Chapter Text
As Mr. Holmes had predicted during their second conversation--or Sherlock, John corrected himself, as the man had insisted that John call him by his first name, given that they would apparently be spending most of their time together for the foreseeable future--being his bodyguard was fairly quiet work for the former soldier, even more so than what he had already been doing.
Mr. Magnussen’s descriptive term of companion did seem to be the more accurate word for his new role within Appledore London. It seemed that Sherlock spent his days in solitude, and often silence; he would spend endless spans of time reading or writing, or composing music in his chair by the window; and he could play his violin for hours upon end.
John might have just called that true dedication to his instrument--if it weren’t for how often the music slipped, and took on a melancholy and plaintive quality. Or the occasional flashes of pain or regret he would catch sight of in the taller man’s face as he poured himself into his playing, swaying in the watery sunlight streaming in through the glass beside them.
Sometimes Sherlock would draw, as well--and more than once, seated in the armchair opposite the dark-haired man and reading whatever book or article had caught his fancy, John would spot the flicker of the other man’s otherworldly blue-green eyes cutting toward him as Sherlock drew. This prompted John to suspect that he himself was featured in a few of the sketches that he never caught a glimpse of.
In those moments, he didn’t comment, though he knew his cheeks were no doubt a touch warmer as he tried not to squirm under the intensity of Sherlock’s scrutiny. With anyone else, he might have viewed it as impertinent, not asking if he was comfortable with being used as a model--but Sherlock was different. In a bizarre way, John found himself almost flattered by the fascination that the younger man seemed to have with him, both physically and mentally.
They did talk, throughout the hours spent together each day, but their conversations almost always had an unnerving tendency of leaving John feeling as if he had been speaking for ages, and yet somehow, nothing of substance had been said. Sherlock was insatiably curious about him; he wanted to hear John’s stories, to know about his family and his life, his personal history and his military years--but he was never invasive. His questions were insightful and inquiring, yet not so probing that John felt uncomfortable.
Instead he found himself happy to respond, describing his memories as well as he could, and letting the other man’s more eloquent, well-read vocabulary fill in the gaps as Sherlock questioned various events and thoughts more deeply. There were constant rabbit trails in their discussions, as well; stories of John’s soldiering days prompting questions about his political views, and what he thought of the war he had served in and the motives behind it; when Harry and Clara were spoken of, Sherlock was curious about the level of acceptance John had observed in Harry’s coming out--and he seemed oddly relieved by John’s personal disclosure, and the fact that the Watson siblings had only ever received love and affirmation from their parents about their romantic preferences.
Even the existence of John’s medical license led to several hours’ debate about the current climate of healthcare, both in England and across the UK; a subject on which Sherlock seemed to have an extraordinary number of opinions, for a man who had never attended medical school. John found his passion for the topic invigorating, and his self-taught knowledge base of modern medical practices both expansive, and fantastic.
The only awkward moments that ever rose between the two men during their long, idling days in the lounge happened if John ever attempted to gain personal information in return. Sherlock ranged from monosyllabic to nonresponsive about his own origins and family, and quickly took to outright ignoring questions about his marriage to Charles.
He never showed an ounce of hesitation to discuss his literary or artistic interests--and John suspected that, should he remain positioned here long, Sherlock might just attempt to teach him to play something on the violin--but anything beyond the realm of Sherlock’s bohemian interests and hobbies remained unanswered, and shrouded in mystery.
Even the level of security in his wing of the house was left unexplained, though when John commented on it, at least Murray did not pretend to have not heard him. He showed John which monitor in the security station was set to show Sherlock’s rooms, and informed him that the recordings reset at midnight each night, deleting the day before; if no one was watching, or checked by the middle of the night, then the information was gone.
Once or twice, John would pause to watch the small, four-way screen before or after making his way up to see Sherlock; but it appeared that the man followed the same quiet, reclusive routine with or without companionship, only leaving his corner by the window in order to fetch something from the library; step out onto the opposite balcony, if it was a warm enough day; or retire to his bedroom--though John did notice that Sherlock only used that room very late at night, going to bed at odd hours and always rising early. The bedroom appeared to be of least importance to him, compared to the library and the lounge.
Even Sherlock’s meals were taken at the little table between the two armchairs, brought up to him by a pleasantly matronly-looking woman whom John never seemed to actually catch in the rooms, but Murray told him she was Sherlock’s personal housekeeper, a woman called Mrs. Hudson.
