coffee," Sherlock suggested, in that jaguar-in-a-cello tone of voice.
The young sergeant lit up like Harrods at Christmas. "I'd love that, sir. Oh, but I'm on duty 'til eight--"
"Dinner, then," Sherlock said, so smoothly that the hairs rose on the back of John's neck. "I can see you frequently order Chinese for economical reasons, but that you really prefer sushi."
The sergeant grinned so brightly that John was surprised the lights in the station didn't flicker. "That's brilliant. How did you--takeout menus on my desk, was it? Well, you're absolutely correct, and I hope you'll tell me more about how you did that over dinner."
Sherlock flashed Sergeant Hopkins such a heartbreakingly beautiful smile that it gave John chills. "Eight-thirty, then?"
"That'll be fine, Mr. Holmes, that'd be excellent."
John turned to Lestrade and mouthed Mr. Holmes? Lestrade returned it with a helpless shrug; he looked a little green around the gills.
Stanley Hopkins not only made it to date two, he made it to date three. In fact, Stanley Hopkins started coming around to the flat, with quite possibly fabricated excuses on needing Sherlock's opinion on this or that case. The cases were banal by Sherlock's standards, and Sherlock would snap, "You idiot, have you tried putting a harpoon through a grown man? Then I suggest popping round to Bart's, or ask a butcher if you can practice on a dead pig, they're nearly the same," or "How did you get promoted to Sergeant if you missed something as crucial as the fact that both hallways are made of the same material?" Stanley Hopkins would tuck his tail between his legs, all yessir, nosir, I'll see about that pig sir, and can I get you a cup of coffee, sir? while John cycled rapidly between fury and concern, for who he wasn't sure. Probably the sergeant. Sherlock, after all, was the same as Sherlock ever was.
-----
Knock knock.
John looked up to see Lestrade standing uncertainly in their doorway, one hand still up against the doorframe. "Got a minute?"
"Sure," John said, closing his book. He looked around. "I think Sherlock's out--"
"With Hopkins." Lestrade grimaced. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."
Oh. John put his book down and got his coat. He suspected they both wanted drinks for this.
Later, after they'd both had half a pint:
"He's insufferable." Lestrade scrubbed both hands through his hair. "He showed up with a pair of gloves just like Sherlock's and looked at fingernails and checked inside the victim's mouth, and asked if we'd found anything up his nose."
John put his face in his hands. "Oh my God."
"We don't need two Sherlock Holmes, Watson, that's not--"
"Please call me John," John said through his fingers.
"Well, all right, but you'll have to call me Greg, it's just--weird, otherwise." Lestrade--Greg--took another gulp of his beer. "This is going to start affecting his career, and I won't stand for that. He's bright, he deserves a chance, even if he's completely mad. I just don't--can't you say something? He listens to you. Sherlock does."
"I don't know," John sighed. "I mean--I don't--I did tell him that he should start dating again, but I didn't think it'd be like this."
Greg spluttered on his drink and set his glass down with rather a lot of force. "You what?"
"We ran into his fiancée," John started to explain.
Greg's jaw slackened. "His what?"
"Fiancée." John actually felt a little bit smug at knowing something the other man didn't. He was sometimes a little. . . jealous wasn't the right word for it, more like wistful at the shared history between Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade. "It was from years ago, he said, maybe it was before you two knew each other."
"He never." Greg worked his jaw soundlessly for a few moments. "How does Sherlock Holmes get a--" Then he shut up, and his face turned very grave. "Oh, Lord--was this Madeline? Madeline Chilcott?"
"Yes," John exclaimed. "How'd you know?"
"Oh Christ." Greg put one hand over his face and, inexplicably, started laughing, strident and half-hysterical. "Oh, Christ. That. That was for a case."
John set his pint glass down so hard that beer sloshed up the sides, and nearly over. "What?"
Greg's hand slid down until it was just over his mouth, then fell back to the bar. "It was for a case. She was working as a nanny for this rich blackmailer who lived in West Kensington, he needed to know the layout of the place--oh, I was furious at him when I found out. We all were! I mean, he got the evidence, he always does, but that--that is just not on. But you know him, didn't see the point in it, he said it was fine, there was this Charles fellow that'd swoop in soon as his back was turned. And he was right, bloody bastard, but that didn't make it. Well. That didn't make it."
