Fic: The Way to a Man's Heart (4-6/8)
May. 29th, 2016 09:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargThis fic is also available on AO3
Chapters 1-3 on LJ
Victor was nothing if not persistent. When Sherlock didn't respond to his initial email, he followed up with another two days later. Sherlock sat staring at the subject line (Re: Great to see you) for several minutes, indecisive. If he continued to delete the messages without responding, it was likely Victor would contact Molly. If he did respond and say he wasn't interested in 'catching up', it would make the wedding awkward. Not that Sherlock cared about that kind of thing, but he didn't want to intentionally do anything that might cast a shadow on Molly's (all right, and Lestrade's) day. It would only make it more difficult to rely on them for favours later. To say nothing of the fact that John was sure to hear of it then, and that would only make him ask questions.
At the same time, there was certainly no way he was going to suffer through an hour (although Sherlock thought he could whittle it down to half that or even less if he was insufferable enough) of small talk at a chain coffee shop so that Victor could feel smug and self-satisfied over his good fortune and wise foresight of having rid himself of the likes of Sherlock Holmes.
Seeing what he'd become, Sherlock couldn't believe he'd ever thought himself attracted to the man, much less in love with him. What a fool he'd been. A pathetic, pitiable fool who had fallen for the first person who showed him any sort of attention and kindness, fancying he'd found his soulmate. Only to find out that Victor didn't see things that way at all. Drawers sprang open, spewing words Sherlock never wanted to hear again; in fact, went to lengths to keep himself out of any situation in which they might potentially come up. Time to move on -- long-distance relationships -- miss you of course -- best all round -- always remember.
Sherlock tapped on the Reply arrow and started his message.
***
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 13:53
Message: Reverend entered cafe. Table @ bk wall. Glass of water.
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:10
Message: Doing sth w phone. Dunno what.
Sender: John
Time: 14:13
Message: Btw patients, waiting for ear wax to soften. How's the fitting going? Better than mine I hope.
Sender: John
Time: 14:14
Message: The patient's you nit! I mean I hope it's going better than when we had ours done. I can still feel where the tailor jabbed me.
Sender: John
Time: 14:16
Message: No, not your fault at all! *rolleyes* I should have warned Greg to wear his bulletproof vest.
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:18
Message: Rev still @ phone.
Sender: John
Time: 14:20
Message: Ha ha. Your turn yet? Send me a picture when you have it on.
Sender: John
Time: 14:23
Message: I know but just to get an idea.
Sender: Victor
Time: 14:25
Message: Running late? We can reschedule.
Sender: John
Time: 14:26
Message: It doesn't, I just thought it would be nice if I wore something that didn't clash with yours.
Sender: John
Time: 14:28
Message: Never mind. Ear wax is good to go. See you tonight?
Sender: John
Time: 14:29
Message: :)
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:32
Message: Rev ordered tea n cake. Choc I think.
Sender: Victor
Time: 14:55
Message: Looks like I missed you, Will. Shame. Let me know if you'll have another chance before the wedding. Otherwise maybe we can talk then. -Vee
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:55
Message: Rev called server, wants 2 pay.
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 15:02
Message: Hes leaving. Want me 2 follow?
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 15:02
Message: Roger u no where 2 find me.
Sender: John
Time: 15:30
Message: Quick break. You still with Greg?
Sender: John
Time: 15:45
Message: Just spoke to Greg you fucker. Where the hell are you? Have to get back to work.
Sender: John
Time: 15:46
Message: ok thx
Sender: DI Lestrade
Time: 15:55
Message: John's looking for you. We didn't have a fitting today did we? Not till Thurs. ???
Sender: DI Lestrade
Time: 15:59
Message Ok see you then. Call John!
Sender: John
Time: 17:16
Message: On my way home now. You back?
Sender: John
Time: 17:24
Message: No I'll make something. I feel a stir fry coming on. You could buy some wine though.
Smells of ginger, lemon grass and chicken as he went up the stairs. Telly off. Music on. Soft jazz. He'd asked for wine. Mixed signals. Was John still upset about the lie?
John called out his usual greeting when Sherlock came in. ('That you, Sherlock?' -- Obviously, etcetera.) Sherlock couldn't hear anything in his tone that might set off any alarms. Maybe John had simply decided to strike the afternoon from the books. He'd swallowed a lot worse than a misdirection about where Sherlock spent (or didn't spend) the afternoon. Sherlock decided to play it as if the entire incident were forgotten.
"I got a Riesling and a Gewurztraminer. Wasn't sure what you were making," he said as he went into the kitchen, holding up both bottles.
John looked over his shoulder from where he stood at the cooker. Looked longer than necessary to check the wines. His eyes on Sherlock's face, his body, his hands, his shoes, back to his face. No heat, none of the simmering dark something Sherlock sometimes felt when John's gaze lingered on him. It was more clinical this time, assessing, as if checking that everything was still in its proper place. So that was it. Not forgotten then. John was concerned Sherlock had been out getting himself into some sort of trouble, that that was the reason for his disingenuity. A simple notion to refute. Sherlock withstood the muster. This would hopefully be the end of it.
John seemed satisfied with what he saw. "The Gewurztraminer, I think," he said, turning back to stir the pan. "It's ginger chicken with snow peas. I'll take a glass now, if you don't mind."
Sherlock opened the wine and let it stand on the counter while he went to use the loo. He was unaccountably shaky. In the first moment, John's assumption had appeared fortuitous. But now Sherlock realised the underlying preconception under which John was labouring: that Sherlock was still using. Or at least that it was still a present risk, that all it would take was a single unsupervised afternoon for Sherlock to sneak off and get high.
Suddenly, all of John's quick texts to Sherlock between patients, on his way home, that awful week (not to be repeated) when Sherlock had had to go to Helsinki alone on an errand for Mycroft -- not just today, but every day, every time they were apart for more than a couple of hours -- became tainted and sour. Sherlock had looked forward to them, savoured them, probably read much more into them than ever intended or indeed appropriate. Those little check-ins like invisible I-miss-yous, reaffirming how closely their lives were intertwined, how closely they both wanted their lives to be intertwined. Saw this and thought of you. Looking forward to seeing you. Life without you is boring. And now it turned out they were just John making sure Sherlock was still sober enough to provide cogent responses. Still coordinated enough to hit all the right letters and symbols. Not dead.
It stung. John didn't trust him. With reason, absolutely, no question. Sherlock was not to be trusted. He hadn't used, of course, hadn't even thought about using for months. Not with John home, and Sherlock's focus on him, on keeping him occupied, keeping him functional, keeping him from drinking himself into a stupor and walking into the Thames. (John's service revolver had quietly and mysteriously disappeared during Sherlock's time away. They'd never spoken of it, but Sherlock suspected Mycroft.) But the fact that Sherlock hadn't touched any drugs since that mad day of Moriarty's 'return' was beside the point. There was still a risk. How long would it take? What would the next trigger be? Sherlock realised he needed John here as much for his own sanity as for John's. God, the two of them were an utter mess. He washed his hands and checked his expression in the mirror. A little pale. He'd take a glass of the wine too.
His hands were steady as he poured, setting John's glass on the counter near the cooker for him. That was something at least. John started talking about his day, his prospects for his next job when this one finished next week, and Sherlock started to relax. The music coming from the living room was mellow, instrumentals only, no singer to force meaning onto the winding harmonies and aching dissonances. The food smelled good, and Sherlock became aware that he was hungry. He hadn't eaten since breakfast (he'd gotten up early to have tea and toast with John before he left for work), aside from a chocolate bar he'd found in the bottom of a strong box in the bolt hole where he'd spent the afternoon.
His hunger wasn't just for the food though. Because despite his apprehensions, despite not knowing what awaited him, he'd come back to have dinner with John. He could have stayed away, all night even. Wouldn't have thought twice about doing so before. Well, all right, he might have brooded over it, sulked about the injustice of the world in general, and specifically the inconvenience of having to adjust his behaviour because of another person -- a person whose opinion mattered, whom he wanted very much to like him. But instead he'd come home, and not because he thought it would be worse to stay away, but, he realised with a start, because he was feeling out of sorts over all this old business and he wanted to restore balance to his world. Wanted comfort, even if he cringed at the thought that might be something he was in need of. And this was the only place in the world he could find that. Not at 221B Baker Street per se, but with John. Because he'd lived here without John once, and no matter how familiar the rooms, no matter how comfortable the furnishings and forgiving the landlady, the place was utterly devoid of anything worthwhile without John in it.
When they sat down to eat, then, Sherlock was feeling quite nostalgic and tender and so it hit him like a bucket of cold water in the face when John brought up the very topic Sherlock had spent all afternoon (all week, in fact) avoiding.
"You want to tell me about this afternoon?" John asked it casually just before taking a bite, as if it were just an extension of their earlier conversation. How was your day? Fine, how was yours?
Sherlock considered playing dumb but thought that would only rile John up.
"I got the dates mixed up," he said lightly.
John swallowed and shook his head. "No, if that were true you wouldn't have carried on pretending to be at the fitting." Still calm, but there was an underlying tension now. Not just now. It had been there all along, since Sherlock came in.
Sherlock became irritated, his good mood slipping away, which made him even more annoyed. John was supposed to be making him feel better, not turning the screws.
"I never actually said I was there," he said peevishly. "You mistook my answers." He picked up his wine and took a large sip, then immediately regretted it. John had had him bring the wine to soften him up, to loosen his tongue for this conversation. He'd been planning this all along, and Sherlock had played right into his hands. He found he didn't much care at this point if he were being antagonistic. He'd made it clear he didn't want to talk about it, yet John persisted.
John put down his fork, abandoning all pretense. "All right, let's try this," he said, his ire unmistakably rising. "That vicar contacted me. Victor Trevor? He sent me a text asking if you were all right, said you'd missed a meeting with him. So I called him back. Had a chat."
The bucket of cold water now felt as if it had settled in Sherlock's gut. "He had no right to do that."
"No, I'm glad he did. You might have been lying under a bus somewhere, or kidnapped, or dangling by your ankle out the back window because you lost control during one of your bloody experiments!" John's voice had risen as he spoke until he was almost shouting at the end.
"But I wasn't."
"No, but you might have." A more moderate tone. He was clearly making an effort to rein himself in.
"Where did he get your number?" Sherlock realised suddenly.
"That's really not the point here, stop trying to distract me. I gave it to him, all right? At the church, when you were out clogging your lungs up with tar. Thought it might come in useful. And to be honest, I didn't like the look of him. The way he grabbed you and you just froze."
"So you thought you'd play my minder, screen my contacts. Bit controlling, don't you think?" Sherlock said bitterly.
"No, I thought I'd play your friend. What the hell is going on, Sherlock?"
