John is a soldier, following Mycroft’s orders. He knows how to separate his feelings from his work. It’s convenient he’s a doctor too, but that isn’t why he was hired. He has an assignment: find the mole. When that’s done, he’ll move out. Staying was never a possibility.
Never trust your heart to a soldier.
“Because I wanted to do something new for a change.”
“Ah, so you are finally tired of chasing criminals and watching me deduce at crime scenes.”
“Not bloody likely, Sherlock!”
“So, what, then?”
“Wait and see. Or should I say: wait and hear.”
“You are being ridiculous, John.”
“Maybe.”
“It doesn’t suit you to be cryptical and mysterious.”
“No? Pity. I was trying to impersonate you for a moment. A failure, apparently.”
John sighed deeply, but I knew it was a ruse. I could read him better than anyone, and I had to admit – to myself, at least – that I was rather intrigued by this excursion.
We were in a Japanese inspired, high-end karaoke bar in Marylebone.
“What do you want to drink, love?” John asked.
“Single malt, please,” I responded.
“Make that two,” John said to the bartender.
“Coming right up.”
Once he had spoken with a man in a tailored suit, John - drinks in hand - guided me to a black door adorned with a deep-red treble clef. It was quite dark inside the room, which was the size of Mrs Hudson’s living room. A large charcoal-coloured sofa took up most of the space on one side, while an obscenely large tv-screen hung on the opposite wall. Red LED lights were the only light source, but John found a remote control and momentarily turned up the brightness.
“Take a seat, love,” he said softly, and placed our tumblers on the long and narrow table in front of the sofa.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
“Nowhere in particular. At least not yet.”
His low voice reinforced the innuendo, and I felt a flutter in my chest.
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you, John?”
“Immensely.”
I hummed and took a sip of the excellent whisky.
“So, you are going to sing.”
It was a statement. John would never have dragged me here to cajole me to some sing-along event, even though we were alone.
“Indeed, I am. The singing I do at home… well, it is rather insufficient in my opinion. I feel more confident when I can hear the tune. Besides, the mic will intensify the experience. Or so I hope.”
His face colour was competing with the red light in the room, and I couldn’t bear to see him embarrassed.
“Come here for a moment,” I said and reached out my arm.
He sat down heavily beside me, resting his head on my shoulder. I pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head. We didn’t speak; there was no need for words. Being close to each other was enough.
John sat up, swallowed half of his drink, pecked my cheek, and stood. He walked over to the tv-screen and hunched down to type something on the keyboard located on the bench in front of it. The screen lit up, but before I could discern which song John had chosen, he dimmed and changed the colours of the lights into blue green.
An unfamiliar and quiet tune filled the room, and then John started singing.
I don’t know how I should say it
His voice sounded so different when he could use the music as a metaphorical crutch. It was beautiful. I leant back in the surprisingly comfortable sofa and decided to close my eyes for a moment to relish the sound of the music and John’s voice properly.
If it's real, and if it's true
And if our love is wrong
Then I don't ever wanna be right
I opened my eyes when he sang:
Why do I care what people say?
'Cause I'm nobody's but yours
The last line made tears prickle behind my eyelids.
Oh-oh-oh, I just want you to be mine
John put the microphone down, typed something on the keyboard again; classical music – Chopin – started playing, and he finally joined me on the sofa. I was speechless; in fact, I didn’t trust my voice at all. A big lump swelled in my throat, and I buried my face rather forcefully in the crook of John’s neck. There, I let my tears fell freely.
“Oh, my darling,” John murmured, not entirely unaffected himself it seemed.
He cradled the back of my head and stroked my back with his other hand.
Eventually, I withdrew, cupped John’s face, and placed a hard kiss on his lips. I couldn’t see his eyes properly in the dim light, but I saw his smile.
“That was extraordinary, John.”
“Really?”
My heart twisted when I heard the incredulity in his voice.
“Of course, it was. You know I don’t use terms like that easily. Not outside our bedroom, anyway.”
That made him laugh wholeheartedly. He was relieved.
“Do you want to come here again, then?
