I'll always believe in him

John H. Watson, MD and ex-soldier Nothing happens to me, not anymore. THIS IS AN RP BLOG

[jwatson-md]

Steadfast

[marymwatson-blog]

Mary started the car and focused mainly on driving, striving to take John at his word that he was indeed alright. She figured they were all a little shaken, but that was understandable. “I know you wouldn’t go looking for a fight, John. But one found you regardless.”

John seemed unsettled and Mary didn’t know what to say. To say that she understood why he did it, why he likely couldn’t have handled that situation any differently, felt like oversimplifying. At the same time, she couldn’t let John to continue to fret about her being angry when, strangely enough, she wasn’t, not really. Worried and stressed and a little piqued that she’d had to spend some savings on bail money, but not necessarily angry.

She nodded at John’s words, relieved to have a way to broach the situation. “He did.” In spite of everything, Mary’s expression relaxed slightly, turned thoughtful. “He said you were defending his honor, actually.”

“I know-” Mary started but cut herself off, hesitating briefly but deciding to continue, eyes locked on the road. “I know you faced a lot the last several years, and you kept it all inside. Even when I tried to help, you’d give an inch, sometimes, but never more than that. It’s just not your way and I understand that. But this, fighting for your best friend?” Mary turned her head briefly to gaze understandingly at John, “I’m not saying it was the best thing to have happen, but I don’t blame you for it. It’s been a long time coming, John.”

[jwatson-md]

John sat back in his seat, face slightly raised as he continued to look out at the passing buildings and pedestrians. He couldn't help but smile a little to himself; 'defending his honour', definitely sounded like something Sherlock would determine behind his back. "Guess so, yeah."

In truth, he had been expecting more of a severe reprimand from her. John knew that Mary had had her heart set on a new car seat and activity mat for Ollie; he bent his head under a crushing guilt when he thought about that, taking bail money from a savings account that was supposed to be for their son. If Mary had scolded him, he wouldn't have blamed her, or even argued his point - at the time, he hadn't even been sure of what he point was. Yet now, she explained his whole design and motivation back to him, in a way that he could readily understand.

With no confirmation needed, John reached across and rested the flat of his palm on her leg, with a tender retrospection in his manner. His hand rested there for a moment, regarding her appreciatively, before falling back to John's own lap. "Quite certain it's out of my system now, Mary. No more fighting."

And yet, he couldn't promise.

[jwatson-md]

Steadfast

[marymwatson-blog]

Mary wasn’t at all sure how to initiate this conversation. John definitely retained evidence of a skirmish, blood at his nose and hair noticeably mussed. Mary bid the officer farewell and led the way outside, shoulders shrugged against the cold.

They made it to the car and Mary bit her lip preparing to speak. John beat her to it, though, voicing his gratitude. Mary sighed. The conversation with Sherlock certainly changed her initial reaction to this situation, but she wouldn’t lie and pretend like nothing was at all wrong. “You really, really scared me, John.” She said, unlocking the door and getting inside the car. She waited for John to join her on the passenger side before reaching for his hand, concerned at the abrasions on his knuckles.

“Sherlock was waiting outside when I got here. He explained what happened. Are you okay?”

[jwatson-md]

Once John slid into the passenger seat, there was scarcely a perceptible pause between his sitting, and Mary reaching out to touch the sore areas of his knuckles; he flexed his fingers as she did, feeling a tender stiffness. No doubt they would hurt tomorrow.

He seemed to sink back into quiet almost-guilt when she admitted that she had been scared, giving a slight nod as if to already know. Though he did not speak for the moment, his face answered instantaneously to the slightest emotion, even to his fainter secondary thoughts; as if these features were not entirely within his control. He could not, in fact, tell precisely what he was expressing; anger, regret, pride? "I'm alright, love. Bit worse for wear, but alright."

John answered through a shallow exhale, through his mouth, as his nose was still sensitive from the man's only successful swing. "I didn't mean to scare you. Really, I didn't. Getting into a fight was the last thing on my mind tonight."

As the car turned into the connecting road, John waited before asking about Sherlock, with anxious irresolution. They hadn't been allowed contact since arriving, and he wanted to know how he was. Though tempted to ask these things, John decided to keep most of the focus on his wife for now. "Sherlock told you about it, then." He asked, turning his head towards her a little, but looking out of the windshield.