"Nothing is going on."
"No, you're making dates behind my back with mysterious old acquaintances you refuse to tell me about, lying to me about it, then not even going and lying to me about that as well?"
"Let me get this straight then, John, if I may. You can feel free to date any women you want, but if I so much as plan to go to see an old acquaintance -- a fat, balding, married one at that -- you feel entitled to dress me down for it. And I didn't even go to see Victor. Nor did I go to score drugs, shoot up, or any of the other unsavoury things you apparently believe me capable of the moment I'm out of your sight," Sherlock spat.
"Right. Right. Because we're not. We're not -- I mean, I wish you would tell me. Because I honestly do not know. What is this? Hm?" John's nostrils flared as he waggled his finger between them. "What is this that we're doing?" He put his elbow on the table and started holding up fingers to count off the items on his list. "We live together. All right. Fine. We share the household expenses. We share meals. All normal things between flatmates. We share the laundry. Well, I do your laundry. But still, fine. It's been known to happen between flatmates when one is a lazy sodding arse. But here's where I think it starts to get interesting.
"We don't just eat together once in a while, we actually plan our day so we can have dinner together every night. I've noticed, Sherlock. Every night, without fail, since I've moved back, unless there's a case on and neither of us eats." John had now gone through all the fingers on one hand and moved on to the other. "We go out to restaurants together. Not just meeting up for lunch or getting together with a few friends once in a while, but the two of us. Alone. Planned, with goddamned reservations. We share clothes. Don't pretend you didn't take my old army t-shirt to sleep in, and I know I've been rather free with your dressing gowns when you leave them on the hook in the loo. We text each other constantly. We Skyped every bloody night that week you were in Helsinki, and if we hadn't I think I would have been on a plane to follow you. We get invited places together, Sherlock, and if we're not both invited we bring the other one along anyway."
John had used up nine of his fingers. He now folded his arms on the table and leaned in, his eyes on Sherlock's, so cold and intense that Sherlock nearly flinched when he hissed, "We have killed for each other, and very nearly died for each other. The last woman I dated -- who I married mostly -- mostly -- because I thought you wanted me to -- turned out to be a pathological liar who almost killed you. She almost killed you, Sherlock." John broke off, his voice choked. He turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists on the table.
Sherlock couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His chest ached, there in the very spot Mary's bullet had struck him. He knew, at the core, what John was saying, what all of the evidence added up to, and yet he was utterly unable to formulate the thought consciously. He had denied himself that for so long, had convinced himself so thoroughly that it was tantamount to emotional suicide that his entire being revolted against so much as entertaining the thought now.
After an eternity, which was probably only about a minute in reality, John inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was flat and controlled, almost painfully so.
"So yes," John said, "when a man who you obviously have a past with touches you, and makes you look like you're going to be ill simply being in the same room with him, and you sneak off to meet him without telling me... What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to react? How do you imagine I feel?"
"I don't know," Sherlock rasped, staring down at his food. The food John had made for him. That John had planned and cooked and made for the two of them together. Because this was something he looked forward to too. This was something John needed just as much as Sherlock did. Not because he was trying to trick Sherlock, or shame him, but because he'd been hurt and wanted to understand, wanted Sherlock to make him see, to give him an explanation that would make it all make sense, like bringing all the threads of a case together that no one else was clever enough to. And even though he'd been hurt, even though Sherlock had lied to him and betrayed his trust, he'd tried to make it easier for Sherlock. To let him know things weren't about to change just because Sherlock had been a royal arse.
John held up his hands in surrender. "That's good. I mean, yeah, that's good neither of us knows. Maybe I shouldn't have brought this all up, I don't know. It's something I've been thinking about for a while though, and things seemed to come to a head. I'm glad you're all right, and I'm sorry if I overstepped. But please, if you figure this out, maybe you could tell me." He sounded drained, all the fight leached out of him. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm going out for a bit. I'll clean up when I get back."
Sherlock watched him go, walk out of the kitchen into the hall. Heard him take his jacket down from the hook, jangle his keys to make sure they were in his pocket, then quickly go down the stairs and out the door.
Time to move on -- miss you of course -- best all round -- always remember.
Scottish cartographer John George Bartholomew is credited with naming which continent?
Sherlock pushed 'C' on the the hand-held device to select Antarctica. He'd never heard of the man but none of the other answers made any sense. He watched the timer on the overhead screen count down the remainder of the 15 seconds allotted to log in answers. Then the reveal: 67% correct. 22% had said North America, 11% Africa. No one had guessed Europe, which was something at least.
Sherlock had figured out after the second question, based on the response percentages, that there were a total of 9 devices transmitting responses in the pub. Most of them representing teams or couples, although there was one other solitary user seated in a booth by herself, an unassuming white-haired lady with thick-lensed glasses who had been slowly devouring an enormous plate of chips smothered in mayonnaise over the course of the evening. One for each answer she got right. He was all but certain she was 'SassyFox', who was currently holding the lead. Sherlock had missed 'Who preceded Queen Victoria on the British throne?', 'In which American state was Madonna born', and something about Chad Varah which he hadn't been able to see the screen for because a large party had walked past his table just then.
Shouts from the back room, where the match between Liverpool and Chelsea was on the widescreen. A missed opportunity, it sounded like. Lestrade's voice audible above the others: "Christ's sake, man, he was wide open!"
The next question appeared: Which Formula One racing circuit is located in and around Albert Park? Sherlock entered 'B' for Melbourne. John was a fairly keen fan. 89% correct. Only one team missed it: FridayNightLights. A groan from the group of uni students, two of them thwapping a third on the back of his head.
How many hearts does an octopus have?
"Thought you'd gone home."
Sherlock glanced up at John. Half-full pint glass. His third. Pacing himself.
"And miss out on the scintillating entertainment?" Sherlock checked the screen and pushed 'D' for 3. A nature documentary, this time Sherlock's choice but John had been drawn in and they'd ended up spending a very enjoyable evening trying to outdo each other with ever more bizarre facts and anecdotes about cetaceans, including the one about the octopus that had climbed out of its tank in the science lab and crawled across the hall to toss a rotten shrimp at the scientist studying it.
John pulled out the chair and dropped into it, burping gently. Starting to feel the effects, but not as much as the rest of Lestrade's crew, who had now launched into a sloppy chorus of 'You'll never walk alone'.
"I am definitely too old for this. I don't know where Greg finds the reserves."
"Mm," Sherlock hummed. It wasn't his age or energy level that had seen him slipping out of the side room to find refuge in the main seating area. He'd simply felt entirely out of place, uninterested and uninteresting, an object of curiosity to those of Lestrade's friends who'd never met him, and of anything ranging from disdain to mild amusement and even pity to those who had. John and Lestrade had both made attempts to draw him into the group, Lestrade pushing a pint glass into his hand and encouraging him to loosen up, and John making comments to him about the match or asking for Sherlock's input whenever he -- John -- was talking to one of the other men.
Sherlock didn't care about the teams, though, it was too loud to carry on a proper conversation with the match running (Lestrade had purposely scheduled the evening to coincide with what was apparently an important match for his favourite team -- his party, his rules, he'd said), and Sherlock didn't see the point in getting drunk with a bunch of strangers, only to have to suffer through the effects all the next day. He didn't want to leave entirely, though, leaving John here. Leaving him behind. Not with things so tentative and fragile between them.
Only two had got the right answer about the octopus. Really, 56% had guessed none? The mind boggled. SassyFox stoically ate another chip.
John glanced from the electronic box on the table in front of Sherlock to the screen suspended in the corner of the ceiling. "You doing the quiz? Which one are you? Wait, don't tell me. SassyFox?" he guessed, seeing the tail end of the results from the last question along with the overall rankings still displayed on the screen.
"That honour belongs to the octagenarian with the arteries of steel behind you."
John craned his neck to look.
Where is the RAF's national training centre for commissioned officers located?
Sherlock quickly punched 'A' for Cranwell.
"Cranwell," John said when he turned back a moment later.
"Got it." Sherlock gave him a small smile. They'd been walking on eggshells around each other since the ... Sherlock didn't want to call it an argument. Nor even a disagreement. More like a flaying open of all the unacknowledged fears and desires that had been lurking between them. Still unacknowledged. Still unaddressed. And Sherlock still didn't know how to answer John's question. Didn't know if he dared, not even to himself.
Their shared meals continued, though. The first night after that had been some bland takeaway, neutral ground. A couple of days of leftovers. John had kept away from the kitchen for a few days, finally easing back in with spag bol and a pound cake. Sherlock had countered with salmon and new potatoes. He didn't cook as much as John, generally preferring to warm up whatever he found in the refrigerator or freezer, but the situation had seemed to call for it. For him to make a statement.
33% correct. No chip. Although to be fair, Halton had been amongst the choices.
"If you're not SassyFox then you must be DontBeBoring," John surmised from the latest results screen.
"The game has almost entirely failed to comply," Sherlock said dryly. John giggled. Giggled! Sherlock's face expanded into a reflexive smile in return. Their eyes caught and held. Something settled warmly into Sherlock's stomach, fluttered hopefully behind his ribcage. John's gaze deepened. Maybe not so tentative and fragile. Maybe things were even stronger and more solid than before. A new direction. Or not so new. The same direction. A kilometre further on. A turning into the woods.
Only one question left in the round. He had no chance of catching up to SassyFox, even if she got this wrong.
What is the favourite food of the cartoon character Garfield?
Sherlock had a vague notion that Garfield was the fat orange cat, but he'd never paid attention to what it ate. Cat food was too obvious. Fish was the only one of the remaining choices that made any sense, but the other two -- lasagna and gummy bears -- were so preposterous, it was likely that one of them was in fact correct.
John grinned at him, seeing his hesitation. "Don't know that one? Shall I tell you?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the quiz remote over to John, who carefully (motor skills slightly impaired) pushed 'A'.
"Lasagna?" Sherlock said sceptically. "Isn't Garfield that ridiculous cat?"
John slid the remote back to Sherlock's side of the table and picked up his beer. "Are you doubting my expertise in lasagna?" He looked up at the screen expectantly, taking a sip.
He was right. Along with everyone else. 100%. Final results: SassyFox, DontBeBoring, WestHamSucks. If not for John's help on the last one, Sherlock would have been third. Scattered applause. People looking around for SassyFox. No one suspecting the white-haired lady with the thick-lensed glasses. One more chip. She still had half the plate. Apparently she was in for the long haul. The next round started in ten minutes. Enough time for a bathroom break, cigarette, or fresh pint. Sherlock lifted the quiz remote and tapped it to his forehead, a salute in her direction. She scrunched her face up. Possibly unable to see that far. Sherlock returned his attention to John.