“Oh, yes, John! I would like that very much.
“Excellent!”
***
Where were you last night? Could’ve used your input.
You always need my input, Lestrade. SH
Not going to tell me?
It’s personal. SH
Fine. I’ll just ask John.
He sang to me. That’s all I am willing to divulge. SH
"Where are you taking her?”
“The Landmark.”
A nice restaurant, which explains the jacket and tie. A pricey place for a locum doctor to take his date.
He’s started over again on the tie. I bat his hands away, undo it and retie.
“Thank you.” He smiles up at me. “I’ll have my phone on vibrate if you need me. Don’t wait up.”
Another wink. (Honestly, the only people who actually wink are elderly, flirtatious ladies or dirty old men.) With a final glance at the mirror, he puts on his jacket and heads down the stairs.
...She’s going to ask him to move in with her.
While that might solve my flatmate problem, it creates another. How will I know what John Watson is up to, if he’s not here to deduce?
...I’m… well, not fond of him. Nothing like that. I’m used to him now. And I’m curious. If he moves out, I’ll never suss out exactly what he’s doing for Mycroft.
Almost at once, a plan comes into my mind.
It’s nearly midnight when Watson finally comes through the front door. I’ve been dozing on the sofa, not exactly waiting for him.
Well, yes, I’ve been waiting. I’m curious, and it annoys me that I’m curious.
John Watson annoys me. The red-pants mystery, the smirky girlfriend, the way everyone has adopted him. He’s slotted himself into my life, made himself at home in it. He seems to possess all my qualities, but in reverse: I’m an arsehole, he’s considerate; I’m erratic, he’s dependable. He’s friendly, I’m friendless. How can anyone hate a man like that? It’s no wonder I have no friends.
Because I am a rude genius, I will count on him being a nice idiot.
I'm going to be pedantic. Just thought I should put that out there. Not in a pissy way, but in a "plagued by a small mystery that won't let me go" way. And there's no actual answer, but that never stops me from speculating, because speculation often yields plot bunnies.
To begin with, here are John and Sherlock meeting outside 221B on January 29, 2010. We know it's actually 189 North Gower Street, where the exteriors of the building were filmed for BBC Sherlock, because the real 221B Baker Street is a tourist destination with too many Sherlock Holmes signs that would need to be concealed.
Fun Fact: When ACD wrote A Study in Scarlet, 221B Baker Street did not exist. When Baker Street was extended, 221 was part of a block owned by Abbey National Building Society. People used to write letters to Sherlock Holmes there, and the company had a full-time secretary to answer his mail.
You will note that the door of the building displays the address: 221b. In most fanfiction I've read (and written), "B" is the flat where Sherlock lives. Mrs Hudson lives in A, and C is the basement flat, where nobody lives.
First mystery: why does the door show a flat number, if the entire building is 221?
I do have an answer for this one: when ACD moved Holmes into the building in 1887, 221b was the address of the building. No flat numbers. At that time, when new buildings went up between existing (already numbered) buildings, it was common to attach a letter to the address. So the fictional 221b was a building that went up between 221 and 222 (which also didn't exist at the time). In some places, such addresses have "1/2" appended.
(Also: the Sherlock Holmes Museum, which is at 221b Baker Street, is physically located at 234 Baker Street, a fact which causes my OCD to flare.)
So (to be pedantic), Sherlock's flat doesn't have a number. Nor does Mrs Hudson's. The building is 221b.
Here is the exterior of 221b Baker Street:
And here is the exterior of 189 North Gower Street:
Note that they are both Victorian terraced row houses with four storeys.
Second mystery: Speedy's occupies the ground floor, with Mrs Hudson's flat behind. Sherlock lives on the floor above (the 'first floor' if you're a Brit, the 'second floor' if you're American). And John's bedroom is on the floor above that.
So: what's on the floor above John's room?
Why hasn't Mrs Hudson rented out the rest of her building?
Also: does John's room take up the entire second (third) floor?
What's up there, on the top floor?
That's where my plot bunnies live, on the top floor of 221b Baker Street.