John briefly debated asking if he ought to remain with Sherlock over lunch now and then, rather than returning downstairs to eat with the security teams, but in the end he chose not to bring it up. Some days, it almost felt as if Sherlock needed that hour-long reprieve from even John’s company, as if any social interaction at all was simply too taxing for the man, living in his luxurious, glass-walled cage upstairs.
In the end, what troubled John most was the subtlety of Sherlock’s apparent sadness. He lived well, in his lounge filled with its natural light and the almost-fairytale-esque garden--which, it turned out, he tended himself. Whatever Sherlock wanted for amusement was provided for him, and his already-eclectic library began to further expand from the very day John began sitting with him, as Sherlock took his recommendations and added more fiction and novels for John’s benefit, always eager to discuss them with his guard when he finished one that John was familiar with.
He was not much of a television watcher, but he did have one in the library, and sometimes the two of them would retreat there, occupying the recliners and watching whatever caught John’s eye over tea and sandwiches.
Despite all of this, Sherlock never appeared to gain much weight, remaining skeletal and lean, and John found himself more and more concerned by it. The signs of depression that he thought he spotted were minor, and quickly covered; for all his enthusiasm about getting to know John, Sherlock was clearly very determined that his own feelings--the ones that truly mattered, that was--be left very much alone.
It occurred to John, during one such moment as he watched Sherlock playing a Vivaldi piece--and that was ignoring the humorous fact that Sherlock had been inadvertently educating him, and John could now recognize a composer just by the style of the music--that perhaps this, the unspoken air of despondency that seemed to linger over Sherlock, was why the rest of the staff had been so resistant to his questions, before John had discovered Sherlock by his own devices. That it wasn’t some dark secret so much as the simple, tragic fact that the man who lived in the left wing was helplessly unhappy, and the staff had become accustomed to protecting him in his private, lonely world.
He might even have bought that explanation, and contented himself with the “case” being closed--if not for the ravenous way that Sherlock always absorbed his attention. The way the other man seemed so hungry for John’s words and smiles; wanting his thoughts on everything that came up between them; how he became more lively when he intentionally played his violin for John, as opposed to simply filling the air with whatever music he had the pages to at the time.
John had never seen a case like Sherlock Holmes, and he found himself unable to put his worries to rest.
It took three weeks for Sherlock to seem sufficiently satisfied by all that he had learned about John, and by then they had settled into a comfortable routine together. Whether they read in silence, then later discussed a mutual reading; or whether they played chess, which Sherlock was absolutely delighted to discover that John was not entirely rubbish at (“All of the staff here is, I haven’t had a decent game in years. ”); or if John sat in quiet happiness, listening to Sherlock play as if every song was the first he had heard; whatever their activity, the days rolled by pleasantly, and John found he had never been so at peace as he was when he was with Sherlock Holmes.
One morning, after John had checked in and was preparing to go upstairs, Murray caught him before he left the security station. “John,” he said in greeting, then nodded toward the front door. “There’s some packages arrived for Mrs. Holmes, if you don’t mind taking them up with you.”
John nodded, surprised; of course he had known that all of the books, gardening supplies, and music, etc, had to be sent for when Sherlock asked for them--but he had never seen their delivery. Things seemed to simply appear upstairs, between one day and the next. He followed Murray into the foyer, raising his eyebrows at the neat stack of variously-sized boxes waiting on a trolley beside a delivery man.
“He’ll take you up,” Murray informed the man, then turned back to John. “It’s his new lab supplies. Mr. Holmes likes doing science projects, research and whatnot, in the lab across from his library. All of this--” He gestured at the packages in their tidy little tower. “--is whatever he’s asked for most recently. But he’s not allowed to be in there alone, so you’ll need to join him to supervise, alright?”
Bemused--and slightly taken aback by the childishness of suggesting that a man with Sherlock’s intelligence and capabilities would require chaperoning--John just nodded, glancing toward the ceiling as if he could see through it into the rooms above. “Sure. Uh, is the lab--locked, right now?”
Murray held up a new keycard, this one unmarked or numbered. “It stays in here--until he says he’s done with whatever he’s playing with up there, you can collect it from me when you sign in each day.” He gestured to the delivery man, and John nodded again mutely, turning to lead the bloke up to the left wing.