John sighed. "Sorry for making you come."
"You didn't make me." Lestrade had invited them both. (Sherlock recalled that being item nine on John's list, but surely this didn't count; Sherlock was a member of the wedding party and John was Lestrade's friend. He would have invited both of them even if they weren't together. Even if they didn't live together, Sherlock corrected himself.) To be honest, Sherlock didn't think he would have come, wedding party or not, if not for John. It wasn't that John had pressured him in any way. It just would have felt... wrong, somehow, to let John go alone.
"No, well." John inclined his head thoughtfully. "I know Greg appreciated it anyway."
Sherlock snorted. "Lestrade won't remember any of this tomorrow."
John chuckled, then frowned slightly. "Why do you still call him Lestrade? You know his name's Greg."
Sherlock shrugged. "It's the name I knew him by when I first met him. Felt odd to change."
"Yeah. But you're friends now."
"We're not friends," Sherlock said distastefully.
"Sherlock, you're the best man at his wedding. I think that's pretty much a textbook definition of friends."
Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that. He didn't consider Lestrade -- Greg; it felt awkward even to think it -- a friend. John was his friend. John was the one he wanted to spend time with, the one who made him feel good and important and interesting. It wasn't that he disliked Lestrade. He was tolerable, as people went. One of the very few in that category, in fact. Mrs Hudson (was he going to have to start calling her Martha now?), Molly, Janine, even Irene, although he thought of her more as a like-minded adversary or rival than someone he genuinely liked. Maybe Wiggins and a few of the other denizens of the streets he had occasional dealings with. They all certainly had admirable qualities, here and there. A sense of humour or a toughness or a sharp intellect.
But all of those people had won a place in his life (he hesitated to say heart) because of something they had done for or given Sherlock; whether a kindness or a service or an ego boost or a sense of being useful. Was that what a friend was? Maybe. Quite possibly. A barter system, mutual benefits, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Maybe Lestrade was his friend. Maybe -- even more startling -- Sherlock was Lestrade's friend. It certainly appeared he thought so, anyway. Greg. It had never seemed to matter what he called him before, as long as everyone understood who was meant. But maybe names were important. Will. Sherlock. Maybe it was time for another rebranding. Greg.
What about John? If Lestrade -- Greg -- and all the others were his friends, then what was John? Yes, he had all of those qualities and provided Sherlock with all of those things too. But there was more to it than that. It was impossible to quantify or describe, but Sherlock felt things in relation to John that bypassed any sense of mere gratitude or loyalty. His presence alone, his existence, his very John-ness, was a source of pleasure and satisfaction. A condition and presence to be striven toward, that filled all the nooks and crannies in Sherlock's soul even in the physical absence of its originator. John was simply John. His Something.
John stayed with Sherlock through the next quiz round, moving his chair around to sit on the same side of the table so they could both see the screen and reach the input device. John sat back and slowly drained the rest of his beer, commenting or making suggestions, laughing and commiserating. SassyFox continued to make progress through her chips. WestHamSucks had left, and FridayNightLights became a contender. Sherlock came in third for the round, even with John's help, but it didn't matter. Because John was here with him, a solid warmth at his side. Even if they weren't touching, he could feel it. Not his body heat, but his affection and good will, his happiness and quiet satisfaction in sharing this moment of banality with Sherlock. Just being together. Friends. Best friends? Somethings.
The start of the next round coincided with half time of the football match, and Greg (it got easier with time) and the others poured out of the side room and crowded around, dragged over chairs and put their elbows on the table, cheerfully called out wrong answers and started good-natured arguments with each other, commandeered the quiz remote and didn't perform too poorly all things considered.
When the match started up again, Sherlock was induced to go back with them to watch the second half, which was somehow less tedious than the first half had been. Alfred (Dimmock, but Sherlock was feeling magnanimous by this point) shared his nachos with Sherlock, and Sanjay spilled beer on his shoe. Greg pounded him soundly on the back when their team scored, and John didn't seem to care one whit that everyone thought Sherlock was his boyfriend. 'Your man's got it going on upstairs, eh?' 'Hey, pass this to your fella.' 'So if he's the best man, does that make you the best man-in-law?' Raucous laughter. John took it all with equanimity and good humour. They were all drunk. John wouldn't want to make waves. This was Greg's night. None of it mattered.
By the end of the evening, Greg was, to put it delicately, sloshed. Sherlock discharged his duty as a best man by expertly forging G. Lestrade's signature on the credit card authorisation. John called two cabs, and between the two of them, they managed to stuff Greg and three of the other partygoers into one car, then dropped into the back seat of the other one.
"I'd say that went down well," John said as the driver pulled away from the kerb.
"Mm," Sherlock agreed. He suddenly felt incredibly sleepy. He'd only had one pint -- well, one and a half if you counted finishing John's last one.
"No one ended up in jail anyway," John mumbled.
"The night is still young. We were already back home when that woman showed up."
"Mm." It appeared John was similarly afflicted. He had closed his eyes and folded his arms, leaning his head against the corner of the window.
All of a sudden, Sherlock found himself filled with an overwhelming fondness for the greying, middle-aged man with the softening belly and bags under his eyes slumped on the seat beside him. Something both fierce and tender. He knew what it was. He'd known it all along. Somethings. Did they need a name for it? Maybe. Maybe John did. Maybe Sherlock did, too. Naming it would make it real. Would make it something that could be hurt. Something that could end. Will had been hurt. Sherlock was untouchable. And yet John had touched him. John had reached him. John had burrowed his way in, underneath the skin, to the person who was Will and Sherlock and Shezza and all the others.
Somethings. John hadn't minded. He'd come back. After the other night. After Mary. After Sherlock's mission. After all the thoughtless, rude, inappropriate things Sherlock had done as he failed to make John happy. Yet here John was, and there was their home just up ahead. Theirs. Together. Home.
"How do I look?" Sherlock stepped into the living room, tugging on his cuffs to straighten his shirtsleeves under his jacket.
John looked up from the couch, where he'd been leafing through the newspaper. He'd been ready for half an hour already, but then he didn't have all these curls to deal with. He was also only wearing a blazer and tie, while Sherlock had to wrangle all the buttons on the waistcoat. Greg hadn't wanted to do morning suits, but to add a touch of class to the mid-grey trousers and jacket, they each had an embroidered silk waistcoat and tie: Greg's in cream, a similar shade to Molly's dress, and Sherlock's in silver. The florist was providing cream and silver-sprayed boutonnieres, respectively, which should be waiting for them at the church.
John stood. Looked. Stared a bit, really. Started, as if realising an answer was expected. "Yeah," he said lightly. Forcing a casual tone. Why? "Looks good. Yeah." He moved closer, still looking at Sherlock's suit, his shoulders, chest, trousers, up to his hair, his face.
Sherlock fidgeted, ignored the impulse to touch his hair.
"Just, here, think there's..." John lifted his hand, bringing it to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock looked down to see him plucking a hair off the top of Sherlock's waistcoat. A dark, gentle loop. John flicked it away.
"Thanks," Sherlock said, feeling unaccountably short of breath.
John cleared his throat. "Sure." A beat. An eternity. Blue eyes searching Sherlock's. Sherlock's heart in his throat. Then a slight shake of John's head, once again as if recalling where he was. A step back. "Yeah. We should..."
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate they should be going. Greg had left the city earlier to pick up his parents from the train station, and would be meeting them at the church. They'd begged the use of a car and driver from Mycroft. Recalling the favour from Helsinki. At least part of it. It would take several cars and drivers to balance out Helsinki.
John turned away, leaned over to retrieve his phone from where he'd left it on the coffee table. Something was off, though; something still on his mind. A furrow between his eyebrows. It had been there since the beginning: his initial hesitance. Sherlock had ascribed it to John not wanting to be inconvenienced by the wedding planning, but he'd known even then that wasn't the real reason. Whatever it was, it had never entirely disappeared, even though John had gone along with everything since then with more or less good humour.
He'd helped Sherlock with his best man speech, steering him gently away from some really quite educational illustrations to a kind of mindless drivel that was sure to bore everyone to tears. John had insisted tears of boredom were far more desirable than tears of shock and horror, and Sherlock had acquiesced, remembering the stomach-sinking feeling he'd had for that fleeting moment at John's reception when several people had broken out their handkerchiefs. Sherlock didn't know exactly what it was he'd done wrong, but John had hugged him so it didn't matter. Sherlock recalled the feeling of John's arms around him, and while he would have done virtually anything to replicate that moment, he recognised that it had been a unique set of circumstances and he didn't want to incite anything remotely similar in Greg, so drivel it was.
John might have found peace and happiness in their odd, co-dependent, shared life. He might not mind other people believing they were intimate. He might even see what they had as a kind of exclusive partnership. But he was still straight. An occasional brush of the arm, a clap on the back, an incidental bumping of knees, those were all within the realm of shared meals and convenient dressing gowns. Anything more overtly physical -- sexual, to be blunt -- wasn't. Which was fine. John had stopped dating women. Sherlock had no need to date other men. What physical desires either of them might feel had been dealt with privately up to now, and that would continue. Fine. A hug would still be nice now and then. Very nice. Maybe there would be another opportunity.
But the point was -- and there had been a point, a salient one relating to John's furrowed brow and the faint aura of dissatisfaction that continued to hover around him regarding this wedding -- that there had been a moment while working on the speech, before their vigorous discussion of illustrations versus drivel, when John had drifted off, as if brooding, troubled just for a second by some word or image. His expression had cleared almost instantly, but that hadn't erased the suggestion of some deeper concerns.
Then when Sherlock had gone with Greg (it was really quite fun to say the name: peppy, like a bird chirping) to the appointment for their formalwear fitting -- the real one this time -- the tailor had suggested a pale cafe au lait shade for Sherlock's waistcoat, to play off Greg's cream. Sherlock had sent John the picture, remembering John's interest, and John had texted back that silver would match his eyes better. So silver it had been. Which would have all been fine, except when Sherlock got home, John had already made tomato soup and oatmeal muffins, and was up to his elbows in homemade gnocchi. And it was only mid-afternoon.
And now two mental absences within five minutes, upon being confronted with Sherlock in his costume. The brow furrow. Past experience informed Sherlock that if he continued to say nothing, life would go on as usual and eventually new crises and traumas would overlay the old ones, burying them deep enough they might as well be forgotten. But past experience was based on the time before. Before Sherlock had died. (Twice.) (Both times in front of John.) Before Mary. (Before the baby, which was never, ever referenced, not ever, not even obliquely.) Before Sherlock's life had become nothing more than a string of moments of borrowed time. Before John had asked the question. Before Sherlock had admitted he knew the answer. He still hadn't told John. Maybe it was time to start.
"John."