@naefelldaurk Here's my headcanon about the two top floors:
The original owner bought a half-finished house and never bothered to complete the upper two floors. John's is the only room up there, added at some point when another bedroom was needed. The rest of his floor, and the one above, are just lumber rooms (which Sherlock probably fills with all sorts of things. Harpoons, perhaps). Besides Mrs Hudson's flat, there's only one bath, the one on Sherlock's floor. That ties in with the idea that the upper floors were unfinished, or at least that plumbing wasn't added when that became available. I think most new houses would have had plumbing if it was in the second half of the 19th century. Only wealthier people would have been able to afford that.
It would just be odd if there were flats on those floors and Mrs Hudson didn't bother to find renters for them.
I further believe that after Eurus blew the flat up, they had at least one of those upper floors finished so it wouldn't be crowded with John and Rosie living there.
What's behind the building? I imagine a mews, an alley with buildings which might have once been stables, and later used for cars.
And the bins, of course! We know those were back there since Sherlock dropped the American on them.
John delivers the statement in as serious a tone as he can muster.
There’s no reply from behind the newspaper. Sherlock is pyjama-clad, sprawled in his chair, bare feet out toward the fire puttering in front of them.
John clears his throat. “Do you know what day it is?”
“Sunday.” The answer’s quickly delivered, but Sherlock continues to hide behind his paper.
Not exactly what John wants to hear. The world’s most observant detective can sometimes be blind to the obvious, but this time it’s not likely. Wearily, he asks, “Today’s date?”
A sigh. The newspaper is lowered to the point where those blue eyes can glare at him. “The fifteenth of January. But what you really mean is that Watson’s birthday is less than a month away.”
“Good deduction. We can’t wait any longer if we’re to avoid a repeat of last year’s debacle.”
Fluffbruary Extended Version Infinifluff. July 14. (Sherlock fandom) Prompts: twig - annual - plant + the image below.
Chapter 5: Blue Seeds
Summary: Sherlock is nowhere to be seen when John ventures downstairs, but he hears some sounds from the scullery. Outside, the landscape is covered in snow, which startles him. He had no idea he would encounter that in this place. He walks into the scullery and when Sherlock realises that John is awake, he seems utterly relieved. John doesn't understand why. He's only been asleep for approximately seven hours, hasn't he?
it's that time of year again, and I need to keep up with bills, paying for an online course, and saving for a future baby, so:
1-5k fic 20$ CAD
5-10k fic 30$ CAD
10k+ fic 40$ CAD
included in commission:
review and approval of outline
review and approval of draft (optional, if you want to be surprised)
original fic poster designed on canva
will do:
ratings G through E (ao3 scale)
fluff, smut, pwp, angst, whump, character death
canon compliant, canon divergence, fix-its, AU
most kinks (if unsure, ask)
most fandoms (may need a little context or research)
won't do:
body horror
scat/coprophilia
watersports/omorashi
omegaverse (I'm just not good at it, sorry)
types of fics I'm pretty good at:
angst
domestic fluff
praise kink
priest kink/priest corruption
joseon era
heian era
fix-its
fandom writing experience & samples:
악마판사 | The Devil Judge (TV) (83)
Sherlock (BBC TV 2010) (72)
괴물 | Beyond Evil (TV) (29)
감사합니다 | The Auditors (TV) (6)
손 : The Guest (TV) (6)
The Pitt (TV) (2)
Sherlock Holmes (Granada TV 1984) (2)
モブサイコ100 | Mob Psycho 100 (1)
Onmyouji | The Yin-Yang Master (Movies 2001 2003) (1)
Star Trek: The Original Series (TV) (1)
you can secure your commission here, or simply donate if I've ever written something you've loved and you want to support me that way.
DM me to discuss your commission idea.
please reblog this post, don't just like it - I'm technically unemployed for the next two months and need people to see this post. thank you.
Mycroft clinks his glass against Sherlock’s. “Unless you’re planning to move in with me permanently, you will eventually have to make up your mind. I’d be happy to put you up tonight, but you can’t avoid it forever.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Avoid what?”
“Sentiment.”