[jwatson-md]

Steadfast

Without a clock in his cell, John could only describe his time inside as 'dragging'. He and Sherlock had been separated upon arrival, to different rooms for interrogations and statements. After roughly twenty minutes of questioning, John was lead to a cell block, and that was where he remained. He stood for a little while, then sat on the metal bunk and leant light-bodied against the wall, his hands knotted together. He disappeared into something of a thoughtful, meditative state, until he blinked and raised his head, upon hearing the heavy clunk of the cell door. 

An officer fully opened the door, standing aside and indicating for John to follow. "John Watson, your bail's been posted."

Without word, he rocked forward and stood, letting the man lead him to the front desk of the station. It was plainly obvious that Mary had come to get him, what wasn't obvious was how she was taking the news of her husband's arrest. There was context that she might not have known of, in this particular situation, fine sensibilities to grasp; 'assault' wasn't an easy word to justify. He was soon reunited with her, without a word being said between them while Mary exchanged a final few words with the officer. As they left, John dabbed his blood-spotted nostrils with the cuff of his shirt, carrying his jacket over his other arm.

"Thank you." He said falteringly, as they approached the car.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

John was looking into his soul.

At least, that’s what it felt like. If indeed he was, and if Sherlock even had one, were highly debatable facts. For now, though, it felt like the entire world consisted of John’s eyes, dark but irrepressibly blue, steeped in hope and honesty which by all reasonable estimation should have been extinguished years ago, even when his face was drawn haggard with weariness and pain.

How do you manage it, John? After all of this…

The increased volume of the police sirens broke his attention, and he was pulled from the (ridiculously romaticised) moment to look around them, almost fully encircled now by the other bar patrons. Such an odd couple they made, no less by Sherlock’s utter calm and the blood (both his and the drunkard’s) dripping lazily from John’s fingertips at his side.

“You’ll be arrested in just under ninety seconds,” he dictated softly to John, just above a whisper, their faces still close enough for John to hear without the entire pub listening in. “You’ll make bail, though.”

The door of the pub opened roughly, but the officer paused as the crowd parted for him, John and Sherlock standing stock-still and apparently calm while the man (with a broken nose, cheekbone, split lip, split eyebrow and at least two loose teeth; John doesn’t love you, I see…) staggered to his feet, rage in his eyes.

“It was ‘im! The short fucker!” One of the idiot’s friends, apparently, shouting out to the police officer as he stepped forward. The officer raised a hand to silence the ‘witness’, instead coming to a stop shortly before John and Sherlock. After a quick evaluation, he raised his chin at John, drawing out his handcuffs from the plastic holder clipped to his belt. “I’m sure this comes to no surprise to you, but I’m going to have to arrest you with assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Turn around, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Sherlock successfully held his tongue while John turned complacently, allowing the officer to cuff him without resistance. He glared unabashedly at both the bleeding wanker and his friends, but returned his face to ‘concerned calm’ when the officer drew his attention.

“You’ll have to come too, sir. Witness and all.” Sherlock nodded, relaxing a little; at least that meant he’d share the ride with John. He was, oddly enough after all these years, still rather phobic about riding in police cars. At least John’s calming influence should help somewhat with that.

The policeman, satisfied that John would remain where he was, turned the the publican, notifying that another officer was on his way and would take statements, and that an ambulance had been called for the victim of the assault. (Sherlock did scoff at the use of the word ‘victim’, but quieted after a glare from John, keeping to himself the fact that John had smirked at it first.)

Once the next police car had arrived, John and Sherlock were summarily walked to the police car, their calm conduct meaning that at least John wasn’t literally thrown into the back seat. Sherlock, hands unbound, took the time before the car started moving to text Mycroft with his phone still in his pocket, grateful for the bored nights he’d used to teach himself to text ‘blind’.

“Well…” Sherlock said after a rather long silence, the police car’s interior making him anxious but the company keeping it from boiling over into panic, “this was certainly an interesting night out.”

[jwatson-md]

Slowly, John woke from a long interval of thought. As the sirens grew louder, he came to a stumble of a stop and broke the stare with a few fluttering blinks. He stood back slightly, and pushed up his hair until it stood right aloft on his forehead. A whirling sensation came over him, as well as a giddiness; not regret, but .. release, twisted together with the realisation that his actions would have consequences.