"Yeah?" John looked up from checking his phone, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
"This is all right for you, isn't it? Going to the wedding? Me being the best man?" Sherlock wasn't sure if that was the right question, if that was even close to the core of the problem. But it was the only starting point he had.
John straightened up, looking nonplussed. "Yeah, of course. You're going to be fantastic."
Sherlock ploughed ahead. "There was something, though, at the start. It seemed to make you uncomfortable."
"What? No! No, it was nothing." John waved Sherlock's doubts away with his hand. "Bad memories. My wedding, you know. All that. I mean not you. Not the wedding itself. That was all grand."
So that was it. Bad memories. They still plagued him, but Sherlock had already known that. The regrets. The losses. The association of Sherlock and the role of best man must have conjured up unpleasant images for him. The wedding itself had been fine, but it had started the ball rolling on a great many things that were distinctly not fine. Sherlock wished he could fix it the way he'd fixed John's limp. In lieu of a good chasing down of a murderer, he offered, "Could probably have done without the attempted murder."
"Probably have done without that, yes," John conceded, a smile fighting to break through, and something lightened in Sherlock's heart. "But no, nothing else. All done with now. Greg and Molly are lovely together, and I couldn't be happier for them. And um... the suit." John wiggled a finger up and down to encompass Sherlock's outfit. "Turned out nice."
Sherlock brushed a hand down his front. "Yes, well. The silver. Your choice."
"Brings out your eyes."
"You mentioned."
John looked away, suddenly shy. Rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "Um. We'd better--" He nodded toward the door. "The car's probably waiting."
"Yes, right." An odd sense of disappointment.
An hour sitting next to John, even in the roomy back seat of one of Mycroft's town cars. This new, palpable sense of feeling their way through this thing taking shape between them. Lines being redrawn. Butterflies. Not productive. John set out down the stairs. Sherlock followed.
The door to the vicar's small office-cum-vestry was ajar. Sherlock knocked twice.
"Come in."
Sherlock pushed the door open. Victor stood by the window, holding his mobile phone. The last time Sherlock had seen him, when they'd come to make the arrangements, he'd been wearing a black shirt and trousers, the white tab collar the only outward sign of his vocation. Now, he wore a long, white cassock with a loose, white, lace-trimmed surplice over it and a white stole laid over his shoulders. It was somewhat startling. Like expecting the ravioli to be filled with spinach, only to take a bite and find lemon custard inside.
Victor looked up, his expression brightening when he saw Sherlock. "Will, come in! Hard to get 4G inside. The walls are so thick." He waggled his phone toward the window as explanation.
"I'm to let you know they're ready." John had been about to offer to run the errand in Sherlock's stead when Greg had asked, but he didn't like the feeling of being coddled, not even by John. Didn't like the fact that John thought there was a darker past lurking between him and Victor. Drugs, physical abuse, issues of consent. None of that could be further from the truth. Their relationship had been entirely straightforward and mundane. Polite. Victor had always been, and was still, unfailingly polite.
"Brilliant," Victor said, stowing his phone somewhere in the voluminous folds of his surplice. "You know, I'm sorry things didn't work out for us to meet." Victor reached down to the desk and clicked the mouse. He raised his eyes to give Sherlock a knowing look. "You didn't really mix up the dates, did you?"
Sherlock didn't see any point in lying now. The ceremony would be over and done with in a matter of minutes. And it would give him a certain vicious satisfaction, even if Victor sounded more amused than angry. "No," Sherlock said.
"I hope my interest didn't cause problems between you and John." Concerned now. The kindly village priest.
Sherlock bristled. "Why would you think that?" Of course it had, but that was none of Victor's business. And things were better now. Even if still unsettled.
"An idea," Victor said vaguely then shook his head. The computer made shutting-down sounds. "Never mind. I really would have liked to hear about what you've been doing. I gather you're leading quite the interesting life." He inclined his head toward the computer, suggesting he'd been reading things on the internet.
"I don't imagine it compares to the life of a country vicar," Sherlock said.
Victor smiled obsequiously. "No, I imagine not."
"Your wife?" Sherlock nodded at the framed picture standing next to the computer on the desk. Due to the oblique angle, he could only tell that it was of a dark-haired woman.
"Yes, Nancy." Victor picked up the picture and held it out to Sherlock. "I met her at my first posting. Big scandal," he confided, but he sounded rather smug. "Typical Mills and Boon stuff. I was cited to the Bishop over it, given an ultimatum. Get married or get out. I chose the life sentence."
Sherlock took the picture. It was a posed shot, amateur, of a young woman, late teens or early twenties, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed. Only her head and torso were visible, but to judge by the clothes and hair, it had been taken ten to twelve years ago. The subject was unremarkable, round cheeks, bland smile, dimples. But then Sherlock hadn't thought much of Mary when he'd seen that first snapshot of her in the manila folder in Mycroft's office. Victor's wife would have several pounds more on her frame by now, of course. Crow's feet starting. Maybe dying her hair to cover the creeping strands of white.
Sherlock was struck by the thought that he'd never seen a picture of John from more than five years ago (his passport). Also that Victor and his wife had been together for what must be something like ten years now. Would he and John still be together in ten years? John had already gone noticeably more grey, gained several sags and wrinkles in the time they'd known each other. Most notably in the past year. Sherlock resented every one of those grey hairs and deepened lines, resented the time they represented that the two of them had been apart, and the reduction of the time they had left. Which wasn't to say, paradoxically, that he didn't find John more attractive and appealing today than he had the day they'd met. (He was still quite glad he'd got rid of the mustache, though.)
"A politic choice, no doubt," Sherlock said crisply as he handed the picture back, startling even himself at the amount of venom he injected into the statement. He had nothing against the woman.
"I do love her," Victor said, mildly defensive. "Do you think I would have risked everything for less than that? She's absolutely everything I could ask for."
"Female, for one."
Victor sighed as he replaced the picture on the desk. "I always did feel that there was something unfinished between us when you never responded to my attempts to contact you after we parted ways. Will-"
"Sherlock," he said irritably, feeling the renewed need to separate himself from the weak-willed, naive boy Victor had known.
"I'm sorry, of course. Old habits. Sherlock. I hope you don't believe I didn't want you in my life anymore because your gender was incompatible with my career or my faith. It certainly would have been more difficult to live openly as a gay couple in the church fifteen years ago, but the doors were opening. Jeffrey John, Christopher Wardale, Peter Cowell and David Ward. I don't know if you've followed any of their stories."
"No," Sherlock said shortly. This was precisely why he'd wanted to avoid seeing Victor again. Being lectured, having to hear the justifications.
"I'm sure you can imagine anyway. The point is, you can't honestly say life as the spouse of a clergyman is what you wanted, either then or now. It was hard to say good-bye, but I knew it was the right decision."
The infuriating thing was that he was right, of course. Sherlock would have been miserable following Victor around, settling in some backwater. They would have grown apart at some point anyway. Better early on, when they only had good times to remember, than after the disappointments and resentments set in. It didn't make what had happened hurt any less. But if they hadn't gone their separate ways at that time, Sherlock might never have started down the path that had brought him to John. A horrifying thought.
A knock at the open door. "Everything all right?" It was John. He looked from Sherlock to Victor and back again, something tense in his expression.
"Oh, John!" Victor exclaimed, oblivious, suddenly bustling around the desk. "So sorry, we're keeping everyone waiting."
"We thought you might have dug up that attempted murder after all," John said, standing back to let him through.
Victor stopped short to give him a look of alarm. "Murder?"
"Only an attempt, not to worry," Sherlock said breezily from behind. "It all worked out in the end."
"It's a long story," John said. "You can read it on my blog."
"As I said, an interesting life!" Victor called over his shoulder as he strode off in the direction of the chapel.
Sherlock started to follow him, but John touched his arm lightly, holding him back. "Hey, everything all right?" His blue eyes on Sherlock, anxious, concerned. Stormy.
Sherlock was on the verge of reacting brusquely, his embarrassment and discomfiture over the conversation with Victor spilling over. He wondered how much John had heard. But then he took in the grey hair scattered amongst the gold, the creases at the corners of John's mouth, the bags under his eyes, the veins in his hands, and he remembered that every day was both a gift and one day closer to saying good-bye.
"It's fine, John," he said, and he meant it. He put his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed lightly. It would have to suffice. John's hand, still on Sherlock's elbow, squeezed back. They both waited, poised. Sherlock didn't know for what. He felt that a moment was coming, but this wasn't it.
Sherlock let his hand slide away. "I'm ready."
John nodded. "Okay." His voice came out rough, almost breathless. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay," he repeated, more brightly this time, and clapped his hands together. "Let's go get these two married."
Together, they headed for the chapel.
Go to chapters 7-8
Chapters 1-3 on LJ
Chapter Four: Ginger Chicken
Victor was nothing if not persistent. When Sherlock didn't respond to his initial email, he followed up with another two days later. Sherlock sat staring at the subject line (Re: Great to see you) for several minutes, indecisive. If he continued to delete the messages without responding, it was likely Victor would contact Molly. If he did respond and say he wasn't interested in 'catching up', it would make the wedding awkward. Not that Sherlock cared about that kind of thing, but he didn't want to intentionally do anything that might cast a shadow on Molly's (all right, and Lestrade's) day. It would only make it more difficult to rely on them for favours later. To say nothing of the fact that John was sure to hear of it then, and that would only make him ask questions.
At the same time, there was certainly no way he was going to suffer through an hour (although Sherlock thought he could whittle it down to half that or even less if he was insufferable enough) of small talk at a chain coffee shop so that Victor could feel smug and self-satisfied over his good fortune and wise foresight of having rid himself of the likes of Sherlock Holmes.
Seeing what he'd become, Sherlock couldn't believe he'd ever thought himself attracted to the man, much less in love with him. What a fool he'd been. A pathetic, pitiable fool who had fallen for the first person who showed him any sort of attention and kindness, fancying he'd found his soulmate. Only to find out that Victor didn't see things that way at all. Drawers sprang open, spewing words Sherlock never wanted to hear again; in fact, went to lengths to keep himself out of any situation in which they might potentially come up. Time to move on -- long-distance relationships -- miss you of course -- best all round -- always remember.
Sherlock tapped on the Reply arrow and started his message.
***
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 13:53
Message: Reverend entered cafe. Table @ bk wall. Glass of water.
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:10
Message: Doing sth w phone. Dunno what.
Sender: John
Time: 14:13
Message: Btw patients, waiting for ear wax to soften. How's the fitting going? Better than mine I hope.
Sender: John
Time: 14:14
Message: The patient's you nit! I mean I hope it's going better than when we had ours done. I can still feel where the tailor jabbed me.