When he entered the lounge, followed by the trolley full of boxes, Sherlock leapt up from his armchair, his expression transitioning from obviously delighted by John’s arrival, to outright thrilled when he saw the packages. “Did Murray give you the key?”
Blinking, John nodded, biting his lip as he struggled to keep his thoughts to himself. He had never seen Sherlock look quite this excited, even about a satisfying book, or a particularly vigorous debate. Sherlock turned away from him at once, leading the way into the much-darker hallway, and John followed with the delivery, frowning slightly as he moved to slide the keycard through the slot beside the one door he had not yet seen behind, in Sherlock’s rooms.
The look on Sherlock’s face made his heart stutter a little inside his chest as the door swung inward, the light coming on at once--it must be on a motion sensor--and John squinted slightly at the unexpected rush of illumination. It was a much brighter light than those in the library or bedroom, almost clinical--but the reason became clear at once, as John followed Sherlock into this new space.
It truly was a laboratory, furnished with a handful of counters and steel-topped tables, three different double-wide sinks, and lined with cupboards of what appeared to be standard medical and technical equipment. Sherlock was rolling up his sleeves, grabbing a notebook off of one of the shelves before he turned to gesture at where the delivery man could deposit the boxes.
“Thank you,” John managed to tell the fellow, since Sherlock appeared completely uninterested in anything beyond getting his packages open. The man gave John a tired smile as he retreated, and with sudden cold discomfort, John realized that it was probably always the same man; permitted not only into Appledore London, but all the way up here into the left wing, to bring Sherlock his supplies.
He turned back toward the man himself as the door swung silently closed behind the delivery bloke, something small and frightened tugging at John’s heart as he watched Sherlock unloading and arranging various items. Some were familiar to John, others less so; but he did not approach, just watched as Sherlock vanished inside his own mind, occasionally muttering and murmuring under his breath, frequently stopping to make extensive notes in his book as he puttered. Whatever it was he was working on, it had his completely focus, and he seemed to forget that he was not alone in the room as he went about his work.
This process was repeated over the next several days. John would receive the keycard and go upstairs, where Sherlock would be waiting, on his feet and always almost vibrating with excitement, to lead the way back to the cold white room, where he would almost immediately seem to dismiss John from his thoughts, losing himself in what he was doing. John would sit on the stool by one of the lab tables, watching him moving and wondering what on earth required supervision about this.
When Sherlock’s concentration finally seemed to break, after five days, he looked around until he found John, and his entire body seemed to relax slightly. “I’ve been waiting to finish this one for months,” he commented, gesturing to the notebook that he appeared to have now filled most of. “Had to put it aside when my last shipment ran out, and Murray became too busy to stay in here, anyway. It’s expensive equipment,” he added, his tone similar to that of a child trying to resign themselves to an unwanted decision made by a parent. “Had to wait before I was able to order more.”
Watching the play of excitement--and sadness--that danced over the taller man’s face, John finally had to break his silence. “Why on earth aren’t you in charge of your own lab key? If this is another one of your hobbies?”
Sherlock glanced up at him from over his microscope, his eyes tightening fractionally even as he smiled at the soldier. “It’s just...complicated.”
John opened his mouth, wanting badly to push the subject, but Sherlock had looked back down, his impossibly thin shoulders scrunching in somewhat as he resumed his work, appearing less at ease than before. A small sigh escaped John; he was learning, slowly, when not to push with Sherlock.
* * *
During their next obligatory dinner, Charles watched Sherlock intently; and for once, Sherlock paid the scrutiny no mind, ignoring the steely weight of his husband’s gaze upon him as he ate quietly.
Finally, Charles leaned back in his chair, his finger tracing absently around the rim of his wine glass as he spoke. “I’m quite pleased by how lively you’ve been, lately.”
Unsure of what to say in reply, Sherlock remained silent; he had no desire to voice how much happier John’s companionship had made him in recent weeks. Since he knew that Charles watched them frequently on the monitors, he had no doubt that his spouse was aware of it.
Watching him continue his meal wordlessly, Charles eventually lifted one hand, extending it palm-up. “Sherlock, come here.”
It only took the younger man a heartbeat to decide that fighting the point would be useless, as always, and after a moment Sherlock obediently stood and moved around the dining table, accepting the outstretched hand, and managed not to flinch at the damp touch of his husband’s skin.
Charles tugged gently; and although his back went slightly rigid with the urge to rebel, Sherlock did nothing more to resist or pull away as he was drawn into a kiss.