Sherlock then spoke, informative, but with attempts to reassure. John considered the promise of 'bail' with a grave aspect; he could only hope that the fine would not burn a hole in his and Mary's joint-pocket. They had only just finished making the repayments for Oliver's pram.

He gave Sherlock a short, composed nod nonetheless. The arrest process was calm enough, with the exception of a distressed (and still quite drunk) pub audience. John went without word or complaint, accepting of his actions and ignoring the continued stream of frightened abuse from the friends of his 'victim' as he was lead away. He had had his (their) revenge now.

And he felt good for it.

Once placed in the backseat of the police van, John grimaced as he felt something warm, and metallic scented, run from his nose. He raised his cuffed hands and wiped at his nostril with the top of his thumb, realising then that his nose was bleeding. Apparently, the man had managed to land a hit in self-defense.

When Sherlock, with him in the van, broke the silence, John felt those forgotten sensations rise up once more out of the depths of his consciousness, and, for an instant, a wave of the old warmth swept over his soul. For one moment he tried to imagine that he was still that same old friend. That same John Watson who would lay down his life, and anyone else's, to save Sherlock Holmes.

Another wordless nod, with just a hint of a smile.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock crashed hard into the stacks of chairs, temporarily disoriented by the impact of skull against hard plastic. After a couple of seconds he regained his composure, getting back to his feet with just a slight sense of dizziness.

It took only a moment to see what was happening, John in full ‘soldier’ mode, mercilessly pounding his fists into the man beneath him. In a world of his own for a short while, Sherlock almost smiled; despite the time apart and everything that had changed irreparably, John was still willing to defend him. It was A Study in Pink, 2.0.

He didn’t smile, though, as quite quickly came the revelation that John would -actually- kill this man if given the choice, and getting out of this murder charge would be far more difficult than just throwing a gun into a river. As sweet (is that the wrong word?) as the demonstration of affection(?) was, John going to prison for him wasn’t part of the reunion plan. It might be possible to get it written off as an effect of the PTSD, but even then…

It wasn’t worth the risk, as satisfying as it would be to continue to watch the drunken idiot’s cheekbone pulverise under John’s fist.

“John. John, you need to stop.” He spoke a little too quietly; certainly too quietly for the enraged army doctor to notice. Stepping forward, he put a firm hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing at the joint just hard enough to hurt slightly, standing back far enough to avoid getting hit himself in John’s flurry.

“John. Stop.”

[jwatson-md]

John was a man possessed - he felt actual hatred towards this stranger; this stranger who was, in his eyes, the very object of his torment. As though all those years of agonising mental pain had been made human, and he could finally have his revenge.

Red with blinding fury, he tore into the man beneath him; yelling and swearing as he repeatedly stuck his face, chest and stomach. The crowd that had gathered around were unsure whether to look on with jest at this 'pub brawl' or gasp with horror as the man appeared to go limp under John. At first, he was heedless to Sherlock's instructions. A twinge of realisation, as well as an uncomfortably tight hand on his shoulder, was felt and appeared to give John newly exercised 'control' over his actions.

There was a breathless pause as John yielded and leant away from his target, with stunned silence. The man, in fact, was not dead - nor was he unconscious, as he spluttered a bloody cough and rolled onto his side. With this unstable restraint, John rose to his feet, and immediately looked to Sherlock.

During the few moments that elapsed between them, he scarcely blinked as he continued to huff out his breath, as though exhausted. No longer in a mood of anger, but agitation; showing annoyance, pain, and a certain restless pride. Their mutual observation lasted a moment or two longer, at the end of which, police sirens could be heard approaching.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his face tensing along with the rest of his body. John’s words were completely useless, and almost entirely ignored by the drunkard before them. Sherlock raised his chin, giving up on diplomacy, instead adopting a façade of authority, verging on silently aggressive in his posture.

“The ‘fucking genius’, yes,” he repeated, his words calm but his eyes narrowed, flicking across the other man’s body, watching for moments to indicate the next step in their encounter. “Is there something I can help you with? The number for A.A., perhaps?” A stab at the man’s alcoholism was juvenile, but reasonably harmless; it was obvious the situation would come to a head, and Sherlock would much rather it at least partially be on his terms. Better to face the aggressor front-on, rather than having a bottle thrown at his head while trying to leave.

He saw the man’s shoulder shift back slightly, the last few years at least having given him more than enough practice in close combat. Sherlock dodged, leaning to the back left as the man took a swing, the calloused fist missing his jaw by a few inches. Regaining his balance, Sherlock righted himself, his posture defensive as he watched again, the stranger on front of him merely aggravated by missing his first hit.