Sender: John
Time: 14:16
Message: No, not your fault at all! *rolleyes* I should have warned Greg to wear his bulletproof vest.
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:18
Message: Rev still @ phone.
Sender: John
Time: 14:20
Message: Ha ha. Your turn yet? Send me a picture when you have it on.
Sender: John
Time: 14:23
Message: I know but just to get an idea.
Sender: Victor
Time: 14:25
Message: Running late? We can reschedule.
Sender: John
Time: 14:26
Message: It doesn't, I just thought it would be nice if I wore something that didn't clash with yours.
Sender: John
Time: 14:28
Message: Never mind. Ear wax is good to go. See you tonight?
Sender: John
Time: 14:29
Message: :)
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:32
Message: Rev ordered tea n cake. Choc I think.
Sender: Victor
Time: 14:55
Message: Looks like I missed you, Will. Shame. Let me know if you'll have another chance before the wedding. Otherwise maybe we can talk then. -Vee
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 14:55
Message: Rev called server, wants 2 pay.
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 15:02
Message: Hes leaving. Want me 2 follow?
Sender: Wiggins
Time: 15:02
Message: Roger u no where 2 find me.
Sender: John
Time: 15:30
Message: Quick break. You still with Greg?
Sender: John
Time: 15:45
Message: Just spoke to Greg you fucker. Where the hell are you? Have to get back to work.
Sender: John
Time: 15:46
Message: ok thx
Sender: DI Lestrade
Time: 15:55
Message: John's looking for you. We didn't have a fitting today did we? Not till Thurs. ???
Sender: DI Lestrade
Time: 15:59
Message Ok see you then. Call John!
Sender: John
Time: 17:16
Message: On my way home now. You back?
Sender: John
Time: 17:24
Message: No I'll make something. I feel a stir fry coming on. You could buy some wine though.
* * * * * *
Smells of ginger, lemon grass and chicken as he went up the stairs. Telly off. Music on. Soft jazz. He'd asked for wine. Mixed signals. Was John still upset about the lie?
John called out his usual greeting when Sherlock came in. ('That you, Sherlock?' -- Obviously, etcetera.) Sherlock couldn't hear anything in his tone that might set off any alarms. Maybe John had simply decided to strike the afternoon from the books. He'd swallowed a lot worse than a misdirection about where Sherlock spent (or didn't spend) the afternoon. Sherlock decided to play it as if the entire incident were forgotten.
"I got a Riesling and a Gewurztraminer. Wasn't sure what you were making," he said as he went into the kitchen, holding up both bottles.
John looked over his shoulder from where he stood at the cooker. Looked longer than necessary to check the wines. His eyes on Sherlock's face, his body, his hands, his shoes, back to his face. No heat, none of the simmering dark something Sherlock sometimes felt when John's gaze lingered on him. It was more clinical this time, assessing, as if checking that everything was still in its proper place. So that was it. Not forgotten then. John was concerned Sherlock had been out getting himself into some sort of trouble, that that was the reason for his disingenuity. A simple notion to refute. Sherlock withstood the muster. This would hopefully be the end of it.
John seemed satisfied with what he saw. "The Gewurztraminer, I think," he said, turning back to stir the pan. "It's ginger chicken with snow peas. I'll take a glass now, if you don't mind."
Sherlock opened the wine and let it stand on the counter while he went to use the loo. He was unaccountably shaky. In the first moment, John's assumption had appeared fortuitous. But now Sherlock realised the underlying preconception under which John was labouring: that Sherlock was still using. Or at least that it was still a present risk, that all it would take was a single unsupervised afternoon for Sherlock to sneak off and get high.
Suddenly, all of John's quick texts to Sherlock between patients, on his way home, that awful week (not to be repeated) when Sherlock had had to go to Helsinki alone on an errand for Mycroft -- not just today, but every day, every time they were apart for more than a couple of hours -- became tainted and sour. Sherlock had looked forward to them, savoured them, probably read much more into them than ever intended or indeed appropriate. Those little check-ins like invisible I-miss-yous, reaffirming how closely their lives were intertwined, how closely they both wanted their lives to be intertwined. Saw this and thought of you. Looking forward to seeing you. Life without you is boring. And now it turned out they were just John making sure Sherlock was still sober enough to provide cogent responses. Still coordinated enough to hit all the right letters and symbols. Not dead.
It stung. John didn't trust him. With reason, absolutely, no question. Sherlock was not to be trusted. He hadn't used, of course, hadn't even thought about using for months. Not with John home, and Sherlock's focus on him, on keeping him occupied, keeping him functional, keeping him from drinking himself into a stupor and walking into the Thames. (John's service revolver had quietly and mysteriously disappeared during Sherlock's time away. They'd never spoken of it, but Sherlock suspected Mycroft.) But the fact that Sherlock hadn't touched any drugs since that mad day of Moriarty's 'return' was beside the point. There was still a risk. How long would it take? What would the next trigger be? Sherlock realised he needed John here as much for his own sanity as for John's. God, the two of them were an utter mess. He washed his hands and checked his expression in the mirror. A little pale. He'd take a glass of the wine too.
His hands were steady as he poured, setting John's glass on the counter near the cooker for him. That was something at least. John started talking about his day, his prospects for his next job when this one finished next week, and Sherlock started to relax. The music coming from the living room was mellow, instrumentals only, no singer to force meaning onto the winding harmonies and aching dissonances. The food smelled good, and Sherlock became aware that he was hungry. He hadn't eaten since breakfast (he'd gotten up early to have tea and toast with John before he left for work), aside from a chocolate bar he'd found in the bottom of a strong box in the bolt hole where he'd spent the afternoon.
His hunger wasn't just for the food though. Because despite his apprehensions, despite not knowing what awaited him, he'd come back to have dinner with John. He could have stayed away, all night even. Wouldn't have thought twice about doing so before. Well, all right, he might have brooded over it, sulked about the injustice of the world in general, and specifically the inconvenience of having to adjust his behaviour because of another person -- a person whose opinion mattered, whom he wanted very much to like him. But instead he'd come home, and not because he thought it would be worse to stay away, but, he realised with a start, because he was feeling out of sorts over all this old business and he wanted to restore balance to his world. Wanted comfort, even if he cringed at the thought that might be something he was in need of. And this was the only place in the world he could find that. Not at 221B Baker Street per se, but with John. Because he'd lived here without John once, and no matter how familiar the rooms, no matter how comfortable the furnishings and forgiving the landlady, the place was utterly devoid of anything worthwhile without John in it.
When they sat down to eat, then, Sherlock was feeling quite nostalgic and tender and so it hit him like a bucket of cold water in the face when John brought up the very topic Sherlock had spent all afternoon (all week, in fact) avoiding.
"You want to tell me about this afternoon?" John asked it casually just before taking a bite, as if it were just an extension of their earlier conversation. How was your day? Fine, how was yours?
Sherlock considered playing dumb but thought that would only rile John up.
"I got the dates mixed up," he said lightly.
John swallowed and shook his head. "No, if that were true you wouldn't have carried on pretending to be at the fitting." Still calm, but there was an underlying tension now. Not just now. It had been there all along, since Sherlock came in.
Sherlock became irritated, his good mood slipping away, which made him even more annoyed. John was supposed to be making him feel better, not turning the screws.
"I never actually said I was there," he said peevishly. "You mistook my answers." He picked up his wine and took a large sip, then immediately regretted it. John had had him bring the wine to soften him up, to loosen his tongue for this conversation. He'd been planning this all along, and Sherlock had played right into his hands. He found he didn't much care at this point if he were being antagonistic. He'd made it clear he didn't want to talk about it, yet John persisted.
John put down his fork, abandoning all pretense. "All right, let's try this," he said, his ire unmistakably rising. "That vicar contacted me. Victor Trevor? He sent me a text asking if you were all right, said you'd missed a meeting with him. So I called him back. Had a chat."
The bucket of cold water now felt as if it had settled in Sherlock's gut. "He had no right to do that."
"No, I'm glad he did. You might have been lying under a bus somewhere, or kidnapped, or dangling by your ankle out the back window because you lost control during one of your bloody experiments!" John's voice had risen as he spoke until he was almost shouting at the end.
"But I wasn't."
"No, but you might have." A more moderate tone. He was clearly making an effort to rein himself in.
"Where did he get your number?" Sherlock realised suddenly.
"That's really not the point here, stop trying to distract me. I gave it to him, all right? At the church, when you were out clogging your lungs up with tar. Thought it might come in useful. And to be honest, I didn't like the look of him. The way he grabbed you and you just froze."
"So you thought you'd play my minder, screen my contacts. Bit controlling, don't you think?" Sherlock said bitterly.
"No, I thought I'd play your friend. What the hell is going on, Sherlock?"
"Nothing is going on."
"No, you're making dates behind my back with mysterious old acquaintances you refuse to tell me about, lying to me about it, then not even going and lying to me about that as well?"
"Let me get this straight then, John, if I may. You can feel free to date any women you want, but if I so much as plan to go to see an old acquaintance -- a fat, balding, married one at that -- you feel entitled to dress me down for it. And I didn't even go to see Victor. Nor did I go to score drugs, shoot up, or any of the other unsavoury things you apparently believe me capable of the moment I'm out of your sight," Sherlock spat.
"Right. Right. Because we're not. We're not -- I mean, I wish you would tell me. Because I honestly do not know. What is this? Hm?" John's nostrils flared as he waggled his finger between them. "What is this that we're doing?" He put his elbow on the table and started holding up fingers to count off the items on his list. "We live together. All right. Fine. We share the household expenses. We share meals. All normal things between flatmates. We share the laundry. Well, I do your laundry. But still, fine. It's been known to happen between flatmates when one is a lazy sodding arse. But here's where I think it starts to get interesting.
"We don't just eat together once in a while, we actually plan our day so we can have dinner together every night. I've noticed, Sherlock. Every night, without fail, since I've moved back, unless there's a case on and neither of us eats." John had now gone through all the fingers on one hand and moved on to the other. "We go out to restaurants together. Not just meeting up for lunch or getting together with a few friends once in a while, but the two of us. Alone. Planned, with goddamned reservations. We share clothes. Don't pretend you didn't take my old army t-shirt to sleep in, and I know I've been rather free with your dressing gowns when you leave them on the hook in the loo. We text each other constantly. We Skyped every bloody night that week you were in Helsinki, and if we hadn't I think I would have been on a plane to follow you. We get invited places together, Sherlock, and if we're not both invited we bring the other one along anyway."
John had used up nine of his fingers. He now folded his arms on the table and leaned in, his eyes on Sherlock's, so cold and intense that Sherlock nearly flinched when he hissed, "We have killed for each other, and very nearly died for each other. The last woman I dated -- who I married mostly -- mostly -- because I thought you wanted me to -- turned out to be a pathological liar who almost killed you. She almost killed you, Sherlock." John broke off, his voice choked. He turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists on the table.