John stared. "That bastard," he said, half-admiringly. "That utter--bastard." And then he gulped down the rest of his beer and raised his finger for another. His head was starting to hurt, and he hadn't drank nearly enough for that.
"I know," Greg said, moodily, then downed the rest of his own pint. "So you ran into Madeline? What happened?"
John told him, and Greg's eyebrows climbed higher and higher until they came to rest nearly in his hairline. After John finished, they drew together in thought, while Greg took the occasional sip of his beer.
At length, Greg merely pronounced, "That's odd."
"You don't say," John muttered.
"That he didn't just tell you, I mean," Greg amended. "Think about it: when has Sherlock ever hesitated to tell you when you were completely off the mark?"
That was true. Sherlock delighted in nothing more than Being Right. In the normal course of events, he would have disabused John of the notion that Sherlock had ever been normal, in love, or engaged quite thoroughly and publically. Sherlock never obfuscated the truth unless he personally had something to gain from it. But what would he have to gain from this?
"I think," John said, very slowly, "I need to talk to Sherlock."
Greg's expression changed to one of sympathy, with perhaps a touch of Better you than me. "Good man," he said, and gave John a hearty clap on the back. "Let me buy you another drink."
-----
John was not drunk when he arrived home--it would take a lot more than that to get John Watson pissed--but he was not entirely sober, either. He stopped in the doorway and regarded Sherlock, who was lying on his back on their much-abused Thinking Couch with his violin on his chest. Probably he shouldn't confront his flatmate about his reprehensible behaviour right now, and--was it really any of his business anyway? Who was he to decide what his flatmate did or didn't do with his romantic life? Why did he have to be Sherlock Holmes' moral compass? And did he really expect a tiger to change its stripes? And now?
Sherlock paused in the act of scraping the most ungodly sound out of the violin and craned his neck so as to get a good look at John. "You've been to the pub," he said, which was obvious enough; John probably reeked of beer. "With Lestrade." All right, that was slightly more impressive.
Then Sherlock drew in a sharp breath through his nose. "He told you about Madeline."
John sighed and stumped over to his chair, since apparently they were going to have this conversation now and he'd rather be sitting down for it. "Yes, he told me all about your sham with Madeline. How was your date with Sergeant Hopkins, then?"
Sherlock sat up and carefully set his violin on the floor, leaning it against the side of the couch. "You're upset with me."
"I'm not upset with you." John massaged his temples. Well, that was stupid: he was obviously upset with Sherlock, and Sherlock knew it. Sherlock might not know that the moon went round the Earth or that people generally disliked opening the refrigerator to find human body parts in it, but he would eventually figure out when John Watson was upset with him, even if he was unclear as to why.
In this case, Sherlock did seem to have an idea as to why. "You're upset that I emotionally manipulated her."
"I'm upset that you're emotionally manipulating Sergeant Hopkins," John snapped. "So what's he got that you want, then? Case files? Access to the evidence locker?"
Sherlock's face screwed up into an expression of acute disgust. "There is nothing he has that I want."
"Oh, well, that makes it perfectly all right, then." John levered himself out of his chair. "I'm going to bed."
In one fluid movement, Sherlock uncoiled himself from the couch and bounded to block John from the stairs. He had the same focused look on his face that he got when the puzzle pieces were not quite falling into place. "You're jealous." He paused. "No, that's not it. I don't know what you want from me."
John crossed his arms. "I want you to get out of my way so that I can go to bed."
But Sherlock went on like John hadn't spoken. "You were concerned about my emotional well-being. I've gone out of my way to assure you that my emotional well-being is fine, and now you're upset." He cocked his head. "I'm missing something. What am I missing?" His eyes narrowed. "You are jealous."