[jwatson-md]

John was so astonished at the sudden quickness of the man that, at first, he could not properly register a reaction. He broke away upon the first punch being thrown and sort of .. hung back, standing motionless. Though, his brows were knitted in deep attention, and his mouth had begun to assume a rather cross expression, as astonishment quickly made way for provoked anger.

Already irritated by the attempted first hit, he felt his cheeks burn as the brute, furious that his target has managed to dodge the punch, grabbed a handful of Sherlock's lapel and shoved him backwards - hard, sending him crashing into a heap of messily stacked chairs. Before the man could return to his friends in triumph, John jostled him by the shoulder and punched him with enough force to make his already-unbalanced person fall down. The jeering drunks at the bar were startled into silence, staring at the fallen man; lying flat on his back and complaining of a possibly broken nose.

But before the surprised drunk could finished his sentence, John returned to him, with tightly clenched fists and eyes flared with long built-up anger. All the years of putting up with it, from the papers and the people that read them, finally caught up with him. He hit the man again; and again, and again, each with as much force as the last. Strained cries of "Get him off! Fuckin' get off!" filled the whole pub.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, opening them only when John began to move. The clear ring of recognition in the stranger’s voice - and not the pleasant recognition of seeing someone youhopedto see - was worse than the vague and unimaginative insults he’d used previously. He nodded slightly at John’s suggestion, standing up only to see the drunken stranger stand at the same time, facing them straight-on, cheeks flushed red with excessive alcohol consumption.

Employed as a data analyst, technical firm in South London, married, no children. Drinks here regularly, and always to excess. Is rubbish at darts.

Feels personally hard-done-by by me, and John, to a lesser extent. Knows nothing but the news, enjoys the conspiracy theory angle often presented by right-wing media.

History of violence.

Sherlock nodded again, deigning to say nothing once again, the clear lack of regard in for public displays of aggression a cause for concern.

“We’re leaving,” he said finally, calmly, to the man, who shifted his weight, sizing Sherlock up.

The air grew tense.

[jwatson-md]

In no time at all, John felt himself becoming impatient with the insistent man. Deliberately, the drunk rigidly held himself in front of them (rather, in front of Sherlock), obstructing their exit. Their attempts to softly edge around him were useless, he remained unmoved and the encouraging jeers of his drinking companions were easily heard in the near-distance.

The man laughed with them, and spoke into Sherlock's face, slovenly spraying him with boozy spittle. "I knew it was you. The faker! The fucking 'genius', ay?"

Gloomily debating within himself, John decided to try and wake the man back into a condition less hostile, at least until he and Sherlock could make a swift exit. John's voice broke in, with certain restraint and caution. "Look, we don't want any trouble."

/Just piss off. Had enough of you lot./

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock’s skin twitched at the pressure on his back, but he calmed quickly, relaxing into the touch as John spoke. He chuckled under his breath, leaning his head to the side to lean against John’s. It was an odd display, heads resting together, John’s arm draped around his waist; it wasn’t romantic - it never was between them (except that one time, although that would apparently never be mentioned again, especially not by the light of day) - but a display of camaraderie at least, the deepest of loves at most. No matter how much their relationship had changed, how much -they- had changed, their relationship (despite all of Sherlock’s fears) was a world unto itself. 

Eyes closed, Sherlock’s attention was momentarily dragged from the partial embrace by a muffled muttering from a few seats away, undiscerning words about sexual orientation from a man who’d drunk far too much already. Sherlock contemplated moving, but in the end didn’t bother; it was John’s job to defend his own sexuality, and the comfort was too pleasant to shrug away from just yet.

[jwatson-md]

A profound 'quiet' reigned over (save for the background murmurs of pub ambiance) as John draped his arm around his friend and drew him close. It was in quiet moments like these that he thought to himself; all that time so solitary, and with dejected consciousness, John thought he had become used to it. He hadn't, he really hadn't. He felt those old, depressed spirits with a strange pang as he inclined his head, just slightly, into Sherlock's with a small nasal sigh.

Their quiet was, however, broken in on by unkind slurring coming from a man on the other side of the bar. John became distracted from his thoughts, and began to regard the drunk without looking him. Whatever he thought, John would not humour him. He merely drew Sherlock a little close to utter something to him as discreetly as possible, though the action was noticeable to the drunk and his rabble of equally-intoxicated friends.