Sherlock couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His chest ached, there in the very spot Mary's bullet had struck him. He knew, at the core, what John was saying, what all of the evidence added up to, and yet he was utterly unable to formulate the thought consciously. He had denied himself that for so long, had convinced himself so thoroughly that it was tantamount to emotional suicide that his entire being revolted against so much as entertaining the thought now.
After an eternity, which was probably only about a minute in reality, John inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was flat and controlled, almost painfully so.
"So yes," John said, "when a man who you obviously have a past with touches you, and makes you look like you're going to be ill simply being in the same room with him, and you sneak off to meet him without telling me... What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to react? How do you imagine I feel?"
"I don't know," Sherlock rasped, staring down at his food. The food John had made for him. That John had planned and cooked and made for the two of them together. Because this was something he looked forward to too. This was something John needed just as much as Sherlock did. Not because he was trying to trick Sherlock, or shame him, but because he'd been hurt and wanted to understand, wanted Sherlock to make him see, to give him an explanation that would make it all make sense, like bringing all the threads of a case together that no one else was clever enough to. And even though he'd been hurt, even though Sherlock had lied to him and betrayed his trust, he'd tried to make it easier for Sherlock. To let him know things weren't about to change just because Sherlock had been a royal arse.
John held up his hands in surrender. "That's good. I mean, yeah, that's good neither of us knows. Maybe I shouldn't have brought this all up, I don't know. It's something I've been thinking about for a while though, and things seemed to come to a head. I'm glad you're all right, and I'm sorry if I overstepped. But please, if you figure this out, maybe you could tell me." He sounded drained, all the fight leached out of him. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm going out for a bit. I'll clean up when I get back."
Sherlock watched him go, walk out of the kitchen into the hall. Heard him take his jacket down from the hook, jangle his keys to make sure they were in his pocket, then quickly go down the stairs and out the door.
Time to move on -- miss you of course -- best all round -- always remember.
* * * * * *
Ginger Chicken
Source: http://www.recipe30.com/ginger-lemongrass-chicken.html
1 chicken breast
10-12 snowpeas
Half a carrot
A few sprigs of fresh coriander (cilantro)
4 tbs grapeseed oil
Lemon grass sauce:
1 shallot (chopped)
1 lemongrass stick
Fresh ginger (approx half inch piece)
1 tsp tomato paste
1 garlic clove
1/3 cup oyster sauce
1 tbsp grapeseed oil
DIRECTIONS for Lemon Grass Sauce
Chop lemon grass and shallot finely. Crush the garlic and chop finely.
In a hot saucepan on stove add grapeseed oil. Add shallot and garlic and let them sweat a little.
Add oyster sauce and tomato paste. Add 1/2 cup of water and let sauce simmer on low heat.
Grate and add the ginger. Add the lemon grass. Continue cooking for 5 minutes.
Ready to use or pour in container and refrigerate once cooled.
DIRECTIONS
Slice the whole chicken breast quite thinly width wise.
Top and tail, and string the snowpeas. Cut snow peas in half lengthwise and on an angle (like two long triangles). Grate the carrot.
Add oil to a hot pan and heat a little. Add the chicken slices one at a time ensuring the flat side is in the oil. Brown both sides and then transfer to a bowl and set aside.
Back to the same hot pan, (if dry add more oil) add the snow peas. Add the carrot toss and cook 2 minutes.
Return the chicken back to the pan. Add the ginger lemon grass sauce (if too thick add a touch of water) mix well, and cook for two minutes.
Serve on hot cooked rice. Garnish with coriander (cilantro)
Chapter Five: Pub Food
Scottish cartographer John George Bartholomew is credited with naming which continent?
Sherlock pushed 'C' on the the hand-held device to select Antarctica. He'd never heard of the man but none of the other answers made any sense. He watched the timer on the overhead screen count down the remainder of the 15 seconds allotted to log in answers. Then the reveal: 67% correct. 22% had said North America, 11% Africa. No one had guessed Europe, which was something at least.
Sherlock had figured out after the second question, based on the response percentages, that there were a total of 9 devices transmitting responses in the pub. Most of them representing teams or couples, although there was one other solitary user seated in a booth by herself, an unassuming white-haired lady with thick-lensed glasses who had been slowly devouring an enormous plate of chips smothered in mayonnaise over the course of the evening. One for each answer she got right. He was all but certain she was 'SassyFox', who was currently holding the lead. Sherlock had missed 'Who preceded Queen Victoria on the British throne?', 'In which American state was Madonna born', and something about Chad Varah which he hadn't been able to see the screen for because a large party had walked past his table just then.
Shouts from the back room, where the match between Liverpool and Chelsea was on the widescreen. A missed opportunity, it sounded like. Lestrade's voice audible above the others: "Christ's sake, man, he was wide open!"
The next question appeared: Which Formula One racing circuit is located in and around Albert Park? Sherlock entered 'B' for Melbourne. John was a fairly keen fan. 89% correct. Only one team missed it: FridayNightLights. A groan from the group of uni students, two of them thwapping a third on the back of his head.
How many hearts does an octopus have?
"Thought you'd gone home."
Sherlock glanced up at John. Half-full pint glass. His third. Pacing himself.
"And miss out on the scintillating entertainment?" Sherlock checked the screen and pushed 'D' for 3. A nature documentary, this time Sherlock's choice but John had been drawn in and they'd ended up spending a very enjoyable evening trying to outdo each other with ever more bizarre facts and anecdotes about cetaceans, including the one about the octopus that had climbed out of its tank in the science lab and crawled across the hall to toss a rotten shrimp at the scientist studying it.
John pulled out the chair and dropped into it, burping gently. Starting to feel the effects, but not as much as the rest of Lestrade's crew, who had now launched into a sloppy chorus of 'You'll never walk alone'.
"I am definitely too old for this. I don't know where Greg finds the reserves."
"Mm," Sherlock hummed. It wasn't his age or energy level that had seen him slipping out of the side room to find refuge in the main seating area. He'd simply felt entirely out of place, uninterested and uninteresting, an object of curiosity to those of Lestrade's friends who'd never met him, and of anything ranging from disdain to mild amusement and even pity to those who had. John and Lestrade had both made attempts to draw him into the group, Lestrade pushing a pint glass into his hand and encouraging him to loosen up, and John making comments to him about the match or asking for Sherlock's input whenever he -- John -- was talking to one of the other men.
Sherlock didn't care about the teams, though, it was too loud to carry on a proper conversation with the match running (Lestrade had purposely scheduled the evening to coincide with what was apparently an important match for his favourite team -- his party, his rules, he'd said), and Sherlock didn't see the point in getting drunk with a bunch of strangers, only to have to suffer through the effects all the next day. He didn't want to leave entirely, though, leaving John here. Leaving him behind. Not with things so tentative and fragile between them.
Only two had got the right answer about the octopus. Really, 56% had guessed none? The mind boggled. SassyFox stoically ate another chip.
John glanced from the electronic box on the table in front of Sherlock to the screen suspended in the corner of the ceiling. "You doing the quiz? Which one are you? Wait, don't tell me. SassyFox?" he guessed, seeing the tail end of the results from the last question along with the overall rankings still displayed on the screen.
"That honour belongs to the octagenarian with the arteries of steel behind you."
John craned his neck to look.
Where is the RAF's national training centre for commissioned officers located?
Sherlock quickly punched 'A' for Cranwell.
"Cranwell," John said when he turned back a moment later.
"Got it." Sherlock gave him a small smile. They'd been walking on eggshells around each other since the ... Sherlock didn't want to call it an argument. Nor even a disagreement. More like a flaying open of all the unacknowledged fears and desires that had been lurking between them. Still unacknowledged. Still unaddressed. And Sherlock still didn't know how to answer John's question. Didn't know if he dared, not even to himself.
Their shared meals continued, though. The first night after that had been some bland takeaway, neutral ground. A couple of days of leftovers. John had kept away from the kitchen for a few days, finally easing back in with spag bol and a pound cake. Sherlock had countered with salmon and new potatoes. He didn't cook as much as John, generally preferring to warm up whatever he found in the refrigerator or freezer, but the situation had seemed to call for it. For him to make a statement.
33% correct. No chip. Although to be fair, Halton had been amongst the choices.
"If you're not SassyFox then you must be DontBeBoring," John surmised from the latest results screen.
"The game has almost entirely failed to comply," Sherlock said dryly. John giggled. Giggled! Sherlock's face expanded into a reflexive smile in return. Their eyes caught and held. Something settled warmly into Sherlock's stomach, fluttered hopefully behind his ribcage. John's gaze deepened. Maybe not so tentative and fragile. Maybe things were even stronger and more solid than before. A new direction. Or not so new. The same direction. A kilometre further on. A turning into the woods.
Only one question left in the round. He had no chance of catching up to SassyFox, even if she got this wrong.
What is the favourite food of the cartoon character Garfield?
Sherlock had a vague notion that Garfield was the fat orange cat, but he'd never paid attention to what it ate. Cat food was too obvious. Fish was the only one of the remaining choices that made any sense, but the other two -- lasagna and gummy bears -- were so preposterous, it was likely that one of them was in fact correct.
John grinned at him, seeing his hesitation. "Don't know that one? Shall I tell you?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the quiz remote over to John, who carefully (motor skills slightly impaired) pushed 'A'.
"Lasagna?" Sherlock said sceptically. "Isn't Garfield that ridiculous cat?"
John slid the remote back to Sherlock's side of the table and picked up his beer. "Are you doubting my expertise in lasagna?" He looked up at the screen expectantly, taking a sip.
He was right. Along with everyone else. 100%. Final results: SassyFox, DontBeBoring, WestHamSucks. If not for John's help on the last one, Sherlock would have been third. Scattered applause. People looking around for SassyFox. No one suspecting the white-haired lady with the thick-lensed glasses. One more chip. She still had half the plate. Apparently she was in for the long haul. The next round started in ten minutes. Enough time for a bathroom break, cigarette, or fresh pint. Sherlock lifted the quiz remote and tapped it to his forehead, a salute in her direction. She scrunched her face up. Possibly unable to see that far. Sherlock returned his attention to John.
John sighed. "Sorry for making you come."
"You didn't make me." Lestrade had invited them both. (Sherlock recalled that being item nine on John's list, but surely this didn't count; Sherlock was a member of the wedding party and John was Lestrade's friend. He would have invited both of them even if they weren't together. Even if they didn't live together, Sherlock corrected himself.) To be honest, Sherlock didn't think he would have come, wedding party or not, if not for John. It wasn't that John had pressured him in any way. It just would have felt... wrong, somehow, to let John go alone.