When their lips parted again, Charles was smiling vaguely, watching his husband’s face closely. “Tomorrow, if you would like to, you may go into town.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open in surprise, his eyes widening before he caught himself, and tried to neutralize his reaction. “Do you mean that?”
His spouse chuckled, releasing his hand, to Sherlock’s inward relief. “I do, yes. If you promise to behave yourself, and to come back home when I call. Dr. Watson will escort you, with a few others from his security team.”
Despite his best efforts, Sherlock could not hide his excitement, and he returned at once to his seat to finish eating, his appetite clearly increased.
Charles made a note of it, grey eyes impassive as he watched his husband closely.
* * *
Once more, Murray greeted John at the door, his face making it clear that the routine was changing again for the day. “You’re taking Mr. Holmes into town today.” He nodded past John, to where four of their men stood nearby, their uniforms simplified to something a little more casual and civilian-safe. “They’ll be your team for the day. Just back-up; you’re in charge of him.”
From the Sergeant’s tone, John could tell that Sherlock going out was highly unusual; though he was hardly surprised, given the man’s reaction when he had mentioned it on their first day together, and his lack of bringing the idea up ever since then. John did not argue; personally, he thought it would do Sherlock wonders to get out of the house.
Heading upstairs in a far more casual getup than he’d become used to donning each day, John found Sherlock waiting for him, handsomely dressed in an expensive blue coat, black scarf, and leather gloves. His glasz eyes brightened at once when he spotted John, and he came to meet him, not seeming to notice the way that John’s steps stuttered at the sight of him, or the way his lips parted as he found himself struck mute.
Of course, he had already been aware that Sherlock was a very attractive man; but John had become used to the borderline casualness of the man’s simple regular outfits, his nice shirts and plain pants, so seeing him outfitted for the real world was...different.
John didn’t find his voice again until they were in the car, gliding quietly out of the gates and turning toward central London. He noticed Sherlock’s face, however; the way his eyes tracked hungrily over the outside world as they passed through it, his expression devoid of any emotion, and finally curiosity won over.
“What’s this trip about, then?” John asked softly, and he caught the way that Sherlock shivered slightly, coming back to himself and turning to give John a small smile, though his voice remained distracted.
“It’s been a long while since I was out in London. I don’t necessarily need to go, at the moment--but if Charles allows it, I’ll never say no.” He turned back toward the window, and his voice became quieter. “Thank you for agreeing to escort me.”
John could only nod in response, unsure if Sherlock saw it in the reflection of the glass, but unable to bring himself to speak out loud.
They spent the morning doing oddly tourist activities, to John’s great amusement; Sherlock wanted to wander Piccadilly Circus and to visit the Eye, simply walking along and taking things in. Whether he had memories to relive in the city, or simply wished the absorb this information as he did with every other learning experience, John didn’t know, but he remained faithfully by the other man’s side, watching Sherlock watch the world around him.
Eventually they made their way to Baker Street, and Sherlock knocked on the door of a flat beside a little deli, where John was startled to learn that his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, resided. She was clearly stunned to see Sherlock, but welcomed them warmly, ushering them inside and inviting them to tea at once. The security staff remained in the hallway, stiff and disinterested, but John followed willingly enough when Sherlock smiled at him and led the way inside.
To John’s even greater surprise, he learned that before marrying Charles and moving into Appledore London, this had been Sherlock’s home, as well; Mrs. Hudson had rented him the flat upstairs, and had been his landlady.
“It’s still empty, up there,” she admitted, chuckling a little sadly as she served them an early lunch. “I couldn’t bring myself to find someone new, not when Sherlock had gone. Your things are still there, too, if you need any of them,” she said, and Sherlock shook his head, not looking up from his tea.
“No, they’re safer kept here,” he replied, smiling lightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate you looking after them, for so long.”
“Oh, of course, dear!” She patted his shoulder fondly, beaming at John as she sat down at the head of the little kitchen table. “Sherlock was such a funny, odd sort--I enjoyed having him here, though we never spoke much. Honestly, we didn’t really get to know one another until his brother Mycroft recommended me for work at Appledore! He thought Sherlock would benefit from having a familiar face about, and I can’t say I’ve minded that one bit. I’d have missed him terribly.”