"Oi!" He called to them. "It's you, innit?"

Pushing himself out of this temporarily awkward corner, John's arm fell away and he straightened one leg from the stool; he had his own reasons for not confronting the situation directly, it was not the first time that John had encountered a less than favourable member of the public. He leaned in. "Come on, we'll go somewhere else."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock swallowed,  sighing softly before taking a small sip of his juice. He deigned not to reply to the first few statements, instead remaining silent in his thoughts until asked a direct question.

“I try to,” he said, his voice returning to a softer state, the venom gone for now. “It’s certainly a nice idea,” Sherlock added with a half shrug and a small but fast-fading smile. “It’s simply that you needed me last time. Even when you couldn’t stand me, you needed me. When I was away, you needed me, even if you didn’t know it, know what I was doing or why. Now…” He sighed again, not angry by any means, but emotionally deflated. “Now I don’t have anything to offer. I’m getting some work again finally, but that hardly matters as you’re home with Ollie more often than not. Moriarty and Co know I’m alive, so I can’t do anything to keep you safe until they make their next move. Hell, I… I couldn’t even keep you safe last time.” His face crumpled at the memory despite his best attempt at keeping it tempered down, images flashing across his eyelids as his eyes fell closed - the photo sent to his phone of his friends tied to chairs, the surgical photos used as evidence in the court room, the sight of John struggling to walk after he left the hospital, his freshly reconnected patella making his limp worse than ever and all too genuine, the scars, now hidden under layers of clothing but far too clear in Sherlock’s mind’s eye.

“John, I abandoned you, and spent three years away to try to keep you safe. And it wasn’t enough.” His chin wrinkled as he drew his lips into a tight straight line, eyes glaring accusingly at his fingers wrapped too-tight around the almost empty glass on the bar. Wracked with guilt, his voice trembled slightly as he continued to speak after a few seconds’ pause. “Exactly what good am I to anyone? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, after all.” He laughed coldly, self-depreciating. “Who would have thought that ‘good intentions’ would be my downfall. Certainly never saw that coming before you.”

[jwatson-md]

Upon John's face fell a look of devoted attention, as Sherlock detailed his dreads and miseries. Very real (and shared) concerns that John could not brush away for him, but he could do Sherlock the favour of listening - something that he had not a lot of that year, and instead of trying to 'relate' to his position, John instead offered his silent understandings; nodding occasionally, and never removing his line of sight.

However, he had to tightly purse his lips when Sherlock began to belittle himself.

The first days after Sherlock's 'death' had not been the worst. Life had come to a standstill, had stopped dead with the sudden shock that had thrown everything out of gear. John remembered the letters of anger and accusation, and the very rare letters of condolence sent by well-meaning fans of the blog. He still had them, somewhere in his attic. After painful months, Sherlock's memory slowly became something of an anodyne, rather than something that hurt too much to think about. That was when John started speaking to Mary about him, and telling her stories of their cases.

For a brief amount of time, John was soothed. Attempting to forget only added to the initial pain - he needed to have Sherlock in his life. Sherlock, who had saved his life in more ways than one. Sherlock .. who was not dead.

At first, John said nothing, as he felt there was little he needed to say. His lips remained firmly pressed together, at though in thought, and he bent his neck with a small, resigning sigh. With feelings of sorrow and sympathy, he raised his arm and drew it over Sherlock's back, his hand stopping on the man's waist; there was a moment of delicate hesitation before John settled the weight of his arm properly.

"You're needed here first." He uttered with a tremulous little smile, his head bowed mere inches from Sherlock's. "Hell will have to wait." 

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

“You don’t know what it’s like, John,” Sherlock said harshly, more coldly than he’d meant to. “Don’t pretend that our experiences are the same, don’t you dare.” His mouth drew into a taught line, and he bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying anything more. He’d not detailed his experiences ‘abroad’ for a reason, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, not here. 

After a few moments, he sighed, as if suddenly exhausted. “‘Adjust’…”

“When we met… There was this hole in you. This big… expanse of nothing, where you’d lost part of yourself. I don’t pretend to understand how or why, but I filled it. You needed me, just as much as I needed you. Now… You have everything you wanted. And you miss what we had, but what we had doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t know how much of me exists anymore, either.” 