"I am not jealous!" John spluttered, and held up his hands. "And--and wait, what's this, what do you mean you've gone out of your way to assure me that your emotional well-being is--" He gaped at Sherlock as everything became crystalline clear, and he wondered if this was what it was like when Sherlock had one of his case-related epiphanies. Perhaps it was less horrifying. "Oh my God. So that's what this is all about, then? You, showing me that your heart wasn't broken, you're just, just," he shook his head in wonder, "just heartless."
It was very, very slight, and very quick, but Sherlock flinched. He recovered his usual impassive expression so quickly that John wasn't sure--but no, he was sure. "Yes, well, you knew that already," Sherlock muttered, and slid aside to let John pass.
John didn't move. He stared at Sherlock, who was looking at some point just behind John. Sherlock's throat moved as he swallowed, and then Sherlock stepped around John and went back into the sitting room. John had that sinking feeling in his stomach and that suddenly sober feeling in his head that meant he'd just done something regrettable. Sherlock made himself horizontal again, hands clasped over his stomach, eyes closed.
Realisation came in the form of a murky memory: I'll burn the heart out of you.
Oh.
John winced, rubbed his hands over his face, and sighed. He turned around and went back into the sitting room, where he stood over Sherlock until he cracked open one eye and gave John a surly look.
"I'm sorry," said John. "I oughtn't have said that."
Sherlock waved one hand. "It wasn't anything that wasn't true."
"Yes, it was," said John. "Or rather, no, it wasn't true, and I of all people should know that." He sat down then, on the very edge of the couch, by Sherlock's legs, which was farther into Sherlock's personal space than the man generally allowed. Sherlock grudgingly wriggled to the side to give John more room. John brought his hands up in front of his chin in imitation of Sherlock's steeple-hand thinking pose. "Now. Let me get this straight. I misunderstood your previous relationship with, with Madeline--and how I made that error I don't know, but hindsight's 20/20 I suppose--and rather than correcting me, you started dating in order to show me that I'd misunderstood. Which was rather elaborate on your part, and not very nice to your dates, but. Now." He took a deep breath and hoped he hadn't gotten the whole thing by the wrong end again: "Why didn't you just tell me that it'd all been a sham, for a case? In the beginning?"
Sherlock exhaled. Then he said, slowly--very slowly, for a man who generally used words like a machine gun--like the words were being pulled from his teeth, "You don't like it when I emotionally disassociate."
That was it, then, wasn't it? That was it. Greg hadn't been wrong. Sherlock Holmes listened to John Watson. The sudden bubble of emotion that welled up in John's chest was mostly terror, but only mostly. The rest of it was waving its arms, jumping up and down, and singing yes yes yes yes yes. John felt his heartrate accelerate, even though all he was doing was sitting on the couch. "You didn't think it'd upset me to find out that you didn't actually care about any of your dates? That's also a bit not good, you know."
"I overplayed my hand with Hopkins," Sherlock muttered. "I forgot that Lestrade is a meddling idiot--" His eyes darted up to John. "You're not upset."
"I'm not. Well, I was, but I'm not right now. Mostly I'm just--amazed. You're mad as a hatter, you know." John was beginning to feel a tiny bit giddy, because something was hovering just beyond the horizon, and it was terrifying and horrible and he was ecstatic. Sherlock apparently also felt it, because his head was beginning to come up, like a hound that's scented the hare, and his eyes were bright. "You like me," John declared. "You care. About me. You--"
"Shut up," Sherlock hissed, but he was sitting up. "Shut up, shut up. Of course I--are you blind as well as stupid and unobservant? It's only ever been you, and you don't even--"
John kissed him, because it was impossible not to just fling himself on top of Sherlock just then and cover his mouth. It took maybe four seconds before he was pulling at John's clothes, and John could hardly breathe. Sherlock Holmes was most likely the second most dangerous man in London, and he liked John Watson. Cared about his opinion, as a matter of fact. Maybe even craved his approval. And was, right now, tugging John's shirt from his trousers. It was like stealing fire from the gods. It was like swimming with sharks. It was like jumping over rooftops on the trail of a serial killer. John wanted more.
"You realise this means you're mad as well," Sherlock gasped.
"Shut up," John said, and bit Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock growled. Oh, yes. This is the maddest thing he's ever done, and he invaded Afghanistan.