"No, well." John inclined his head thoughtfully. "I know Greg appreciated it anyway."
Sherlock snorted. "Lestrade won't remember any of this tomorrow."
John chuckled, then frowned slightly. "Why do you still call him Lestrade? You know his name's Greg."
Sherlock shrugged. "It's the name I knew him by when I first met him. Felt odd to change."
"Yeah. But you're friends now."
"We're not friends," Sherlock said distastefully.
"Sherlock, you're the best man at his wedding. I think that's pretty much a textbook definition of friends."
Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that. He didn't consider Lestrade -- Greg; it felt awkward even to think it -- a friend. John was his friend. John was the one he wanted to spend time with, the one who made him feel good and important and interesting. It wasn't that he disliked Lestrade. He was tolerable, as people went. One of the very few in that category, in fact. Mrs Hudson (was he going to have to start calling her Martha now?), Molly, Janine, even Irene, although he thought of her more as a like-minded adversary or rival than someone he genuinely liked. Maybe Wiggins and a few of the other denizens of the streets he had occasional dealings with. They all certainly had admirable qualities, here and there. A sense of humour or a toughness or a sharp intellect.
But all of those people had won a place in his life (he hesitated to say heart) because of something they had done for or given Sherlock; whether a kindness or a service or an ego boost or a sense of being useful. Was that what a friend was? Maybe. Quite possibly. A barter system, mutual benefits, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Maybe Lestrade was his friend. Maybe -- even more startling -- Sherlock was Lestrade's friend. It certainly appeared he thought so, anyway. Greg. It had never seemed to matter what he called him before, as long as everyone understood who was meant. But maybe names were important. Will. Sherlock. Maybe it was time for another rebranding. Greg.
What about John? If Lestrade -- Greg -- and all the others were his friends, then what was John? Yes, he had all of those qualities and provided Sherlock with all of those things too. But there was more to it than that. It was impossible to quantify or describe, but Sherlock felt things in relation to John that bypassed any sense of mere gratitude or loyalty. His presence alone, his existence, his very John-ness, was a source of pleasure and satisfaction. A condition and presence to be striven toward, that filled all the nooks and crannies in Sherlock's soul even in the physical absence of its originator. John was simply John. His Something.
John stayed with Sherlock through the next quiz round, moving his chair around to sit on the same side of the table so they could both see the screen and reach the input device. John sat back and slowly drained the rest of his beer, commenting or making suggestions, laughing and commiserating. SassyFox continued to make progress through her chips. WestHamSucks had left, and FridayNightLights became a contender. Sherlock came in third for the round, even with John's help, but it didn't matter. Because John was here with him, a solid warmth at his side. Even if they weren't touching, he could feel it. Not his body heat, but his affection and good will, his happiness and quiet satisfaction in sharing this moment of banality with Sherlock. Just being together. Friends. Best friends? Somethings.
The start of the next round coincided with half time of the football match, and Greg (it got easier with time) and the others poured out of the side room and crowded around, dragged over chairs and put their elbows on the table, cheerfully called out wrong answers and started good-natured arguments with each other, commandeered the quiz remote and didn't perform too poorly all things considered.
When the match started up again, Sherlock was induced to go back with them to watch the second half, which was somehow less tedious than the first half had been. Alfred (Dimmock, but Sherlock was feeling magnanimous by this point) shared his nachos with Sherlock, and Sanjay spilled beer on his shoe. Greg pounded him soundly on the back when their team scored, and John didn't seem to care one whit that everyone thought Sherlock was his boyfriend. 'Your man's got it going on upstairs, eh?' 'Hey, pass this to your fella.' 'So if he's the best man, does that make you the best man-in-law?' Raucous laughter. John took it all with equanimity and good humour. They were all drunk. John wouldn't want to make waves. This was Greg's night. None of it mattered.
By the end of the evening, Greg was, to put it delicately, sloshed. Sherlock discharged his duty as a best man by expertly forging G. Lestrade's signature on the credit card authorisation. John called two cabs, and between the two of them, they managed to stuff Greg and three of the other partygoers into one car, then dropped into the back seat of the other one.
"I'd say that went down well," John said as the driver pulled away from the kerb.
"Mm," Sherlock agreed. He suddenly felt incredibly sleepy. He'd only had one pint -- well, one and a half if you counted finishing John's last one.
"No one ended up in jail anyway," John mumbled.
"The night is still young. We were already back home when that woman showed up."
"Mm." It appeared John was similarly afflicted. He had closed his eyes and folded his arms, leaning his head against the corner of the window.
All of a sudden, Sherlock found himself filled with an overwhelming fondness for the greying, middle-aged man with the softening belly and bags under his eyes slumped on the seat beside him. Something both fierce and tender. He knew what it was. He'd known it all along. Somethings. Did they need a name for it? Maybe. Maybe John did. Maybe Sherlock did, too. Naming it would make it real. Would make it something that could be hurt. Something that could end. Will had been hurt. Sherlock was untouchable. And yet John had touched him. John had reached him. John had burrowed his way in, underneath the skin, to the person who was Will and Sherlock and Shezza and all the others.
Somethings. John hadn't minded. He'd come back. After the other night. After Mary. After Sherlock's mission. After all the thoughtless, rude, inappropriate things Sherlock had done as he failed to make John happy. Yet here John was, and there was their home just up ahead. Theirs. Together. Home.
* * * * * *
Pub Style Chips
Source: http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2009/06/perfect-french-fries-recipe.html
5 large Russet potatoes, peeled or well scrubbed, if leaving leaving the skin on
1 quart peanut oil
Kosher salt
Directions
Cut the potatoes lengthwise into 1/4-inch-thick slices, then cut each slice lengthwise into 1/4-inch-thick fries. Put the fries in a large bowl of cold water and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 8 hours.
Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed medium stockpot over medium heat, or in a tabletop deep fryer, to 160 C / 325 F. Line a baking sheet with paper towels and set aside.
Drain the fries well and pat dry in batches with paper towels. Fry each batch, turning frequently, for 3 to 4 minutes or until the fries are a pale blond color and limp. Remove with a mesh skimmer to the baking sheet lined with paper towels.
Increase the heat of the oil to 190 C / 375 F.
Fry the potatoes again, in batches, turning frequently, until golden brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Remove with the skimmer and drain on clean paper towels. Season immediately with salt and serve hot.
Chapter Six: The Fast Before the Feast
"How do I look?" Sherlock stepped into the living room, tugging on his cuffs to straighten his shirtsleeves under his jacket.
John looked up from the couch, where he'd been leafing through the newspaper. He'd been ready for half an hour already, but then he didn't have all these curls to deal with. He was also only wearing a blazer and tie, while Sherlock had to wrangle all the buttons on the waistcoat. Greg hadn't wanted to do morning suits, but to add a touch of class to the mid-grey trousers and jacket, they each had an embroidered silk waistcoat and tie: Greg's in cream, a similar shade to Molly's dress, and Sherlock's in silver. The florist was providing cream and silver-sprayed boutonnieres, respectively, which should be waiting for them at the church.
John stood. Looked. Stared a bit, really. Started, as if realising an answer was expected. "Yeah," he said lightly. Forcing a casual tone. Why? "Looks good. Yeah." He moved closer, still looking at Sherlock's suit, his shoulders, chest, trousers, up to his hair, his face.
Sherlock fidgeted, ignored the impulse to touch his hair.
"Just, here, think there's..." John lifted his hand, bringing it to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock looked down to see him plucking a hair off the top of Sherlock's waistcoat. A dark, gentle loop. John flicked it away.
"Thanks," Sherlock said, feeling unaccountably short of breath.
John cleared his throat. "Sure." A beat. An eternity. Blue eyes searching Sherlock's. Sherlock's heart in his throat. Then a slight shake of John's head, once again as if recalling where he was. A step back. "Yeah. We should..."
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate they should be going. Greg had left the city earlier to pick up his parents from the train station, and would be meeting them at the church. They'd begged the use of a car and driver from Mycroft. Recalling the favour from Helsinki. At least part of it. It would take several cars and drivers to balance out Helsinki.
John turned away, leaned over to retrieve his phone from where he'd left it on the coffee table. Something was off, though; something still on his mind. A furrow between his eyebrows. It had been there since the beginning: his initial hesitance. Sherlock had ascribed it to John not wanting to be inconvenienced by the wedding planning, but he'd known even then that wasn't the real reason. Whatever it was, it had never entirely disappeared, even though John had gone along with everything since then with more or less good humour.
He'd helped Sherlock with his best man speech, steering him gently away from some really quite educational illustrations to a kind of mindless drivel that was sure to bore everyone to tears. John had insisted tears of boredom were far more desirable than tears of shock and horror, and Sherlock had acquiesced, remembering the stomach-sinking feeling he'd had for that fleeting moment at John's reception when several people had broken out their handkerchiefs. Sherlock didn't know exactly what it was he'd done wrong, but John had hugged him so it didn't matter. Sherlock recalled the feeling of John's arms around him, and while he would have done virtually anything to replicate that moment, he recognised that it had been a unique set of circumstances and he didn't want to incite anything remotely similar in Greg, so drivel it was.
John might have found peace and happiness in their odd, co-dependent, shared life. He might not mind other people believing they were intimate. He might even see what they had as a kind of exclusive partnership. But he was still straight. An occasional brush of the arm, a clap on the back, an incidental bumping of knees, those were all within the realm of shared meals and convenient dressing gowns. Anything more overtly physical -- sexual, to be blunt -- wasn't. Which was fine. John had stopped dating women. Sherlock had no need to date other men. What physical desires either of them might feel had been dealt with privately up to now, and that would continue. Fine. A hug would still be nice now and then. Very nice. Maybe there would be another opportunity.
But the point was -- and there had been a point, a salient one relating to John's furrowed brow and the faint aura of dissatisfaction that continued to hover around him regarding this wedding -- that there had been a moment while working on the speech, before their vigorous discussion of illustrations versus drivel, when John had drifted off, as if brooding, troubled just for a second by some word or image. His expression had cleared almost instantly, but that hadn't erased the suggestion of some deeper concerns.
Then when Sherlock had gone with Greg (it was really quite fun to say the name: peppy, like a bird chirping) to the appointment for their formalwear fitting -- the real one this time -- the tailor had suggested a pale cafe au lait shade for Sherlock's waistcoat, to play off Greg's cream. Sherlock had sent John the picture, remembering John's interest, and John had texted back that silver would match his eyes better. So silver it had been. Which would have all been fine, except when Sherlock got home, John had already made tomato soup and oatmeal muffins, and was up to his elbows in homemade gnocchi. And it was only mid-afternoon.