Sherlock gives his brother a sharp look, but detects no derision. He takes a swallow of whisky. “I don’t need a lecture, brother mine.”
Mycroft shrugs. “Then go to him. Wish him a happy birthday.”
“Promise me, Sherlock.” John sits up and leans over him. “Promise me you won’t do anything on your own. If he comes back with another game, you must tell me what you’re planning.”
“But it if would endanger you—”
“Tell me this. If you’d gone to the pool to meet him alone, as you planned — because you thought it would keep me safe — and he had showed up, what would have happened? He would have had me wrapped up in explosives, with a detonator in his hand. How would that have felt?”
Part 7 of More Words (You don't have to have read the other parts to read this one - the series is all drabble-inspired short stories) 💕
John returns; Sherlock notices. There is a Conversation, and Conclusions are drawn.
“John? I’m sorry.” He opens the door a crack. “Please talk to me.”
He hears a sigh from within, a squeak as John sits on the bed.
“Sherlock, where do you think I was all this time?”
He opens the door wider, sees John sitting, staring at the contents of his wardrobe. The suitcase lies open on the bed beside him, partly filled with underwear, all standard white except for one pair of red pants. Why red? Another John Watson mystery he might never get a chance to solve.
Next, a coda: What about Moriarty?
Part 7 of More Words (You don't have to have read the other parts to read this one - the series is all drabble-inspired short stories) 💕
After that strange encounter, life at Baker Street became a calm routine passing without much conversation, the occasional cup of tea shared, though he never seemed to drink much of it. He offered and accepted them as if it was a peace offering, a nicety, a way of communicating. A ritual. We would sit in silence, looking at our tea. Somehow, it never felt awkward though. There was a comfortable familiarity in it, as if we had known each other for many years and had reached this point of quiet companionship naturally over time. Sometimes, I would ask questions, and he would answer with very short responses. Not much was gleaned from our conversations. Occasionally, I would read the paper and tell him the highlights of what I had read. I did eventually remember to tell him the tale of my mysterious night visitor. On that occasion, he had been delighted, demanding every word be recounted in detail. He seemed to find my behaviour on the occasion outstanding. I, in turn, was horrified to learn the intruder was not his lawyer at all, but his older brother, Mycroft. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire encounter very much to his liking. Apparently kicking his brother out raised me even further in his esteem somehow.
But there was still mystery despite our new comfortable routines. He wouldn't speak of his secret outings and I didn't want to pry. Mostly, he would go out as I was on my way to bed. I would be awake in the day sometimes with no sign of him just as he had predicted.
Until one wintry, particularly gloomy day; when it had rained for a couple of days with no reprieve. The skies were dark, the rain had set in, and I was heavily ensconced in the prose of Oscar Wilde. A gentle throat clearing caught my attention and I raised my eyes to find him, leaning against the door frame, watching me. He was fully dressed – quite out of character for him during the day. Usually, if he ever surfaced, he would be in his satin robe and comfortable pyjamas. So, it was quite a surprise to find him in his dashing three piece suit, a top hat in his hand, a smirk on his lips as he watched me read.
“Sorry. Have you been waiting for me?” I asked.
“Have you anything important in your calendar today, Doctor Watson?” he asked.
“I... No, I... was... planning a quiet day inside with the weather as it is”.
“Well, come on, then, I have... a better idea.”
“You're going outside? In the daytime?” I asked, shocked.
He smiled. He smiled at me.
“I think I just might. I have an errand to run, and the weather seems quite perfect for it.”
I frowned, looking out the window. “This? This is the perfect weather to go outside?”
“For me it is, yes.” He grinned with delight. “Are you coming?”
“You want me to come?!”
“Yes.” He nodded. Enthusiastically in fact.
Well, I have to admit, I embarrassed myself by leaping up a little too eagerly and almost knocking over my tea cup. The thought of finally being invited to join him on his outing was far too enticing. I grabbed my coat, hat, and cane – which had been returned by the Inspector – and quickly followed.
“You don’t need that,” he said, gesturing at my cane as he stepped out onto the street.