His head sank, eyes closing quickly as he forced himself to banish everything that was trying to quell up in him and spill from his throat. 

[jwatson-md]

At Sherlock's immediate dismissal to his parlance, John blinked and felt something sink in his gut. Trying to 'connect' had not helped matters; though it settled a momentary feeling of discomfort between them, it also awakened a sincere compassion in John, who poised his glass just before his lips and glanced at Sherlock curiously. "Sometimes I wonder if you hear yourself." 

John did not speak to mock him. Rather, he spoke the words with a certain saddened affection, and waited a moment before adding, "I don't know what exactly you went through, while you were away. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine." He set the glass down without draining anything from it. "What I do know is that you're here now, still very much existing. Which is a bit of a blessing after all we went through."

It was an adjustment, for all parties involved. Over the course of a year, John had seen his old friend (that he had mourned with such devastation) 'rise from the dead'. Then that old friend went from 'alive', to 'back-stabbing pretender', to faithful but very damaged human being. To stop adjusting now would be to completely give up on their friendship.

"You do trust me when I say that I'm not just doing this to repay you?"

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock frowned slightly at the ‘opinion’ comment, and he  forced himself to remain neutral as John’s expression dropped. “I didn’t dislike them because I wanted you all to myself, John. They were simply poor choices in mate.” His expression hardened slightly, and he stared intently at his glass of juice. “Anyway, I’m a little late to interfere with things with Mary, even if I wanted to. I would have burst in dramatically at the wedding, but I’m afraid I was indisposed.” He forced a smile but it fell short, the subject far heavier than he’d readied himself for. Should have gone for a pint…

He shrugged a little at the second part of John’s speech, keeping quiet for a few moments and taking a mouthful of orange juice before replying. “Of course I don’t fit.” Sherlock laughed bitterly again; a short, sharp sound dryly leaving his lips. “I don’t even fit in in London any more, John. Let alone in your life. Wife, son, dog, mortgage. And I know you’ve said you’ll find a way to make it work. It’s a nice idea. I appreciate the sentiment.”

With a soft sigh, he turned the class around with his fingertips, focusing on it in order to try to push other things aside to be dealt with later.

It didn’t work.

“I regret coming back sometimes,” he admitted quietly, brows drawn together as he looked down at his fingers around the glass, for all intents and purposes talking to himself. “When I was away, all I could think about was coming back. Coming home. But it’s… It’s not ‘home’, now. No-where is, or at least I’ve changed too much to recognise it.”

He paused, lost in his thoughts for a moment.

“This time last year, I was staying in the attic of an abandoned house on the southern border of Hungary, daydreaming of London. Now… Now I walk the streets of London, and I have no dreams at all. It’s just grey.”

[jwatson-md]

As Sherlock spoke, John did not deny a word he said; even if he did attempt to, Sherlock would not believe him. Even the best of men could be contentious at times. His lips parted, and he breathed thinly through them with eyes fastened upon the man, waiting for him to go on. His voice was as sad and as bitter as it had been two weeks ago, and since then John felt that Sherlock had indulged in his ability to suffer in silence.

For all he knew, this could be the first time that Sherlock had spoken aloud since the dinner.

"Sherlock, you're talking to me as if I don't know what that's like." John responded, blank and quiet. "Leaving everything behind, going somewhere strange, then coming home and feeling like you've left yourself behind somewhere."

He then sank his head slightly, arms crossed over the counter, as he secluded his voice to a strange sort of utterance. "When I came back from Afghanistan, I barely felt human." John looked somewhat preoccupied for a moment. "We're different people now, Sherlock. But I'm still your friend, even if you do still think that I'm doing this out of some kind of sympathy." He did not speak with resentment or anger, those feelings had quelled. There was, however, a certain solemness.

"We just need to .. adjust."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s order, but said nothing until after the barman had moved on. “You are allowed to drink, you know. You aren’t babysitting an alcoholic, John. I just choose not to partake.”

At John’s question, Sherlock let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You’re asking me?” he asked, somewhat incredulous. (After what I told you that night, after…)

He thought for a few seconds, choosing his words carefully. “She’s soft, unless she absolutely needs to be forceful. She gives you vast amounts of personal space, and respects your privacy. She loves you, but not selfishly. And she has grown to love you, even if your beginnings together were less than healthy.” He stopped, biting his bottom lip slightly as he thought, mulling over how to finish. “It’s a little late late to ask for my blessing, but I can understand why you love her. She’s good for you.”