And now two mental absences within five minutes, upon being confronted with Sherlock in his costume. The brow furrow. Past experience informed Sherlock that if he continued to say nothing, life would go on as usual and eventually new crises and traumas would overlay the old ones, burying them deep enough they might as well be forgotten. But past experience was based on the time before. Before Sherlock had died. (Twice.) (Both times in front of John.) Before Mary. (Before the baby, which was never, ever referenced, not ever, not even obliquely.) Before Sherlock's life had become nothing more than a string of moments of borrowed time. Before John had asked the question. Before Sherlock had admitted he knew the answer. He still hadn't told John. Maybe it was time to start.
"John."
"Yeah?" John looked up from checking his phone, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
"This is all right for you, isn't it? Going to the wedding? Me being the best man?" Sherlock wasn't sure if that was the right question, if that was even close to the core of the problem. But it was the only starting point he had.
John straightened up, looking nonplussed. "Yeah, of course. You're going to be fantastic."
Sherlock ploughed ahead. "There was something, though, at the start. It seemed to make you uncomfortable."
"What? No! No, it was nothing." John waved Sherlock's doubts away with his hand. "Bad memories. My wedding, you know. All that. I mean not you. Not the wedding itself. That was all grand."
So that was it. Bad memories. They still plagued him, but Sherlock had already known that. The regrets. The losses. The association of Sherlock and the role of best man must have conjured up unpleasant images for him. The wedding itself had been fine, but it had started the ball rolling on a great many things that were distinctly not fine. Sherlock wished he could fix it the way he'd fixed John's limp. In lieu of a good chasing down of a murderer, he offered, "Could probably have done without the attempted murder."
"Probably have done without that, yes," John conceded, a smile fighting to break through, and something lightened in Sherlock's heart. "But no, nothing else. All done with now. Greg and Molly are lovely together, and I couldn't be happier for them. And um... the suit." John wiggled a finger up and down to encompass Sherlock's outfit. "Turned out nice."
Sherlock brushed a hand down his front. "Yes, well. The silver. Your choice."
"Brings out your eyes."
"You mentioned."
John looked away, suddenly shy. Rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb. "Um. We'd better--" He nodded toward the door. "The car's probably waiting."
"Yes, right." An odd sense of disappointment.
An hour sitting next to John, even in the roomy back seat of one of Mycroft's town cars. This new, palpable sense of feeling their way through this thing taking shape between them. Lines being redrawn. Butterflies. Not productive. John set out down the stairs. Sherlock followed.
* * * * * *
The door to the vicar's small office-cum-vestry was ajar. Sherlock knocked twice.
"Come in."
Sherlock pushed the door open. Victor stood by the window, holding his mobile phone. The last time Sherlock had seen him, when they'd come to make the arrangements, he'd been wearing a black shirt and trousers, the white tab collar the only outward sign of his vocation. Now, he wore a long, white cassock with a loose, white, lace-trimmed surplice over it and a white stole laid over his shoulders. It was somewhat startling. Like expecting the ravioli to be filled with spinach, only to take a bite and find lemon custard inside.
Victor looked up, his expression brightening when he saw Sherlock. "Will, come in! Hard to get 4G inside. The walls are so thick." He waggled his phone toward the window as explanation.
"I'm to let you know they're ready." John had been about to offer to run the errand in Sherlock's stead when Greg had asked, but he didn't like the feeling of being coddled, not even by John. Didn't like the fact that John thought there was a darker past lurking between him and Victor. Drugs, physical abuse, issues of consent. None of that could be further from the truth. Their relationship had been entirely straightforward and mundane. Polite. Victor had always been, and was still, unfailingly polite.
"Brilliant," Victor said, stowing his phone somewhere in the voluminous folds of his surplice. "You know, I'm sorry things didn't work out for us to meet." Victor reached down to the desk and clicked the mouse. He raised his eyes to give Sherlock a knowing look. "You didn't really mix up the dates, did you?"
Sherlock didn't see any point in lying now. The ceremony would be over and done with in a matter of minutes. And it would give him a certain vicious satisfaction, even if Victor sounded more amused than angry. "No," Sherlock said.
"I hope my interest didn't cause problems between you and John." Concerned now. The kindly village priest.
Sherlock bristled. "Why would you think that?" Of course it had, but that was none of Victor's business. And things were better now. Even if still unsettled.
"An idea," Victor said vaguely then shook his head. The computer made shutting-down sounds. "Never mind. I really would have liked to hear about what you've been doing. I gather you're leading quite the interesting life." He inclined his head toward the computer, suggesting he'd been reading things on the internet.
"I don't imagine it compares to the life of a country vicar," Sherlock said.
Victor smiled obsequiously. "No, I imagine not."
"Your wife?" Sherlock nodded at the framed picture standing next to the computer on the desk. Due to the oblique angle, he could only tell that it was of a dark-haired woman.
"Yes, Nancy." Victor picked up the picture and held it out to Sherlock. "I met her at my first posting. Big scandal," he confided, but he sounded rather smug. "Typical Mills and Boon stuff. I was cited to the Bishop over it, given an ultimatum. Get married or get out. I chose the life sentence."
Sherlock took the picture. It was a posed shot, amateur, of a young woman, late teens or early twenties, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed. Only her head and torso were visible, but to judge by the clothes and hair, it had been taken ten to twelve years ago. The subject was unremarkable, round cheeks, bland smile, dimples. But then Sherlock hadn't thought much of Mary when he'd seen that first snapshot of her in the manila folder in Mycroft's office. Victor's wife would have several pounds more on her frame by now, of course. Crow's feet starting. Maybe dying her hair to cover the creeping strands of white.
Sherlock was struck by the thought that he'd never seen a picture of John from more than five years ago (his passport). Also that Victor and his wife had been together for what must be something like ten years now. Would he and John still be together in ten years? John had already gone noticeably more grey, gained several sags and wrinkles in the time they'd known each other. Most notably in the past year. Sherlock resented every one of those grey hairs and deepened lines, resented the time they represented that the two of them had been apart, and the reduction of the time they had left. Which wasn't to say, paradoxically, that he didn't find John more attractive and appealing today than he had the day they'd met. (He was still quite glad he'd got rid of the mustache, though.)
"A politic choice, no doubt," Sherlock said crisply as he handed the picture back, startling even himself at the amount of venom he injected into the statement. He had nothing against the woman.
"I do love her," Victor said, mildly defensive. "Do you think I would have risked everything for less than that? She's absolutely everything I could ask for."
"Female, for one."
Victor sighed as he replaced the picture on the desk. "I always did feel that there was something unfinished between us when you never responded to my attempts to contact you after we parted ways. Will-"
"Sherlock," he said irritably, feeling the renewed need to separate himself from the weak-willed, naive boy Victor had known.
"I'm sorry, of course. Old habits. Sherlock. I hope you don't believe I didn't want you in my life anymore because your gender was incompatible with my career or my faith. It certainly would have been more difficult to live openly as a gay couple in the church fifteen years ago, but the doors were opening. Jeffrey John, Christopher Wardale, Peter Cowell and David Ward. I don't know if you've followed any of their stories."
"No," Sherlock said shortly. This was precisely why he'd wanted to avoid seeing Victor again. Being lectured, having to hear the justifications.
"I'm sure you can imagine anyway. The point is, you can't honestly say life as the spouse of a clergyman is what you wanted, either then or now. It was hard to say good-bye, but I knew it was the right decision."
The infuriating thing was that he was right, of course. Sherlock would have been miserable following Victor around, settling in some backwater. They would have grown apart at some point anyway. Better early on, when they only had good times to remember, than after the disappointments and resentments set in. It didn't make what had happened hurt any less. But if they hadn't gone their separate ways at that time, Sherlock might never have started down the path that had brought him to John. A horrifying thought.
A knock at the open door. "Everything all right?" It was John. He looked from Sherlock to Victor and back again, something tense in his expression.
"Oh, John!" Victor exclaimed, oblivious, suddenly bustling around the desk. "So sorry, we're keeping everyone waiting."
"We thought you might have dug up that attempted murder after all," John said, standing back to let him through.
Victor stopped short to give him a look of alarm. "Murder?"
"Only an attempt, not to worry," Sherlock said breezily from behind. "It all worked out in the end."
"It's a long story," John said. "You can read it on my blog."
"As I said, an interesting life!" Victor called over his shoulder as he strode off in the direction of the chapel.
Sherlock started to follow him, but John touched his arm lightly, holding him back. "Hey, everything all right?" His blue eyes on Sherlock, anxious, concerned. Stormy.
Sherlock was on the verge of reacting brusquely, his embarrassment and discomfiture over the conversation with Victor spilling over. He wondered how much John had heard. But then he took in the grey hair scattered amongst the gold, the creases at the corners of John's mouth, the bags under his eyes, the veins in his hands, and he remembered that every day was both a gift and one day closer to saying good-bye.
"It's fine, John," he said, and he meant it. He put his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed lightly. It would have to suffice. John's hand, still on Sherlock's elbow, squeezed back. They both waited, poised. Sherlock didn't know for what. He felt that a moment was coming, but this wasn't it.
Sherlock let his hand slide away. "I'm ready."
John nodded. "Okay." His voice came out rough, almost breathless. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, okay," he repeated, more brightly this time, and clapped his hands together. "Let's go get these two married."
Together, they headed for the chapel.
* * * * * *
Homemade Potato Gnocchi
Source: http://www.marthastewart.com/316607/simple-potato-gnocchi
2 1/2 pounds russet potatoes (about 5 small)
Coarse salt
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 large egg, lightly beaten
In a large pot, bring potatoes to a boil in salted water; reduce to a rapid simmer and cook until potatoes are tender when pierced with a knife, 35 to 40 minutes. Lightly dust two parchment-lined rimmed baking sheets with flour; set aside. Drain potatoes and peel while still hot with a paring knife (use a thick, dry kitchen towel or pot holder to hold them). Immediately pass potatoes through a ricer onto a work surface. Let cool completely.
Sprinkle potatoes with flour and 2 teaspoons salt, then top with egg. With your hands, work flour and egg into a dough.
Knead dough until smooth but not elastic, dusting with flour if it becomes too sticky, 4 minutes. Do not overwork dough.
Divide dough into 8 portions. Roll each portion into a rope (1/2 inch thick and 24 inches long). Cut each rope into 1/2-inch pieces.
Gently roll each dough piece against the back tines of a fork to make ridges, then arrange in a single layer on prepared baking sheets.
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. In batches, add a few handfuls gnocchi and cook until most have floated to top, 2 minutes. With a wire-mesh spider or a slotted spoon, transfer gnocchi immediately to a sauce.
Go to chapters 7-8