Without argument, I left the cane in the coat racks by the door and followed him out.
The link to AO3
A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026
Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or if you’d like to be tagged
I will post a chapter each day (there are 14) AO3 link below as well.
Chapter 3 - Avoidance
I brought him a cup of tea, and those eyes never left me. He had not said a word. It was incredibly unnerving. I had not received a name, or an explanation. He had followed me willingly, once the police had released him into my care. It felt strange, to lie, to take charge of a situation, in order to ensure the mystery man didn’t leave my sight again. In truth, I wasn’t entirely convinced that he was real until the Inspector had arrived and started speaking to him in person. Until that moment I was convinced I was hallucinating. How could the man I had seen on a few strange and isolated occasions, usually either drunk, or in agony, be right here in front of me? Surely it could only be explained as another hallucination? Perhaps a response to trauma? I had witnessed a murder and in my moment of horror, the very same man had appeared again? Surely that must be it. Only this time he was real. This time? Had he been real every time? Or only this time? I had so many questions. Was I allowed to ask them? Would he even speak to me? How could he possibly have been present at the Battle of Maiwand? Surely that one had been a hallucination?
I sat opposite him. “I’m… ah… Watson. Doctor… John Watson,” I offered awkwardly.
He smiled at his tea cup, not looking at me. “I know,” he said, nodding.
I frowned. “You… you know?”
He simply nodded as his only reply.
“Well how is that possible? We’ve never met!” I asked.
His smirk was somehow equal measures of irritating and charming because he was clearly in on some sort of joke that I had no knowledge of and I didn’t enjoy not knowing.
“Doctor John H. Watson studied at St Bartholomew's Hospital in London, receiving your medical degree from the University of London, with further training at Netley as an assistant surgeon in the British Army. Sent to India with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Regiment of Foot before being attached to the Sixty-sixth Berksire Regiment of Foot. Wounded at the Battle of Maiwand, suffered an enteric fever and sent back to England on the troopship HMS Orontes. Your family is all gone now and you’re leading a rather tragic and lonely life wandering London and drinking yourself to an early grave, which is a sad and sorry state of affairs given your god-given talent as a surgeon and the fact that you have simply got a psychosomatic limp.”
“You read Heinroth? You know of psychosomatic disorders?” Was all I could think of to say in reply as I sank back in my chair. I swallowed hard, staring at the man who simply stared back. “And besides, I assure you my limp is…”
“You left your cane in that alleyway and you haven’t needed it for an hour. You practically carried me up that staircase without it,” the man said simply, to end the discussion. “This is a rather depressing flat, if I may observe.”
“You are rather impertinent, for a man who very nearly died and was just rescued.”
“Oh I assure you that was mere theatre,” he retorted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“For your benefit,“ he added, with a little bow of his head.
“For my…?!”
“Indeed.” He gave a half smile and then sipped his tea politely and returned his cup to his lap.
I looked horrified. I was certain of that. The man was entirely far too familiar. And yet somehow I was intrigued and excited by it. No one had ever been close enough to me to be bestowed that honour. He made my pulse beat faster. I had no idea what he would say next and it was the most electrifying thing I had ever felt.
He sipped at his tea again, his eyes never leaving mine, making every one of my nerve endings light up without having to lift a finger to touch me. He was… observing me. And enjoying it.
“Are you going to tell me about yourself then?” I attempted to ask.
He simply shook his head slowly from side to side, still maintaining eye contact.
“I have a spare room, nicer than this. Perhaps you would like to see it? I could use a doctor. If you would like employment?”
“What exactly were you doing in that alleyway?” I asked.
“Not important.” He put down the cup and grabbed his coat. “Come on then. I assume you’re interested.” And with that he walked out, expecting me to follow. His coat billowed behind him in a ridiculous and enticing flourish as he left the room.
“My life isn’t tragic and lonely!” I called out to him as I sat there for all of a minute longer before I finally leapt up and followed.
Chapter 4 tomorrow…
A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026
Read from the beginning on AO3
Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or if you’d like to be tagged
A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026 I will post a chapter each day (there are 14) AO3 link below as well. Let me know if you want to be tagged for updates!