‘She’s the diametric opposite of me’ went unsaid.

[jwatson-md]

"It's alright." John gave a mingled shrug. "I like Coke."

When Sherlock responded with apparently expressed resentment, John barely reacted; careful to say nothing that might harm the nature of his asking. Though the man seemed to consent, and began his analysis of Mary (along with a surprisingly sensitive point of their relationship). John supplied him with a faint gleam of appreciation and a string of acknowledging nods, then a final one as Sherlock closed his answer. "I had to ask, Sherlock. You always did have an opinion of my girlfriends."

He had meant to sound lightly jesting, in a bid to brighten the atmosphere. But something in him clicked, and the smile was quickly wiped from his face, as he remembered a crucial fact; Sherlock had never seemed to like his girlfriends, and now John knew why. /Shouldn't have said that. Idiot./

Hiding his remorse as best he could, John imitated a quick smile and continued to speak. "I was just .. you know, checking. Seeing if you were thinking the same way as two weeks ago." A more serious note struck John's voice then. "About .. well, feeling like you don't fit into it."

[martincrief-blog]

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock sat on the barstool as John spoke, glancing around the room to gather his bearings before replying. “Orange juice, thankyou. No ice.” He shrugged off his overcoat, folding it in half before laying it empty seat to his left.

The taxi ride to the pub had been odd. Something whichshouldhave felt so familiar, so very second nature to the pair of them, had felt almost foreign. It had been saddening, to sit in a taxi, just like they used to, but to still feel that distance; the breadth of years and experiences not shared.

When John had asked him to join him on a night out, Sherlock had been surprised, so say the least. The dinner had gone moderately well, but after almost a fortnight without contact, Sherlock had taken to assuming the worst. When John had extrapolated - ‘to a pub’ - Sherlock had been surprised a second time, but had accepted despite himself.

Now, sitting here, long legs tucked awkwardly against the bar, he began to worry anew. What would they talk about? Surely they wouldn’t just discuss the football match currently being replayed silently on the screen above the hard liquor selection; there was no point in coming at all if it would only result in feigned smalltalk and pleasantries, and John knew as much.

Still, with all concerned pressed aside, Sherlock hoped the evening out would be worthwhile, even positive. He and John still had so very much ground to cover, in emotional connection as well as raw data.

“This isn’t your usual, is it? It’s not the one you used to come to with Lestrade, back in the day. The smell’s all wrong.”

[jwatson-md]

"I don't really have a 'usual'." John replied, his tone oddly bright. These days at least, he did not make a habit out of drinking publicly or much at all, beyond special occasions. Baring witness to some of his sister's drunken episodes had put paid to that. The last time he had been to a pub, it had been with Lestrade. Even then, John only downed one pint - he had not stayed long enough for a second.

With a light of acknowledgement, he recalled a piece of information he had gained when they had last met - Sherlock did not drink, at all. When approached by barstaff, John spoke across the bar with a finely-tuned smile. "Coke and an orange juice, please. No ice."

Once again, he insisted upon paying, through silently sliding a five-pound note across the counter as their drinks were given to them.

They sat quietly for a few short moments, drinks in-hand. Then, after a further few seconds of engaging hesitation, John polished a section of the glass off, set it down and gave voice to something that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue. "Is it okay if I ask you something?" He passed Sherlock a look, instinctively calm. "When you came over for dinner, what did you think of Mary?"

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

As their cab pulled up to the curbed pavement, John sat forward, ten-pound note already in-hand.

"Here, I'll get it." He said vaguely from the bottom of his throat, passing the money to the driver without a moment's hesitation. A friendly (if insistent) gesture on his part, as he knew that Sherlock did not have much money to his name at the moment. Upon receiving a handful of jingled change, the two men exited the cab. Crossing the pavement, they walked by a few persons, drunk and sober alike; some fiddling with their mobile phones and others standing surrounded by cigarette smoke. Typical street-loiterers that could often be found outside a London pub.

To his own surprise, Sherlock had accepted when John suggested having a casual night out. It would be their first in years, and he was moreso surprised when the man consented to something as 'boring' as a drink in the pub. It felt like an accomplishment, especially after the dinner with Mary two weeks prior. With tonight was the next stage - a lighter yet essential part of their progress; no third-party, just two friends going out for a drink.