John watched Sherlock’s face closely, seeing the guarded way he closed his emotions down around the sweet woman in front of them--and John’s heart tugged painfully. Sherlock was far from an sentimental man, from what John could tell, but he clearly loved Mrs. Hudson a great deal--and that made John indescribably grateful for her existence.
All in all, it was much like visiting a friend’s mother with them--perhaps objectively a bit awkward, but very pleasant all the same. Eventually they took their leave, Mrs. Hudson insisting that they take a handful of biscuits, and promising to see Sherlock the next day at home.
Sherlock said nothing as they left, though gradually the tension returned to his shoulders, and John swallowed his confusion, unable to bring himself to press on the wound that seemed to have reopened in his companion’s mind as they departed 221 Baker Street.
Having eaten enough to be content, they skipped going out for lunch and instead ended up at the Diogenes Club, and John’s footsteps stuttered to a halt as Sherlock quietly asked to see Mycroft Holmes. “Wait, wasn’t that--is that your brother?” Sherlock merely nodded, looking over at him curiously, and John blinked, looking away as he processed the idea of meeting Sherlock’s family--something he hadn’t even been sure actually existed. “...Alright, then.”
They were ushered into a small, dimly-lit study, where an imposing man several years older than Sherlock was seated behind a large desk, reading quietly. Eyes a slightly paler shade of Sherlock’s ever-changing blue rose to look at them, and the man’s surprise was evident only in the slight rise of one eyebrow, before he stood to greet them.
“Sherlock,” he murmured, stepping around the desk and embracing the younger man. “I am delighted. What’s prompted this, then?”
Shrugging, Sherlock returned the hug perfunctorily, then sank into one of the chairs with an air of something like exhaustion, the stiffness bleeding out of his posture. John watched him in disbelief, stunned to see the almost normal way that Sherlock appeared to behave in his sibling’s presence. “No motive offered; simply permission. Mycroft, this is John--you know about him.”
“I do, indeed,” the older Holmes brother acknowledged, smiling benignly as he turned toward the shorter man. “Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
John sat in the second chair next to Sherlock, unable to hide his incredulity; neither man commented on the bewilderment in his expression. The brothers talked for a while, light and meaningless chatter that didn’t require John’s attentive listening, though he did watch Sherlock as he spoke.
Until today, John had not known that Sherlock had a brother, and observing them together, he couldn’t entirely deduce what the nature of their relationship was; there was a mild sort of petulance in Sherlock’s posture and tone, like any younger sibling who constantly felt put-upon, or overshadowed. But there was also an undeniable fondness, almost a strange yearning in the shifting colors of his eyes, as if Sherlock were just as hungry for his brother’s presence as he was, daily, for John’s.
John was startled out of his thoughts by the muted trilling of a mobile, and Sherlock’s entire body stiffened marginally, his eyes becoming devoid of emotion before he drew the phone out of his coat pocket. Mycroft, too, appeared to close down, looking away with polite disinterest as Sherlock answered the call with a quiet murmur of greeting.
When he hung up, John raised an eyebrow. He had never, in all of the past weeks, seen Sherlock with a phone, and the normalcy of the sight was unsettling. Sherlock offered him a tired smile. “We’re needed back. Home.”
John nodded, standing and instinctively reaching to touch the other man’s elbow, helping him rise before the soldier realized that of course Sherlock did not require his physical assistance. He ignored his own slight flush, turning hastily to accept Mycroft’s brisk handshake, and when Sherlock had bid his brother goodbye, John followed him quietly out of the office, where their security detail fell in behind them.
As they walked back to where the car was meeting them, Sherlock spoke, his voice still as soft and thin as it had been in his brother’s study. “I...appreciated your companionship today, John. Thank you for coming with me.”
There was something dark and empty in his gaze, more so than it had been previously, and John’s breath caught slightly, wondering if perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps it would have been better for Sherlock to have not left the house, and to interact with the world outside of his daily bubble.
But he said none of that. John smiled, and put out his hand again to touch Sherlock’s arm, more firmly this time, just above his hand. The slight shiver that rippled through the limb beneath his fingers made him remember himself, and John withdrew his hand, glancing back to be sure that his men had not noticed the exchange. “I enjoyed it, Sherlock,” he assured the taller man. “I enjoy being with you.”
The answering smile was still faint, but there was unmistakable relief, and hope, in Sherlock’s crystalline eyes, as if John’s contentment was the only thing that could possibly matter to him.