Chapter 2 - Making Acquaintances
When I awoke I was told that I suffered an enteric fever and had been unconscious for three weeks. A soldier had brought me in from the battlefield and somehow, I had miraculously healed. I was sent home to London. Home is such a subjective word for it, though, with no family, and a pension barely worthy to live off. Adding to that an injury which made it impossible to work, I almost longed to have died in the war, or perhaps to have been sent back to be killed properly to have ended the emptiness that festered inside. For many days upon my return, I wandered aimlessly, finding myself hopelessly drawn back to establishments. Somehow, I thought if I could achieve that state of mind I had been in the night before I first travelled to war, I might find that stranger again, that face with the magic eyes. Maybe I could somehow conjure him up from somewhere. I knew it was a ridiculous fantasy, for no matter how many times I tried, I was left feeling empty, helpless and alone.
Well, perhaps not alone. There was always something strange. I constantly felt like I was being observed. However, when I turned, there was never anyone behind me. It seemed paranoia had been a gift I had returned with also. The only relief I found from it was at the end of a bottle. When I had the coin spare I would find myself at a variety of taverns in the town, it mattered not which ones. I spent many early hours limping about the London streets, stumbling aimlessly, alone with no purpose, feeling helpless. For what was a soldier with no mission, a surgeon with no patients, a man with no family meant to do with his life? I was utterly useless on this earth now.
It was on one particular night, as I bumbled about, that I was to come upon an attack in a nearby alleyway. I heard a scuffle and some loud grunting. I looked down into the dimly lit, narrow space to see a group of people, all in dark clothing. It was hard to tell how many were there, or what was the cause of the commotion. Was it a strange lover’s tryst? Was it a mugging? A murder? Should I involve myself at all? My soldier’s instinct, boredom and if I was honest, the fact that I had no desire to live made me move forward, faster than I had anticipated. I dropped my cane and rushed into the alley.
“You there? What are you about? Do you need assistance?” I called, as I moved toward the noise.
The shuffling instantly stopped, the huddle froze, but no faces appeared.
“I say, do you need help?” I tried again.
I heard whispering and suddenly the group dispersed. One body remained on the ground, unmoving. Another collapsed back and three pushed past me, as they took off at an alarming speed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch them; not in my state of injury and drink. I rushed forward to observe a lady who was pale and somewhat beyond help and a man in a weakened state. I saw familiar dark curls and as he turned his head to look at me, I knew at once.
“It’s you,” I gasped as he closed his light eyes and let his head drop back to the ground.
Chapter 3 tomorrow…
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or let me know if you'd like to be tagged!
Summary: Back in London, Sherlock reminisces about the two years that have passed by so quickly. The large tree at Trafalgar Square makes him think back to the one they lit in Arboreta Combe the previous week. He's so lost in thought and startles when a familiar voice nearby interrupts his introspection.
I know I’m a loyal person. At least toward people who deserve my loyalty. After our first meeting in the lab at Barts, I didn’t consider that I’d be so committed to Sherlock as I became. Not to this extent. It frightens me sometimes, to be honest.
“You are quite loyal very fast,” Mycroft remarked when we first met. (When he abducted me, to be correct)
I puzzled him, and very few people were able to do that. Anyway, I passed the test and was “allowed” to move into 221B Baker Street.
God, I was so pissed off with him.
He was not the only one who irritated me, but he was Sherlock’s family, so mostly I let it slide.
When Sherlock brought me along to our first crime scene together, I was too stunned to speak my mind to the other yarders. Sherlock’s intellect had already amazed me profoundly, but when he listed all the things he observed from the pink clad woman on the floor, I was blown away, and there was no force in the world that could’ve silenced my praise.
“You know you are saying that out loud, yes?” he asked when I’d uttered the second ‘fantastic’.
I blushed and excused my behaviour; after all, we were standing around a murdered person. He brushed it away and said it was fine. It was evident that he’d never heard the words before. Not directed at him, at least, which I found incredibly sad.