Approaching the bar, he glanced at Sherlock and asked, "What are you having?"

[jwatson-md]

The Heiress and the Grifter #2

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock smirked at the look on John’s face, nodding twice in response. “Of course, mon petit trésor.”

The dinner passed quickly enough; the company was innately boring, but luckily cruise-ship gossip turned Sherlock onto a few possible threads of investigation. Meticulous’ new bride was the source of quite a bit of speculation, at least some of which might be useful in the end. The initial stream of ‘how we met’ stories from the couples at the table had been torture to sit through, but speaking out would have blown their cover, as shallow as it was. As an apparently newly married man himself, he at least had to maintain the appearance of happiness in their happiness.

After starters (brioche), mains (pasta with seafood) and finally dessert (strawberry cheesecake), the meal was pronounced over, and couples were free to either remain and chatter amongst themselves, or leave and make the most of the other facilities the cruise ship offered. Although both he and John had played their part to perfection, it was clear on John’s face that he was just as tired of it for the night as Sherlock was himself.

“Should we go, love?” he asked quietly in a low croon, leaning a little closer to his ‘husband’s’ side. “Company’s been lovely and all, but I’d quite like to get you all to myself for a while…” He smirked, quirking up the corner of one eyebrow, the silent indicator of ‘oh god, I hate them all, please get me out of here’.

[jwatson-md]

For the best part of an hour, they were seated at that table. Almost an hour of smiling, occasional French pet names and acting the part of 'very involved couple' with alarming precision. When Sherlock, at last, leaned over and suggested their exist, John smiled most affectionately with a little fugitive laugh. "Oh! Behave yourself, you." He spoke a tone louder than his 'beau', pretending to be delightfully scandalised.

Though he quickly trailed off with a flare of subtle warning in his eyes. /No, really. Behave./

Sherlock's performance that evening had been absolutely award-winning, John would tell him later. The two men rose and passed through the dining area, making their exit back into the foyer. The act was seemingly easy to follow at that point, so much so that John placed his hand on Sherlock's lower back immediately upon sighting another couple. They began to walk together, and as the two pairs passed each other, he smilingly nodded to them in polite acknowledgement. Momentarily alone, John's act fell and he leaned closer to harshly mutter. "What was that word you like to use again? 'Tedious'?"

[jwatson-md]

The Heiress and the Grifter #2

[roleplayifconvenient]

“Of course, darling,” Sherlock replied, rolling the ‘r’ with a grin.

The attention they’d garnered from the other diners at the table was precisely what he’d been hoping for. He and John would now, for the duration of the cruise, be ‘that’ couple, either adorable or abominable depending on your point of view. Virtually anything they needed to do for the case, anyone they needed to speak to, would be open to them now. Keeping a low profile,(John’s original plan) had some merit, but being known as benign was even more useful. It wouldn’t matter if they were noticed doing something unusual, because the precedent was already set.

From where he was seated (should have arranged a corner table, can’t see a third of the room from here), Meticulous and his bride were out of sight - it was assumed they would be here, but Sherlock couldn’t risk turning around to try to get an eyeline. He’d make a break for the loo later, or possibly send John in order to get visual confirmation. There was time enough yet.

“I’m thinking of getting the pasta. Always reminds me of our first date; do you remember?” He smiled warmly to John, a feigned soft fondness covering his features for a moment. “Well, of course you do. It was a memorable night, after all.” His smile changed into a smirk - recalling genuine memories of the cabbie now, instead of a mutated memory of Angelo’s.

[jwatson-md]

/It wasn't a date. It wasn't a date./

There was a short, rustling movement from John where he seemed to sit himself straighter and, with perfect simplicity, dusted off Sherlock's credible acting talents with an eventual cough. It did fuel a certain point of interest though, being Sherlock's relationship history. On the rare occasion that John asked, he never did get a direct answer as no one seemed to know and Sherlock seemed to prefer the mystery. He certainly knew how to act romantic, if nothing else.

"Of course I remember." Especially the part where Sherlock was prepared to chance death just to prove that he was clever. There was a touch of gentle reflection in John's tone though; that day, in retrospect, had changed his life. He replied to himself semi-vacantly. "Very memorable, yeah."

There was a little pause between moments, when John made an assenting sound and continued. "Some wine too, Sherlock." He gave him a preliminary look that said, 'I think I'll be needing it.'