So, when Sergeant Donovan warned me about him afterwards and referred to him as The Freak once more, I made up my mind.
***
As a doctor, I never believed in the label Sherlock put on himself as a sociopath. Granted, I am no psychiatrist, but I know he has empathy for (a few) people around him. Mrs Hudson is a good example.
When I first met her, she opened her arms to Sherlock, and he willingly hugged her as if she was a beloved family member. There was nothing artificial about it. It was genuine affection.
That said, he drove her mad fairly often, but the few details they both let slip about her past, told me that she was used to all sorts of ruckus and shenanigans. She needed excitement in her life just as much as we did.
Angelo is another one of Sherlock’s devoted fans, and Sherlock tolerates the gushing, and the teddy bear hugs admirably. It’s easy to discern that he feels relaxed in the Italian’s company, and his mask of indifference vanishes completely. I find it utterly fascinating to watch.
***
I was much more prepared at the next crime scene some weeks later.
Sherlock found nearly half a dozen clues in under one minute that had escaped the police. Both Anderson and Donovan mocked him and told everyone willing to listen that he made it all up to sound interesting. He didn’t bother to reply but kept the deductions coming. Luckily, Lestrade took notes and told the others to keep their mouth shut. They didn’t.
I decided to intervene and took a step toward them both, crowding them so they had to step back a few feet.
“What the hell?” they asked in unison.
I lowered my voice, which I knew was far more effective than yelling. By this point, my subordinates from the army would’ve realised that the best way forward was to keep mum and agree to everything I told them. Of course, Anderson and Donovan weren’t that clever. They both perceived me as non-threatening, a lap dog. Big mistake.
“If you two continue to call Sherlock Freak and to ridicule his deductions, you’d better watch your backs. The ice under your feet is about to crack real soon if this doesn’t stop.”
“Are you threatening a police officer, Doctor Watson?” Donovan asked in her normal condescending tone.
“That’s right, Sergeant.”
“We will report you to the Superintendent!” Anderson exclaimed in a high-pitched voice which hurt my ears.
“Please do. There are enough witnesses who have heard you two harass Sherlock every chance you get,” I said calmly.
“As if he’s not offending us,” Sally scoffed.
“Oh, I know he does. But he’s not the one starting it, is he? He only replies accordingly. I assume you’d done the same if you were in his shoes. Most people would. You should be ashamed of yourselves, acting like teenagers instead of adults. Grow up, for goodness’ sake!”
“But I – “
“Shut up, Anderson! He is summoned by your commanding officer, and he solves every case you lot are unable to. Surely, that should be enough for you to keep your thoughts about him to yourselves. Without him, dozens of criminals would still walk the streets of London. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m wrong.”
And with that, I walked away from them and stood a little closer to Sherlock than normal. He didn’t seem to mind one bit; he was practically beaming at me.
“Dinner?” he asked after he’d lifted the police tape for me.
“Starving,” I replied.
“Is Angelo’s, okay?”
“God yes!”
***
Neither of us made a big thing out of it when our hands brushed, and our fingers entwined a few moments later; it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Apparently, Angelo discerned that something had changed between us, but he didn’t remark on it. He just fetched a candle, lit it, and went to get us a bottle of wine on the house.
To my astonishment and delight, we reached for the other’s hand once we had removed our coat and jacket. A voice in my head told me I was on thin ice starting a romantic relationship with the slightly mad world’s only consulting detective, but I told it, in no uncertain terms, to stop bothering me. I was fine. It was all fine. More than fine, in fact.
“You’ve made your point,” John says. “He doesn’t notice me. Doesn’t care, all right? Let. Me. Go.” He sounds much more confident that he feels. He’s hungry and cold and he’s slept poorly all week.
“But we need to know!” Jim’s eyes widen. “We’ve established that you’re forgettable. The question is, how long will it take before Sherlock Holmes notices you’re gone? When will he begin to wonder where you are? Will it be the rent payment that brings it to his attention? Will your landlady be worried? And what about your alcoholic sister? Will she call?”
Part 7 of the More Words series, this one is for lovely reader CocoCrispian 💕
