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“Sherlock! Where the hell are you?” John looks around for the missing detective.
“Please get in here and give me the file. Greg’s in enough trouble as it is.”
He’d just seen the poor DI, haggard and harassed. If the internal audit reports anything negative, it will be his job on line as well as his reputation. John likes Lestrade too much to let that happen, simply because his git of a flat mate can’t be bothered with common courtesy.
Said flat mate isn’t anywhere in the flat though and isn’t answering his phone either. Greg needed that file yesterday! It surely isn’t anywhere in the living room, he’s even checked under the couch and chairs, and John sees no option but to look for it in Sherlock’s room. He looks around under the pile of books on the table, inside the drawer of the table, in the closet, nope nope no sign of file. The floor is unexpectedly tidy. Oh God, he panics, can it have been chucked in the old news paper pile? He rushes out and looks through it. Still no sign. He is getting desperate now. He goes back into Sherlock’s room and checks under the bed. He spots a sheaf of papers. Finally!
He pulls out the whole thing. Strangely there isn’t much dust on it. So Sherlock does tidy spaces that he wants to.
A magazine. Newspaper cuttings. Ha! There's the file. And…
It is face down, but he knows what it is. He tells himself to leave it and simply get out. But as he sits on his knees, on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom, the file in one hand, the rest of the papers in front, he knows that he will turn the pieces of stiff glossy paper held together by a spiral binding, and that he will see THE CALENDAR.
There are hundreds like it, printed all over the world, featuring various themes with a variety of subjects, but there is only one which he sometimes wishes had never existed. A ten-year old "Men of the Armed Forces" calendar. Featuring John.
Against his better judgment he turns it over and immediately closes his eyes in consternation. Then he replaces it face down, returns the cuttings and magazine on top, puts back the remainder under the bed, picks the file and leaves the flat to return the file to a grateful Lestrade.
*****
The next few days John can’t stop thinking of his discovery.
Why would Sherlock have it? He would have been barely out of his teens when it came out. It hadn't been intended for wide circulation. So where could he have got it? Was it recently acquired? Again why? A prank? Experiment? What sort? He can’t figure it out but his mind refuses to give up.
Obviously he doesn't mention it to Sherlock.
The next week when he is alone at the flat, John goes looking for it again. It's no longer there and his stealthy search reveals nothing. He suspects that Sherlock knows he found it and has now hidden it. He still says nothing. But there is a constant strain in the flat. They seem to be dancing around each other. Neither willing to confront the other.
They would have perhaps continued this way indefinitely but, things come to a head at a crime scene. The victim is a photographer and her model live-in boyfriend is the prime suspect. The body was found on the balcony of their shared apartment. The apartment is strewed with his snaps in various poses, many of them semi nude. As they enter the bedroom to search for clues, John freezes. There is a huge photo on one wall that could be a copy of his pose in THE CALENDAR.
Sure the pose in itself wasn't all that original, but recent events have made it inevitable that he will make that connection. Greg, who is behind him, bangs into him with an Oi! and Sherlock turns around to notice John’s expression. John quickly averts his eyes but the damage, per se, has been done. Sherlock has deduced enough and John is flustered the entire time they are at the crime scene.
When they return to Baker St. he excuses himself on the pretext of grocery shopping. By the time he returns, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.
*****
If the preceding days were strained, then the next two are bloody awkward. John can barely look at Sherlock, who is suddenly keeping himself away from John’s personal space. The tension is palpable.
That evening John is preparing dinner when Sherlock enters the flat. John receives a brief nod and responds with, “I'm making dinner and you are going to eat.”
He is trying his best to say it in his normal tone and seems to have succeeded when they go through the usual round of Not hungry! followed by John putting his foot down and the detective relenting with the air of bestowing a benediction. As they eat, their conversation runs its normal course and Sherlock eats enough to satisfy the doctor.
John cleans up after and is wiping the washed plates when Sherlock comes into the kitchen. He leans against the counter and says, “You are ashamed of it.”
John does not even pretend that he doesn't know what it is. “Not exactly.” He shrugs.
“Why?”
“I don't want to talk about it, Sherlock.”
“You are upset that I have a copy.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
John is done by now and he takes a long time to wipe his hands carefully and hang the dish towel in the proper place. “Why do you have it?” He returns eventually. He looks over at Sherlock who is now looking as if he no longer wants to talk about it. So he continues, “Was it a prank? Though I can't think what purpose it would serve, unless you plaster it across the walls of the NSY.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Why then? To mock me?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Just answer the bloody question! You claim that this is not your area, and then you have a calendar which is nothing but what can at best be described as eye candy. One of the pictures happens to be mine. So what else am I supposed to think?”
“Perhaps it is the same reason that anyone else would have it.” Sherlock counters and John’s eyebrows shoot up in shock.
“You… Honestly… Why… There’s the whole bloody internet for that now!”
“I've answered your question, so now answer mine.”
“No. No you have not answered my question. I still don't understand why you have it.”
“Irrelevant John. It's not my having it that's creating the unpleasantness in the flat. It's your dismay at my having it, which is the problem. So clearly we need to address that.”
“I already told you, I don't want to talk about it.”
“I have seen you half clad dozens of times. You were in the army, where privacy was a luxury. So is it just the sexual context that disturbs you?”
“I'm sure you'll have deduced everything by now and need no inputs from me. So I shall get to bed then. Good night Sherlock.” John brushes past Sherlock and starts for his room.
“You haven't had your tea.”
“…”
“It's too early for bed, John.”
“…”
“You haven't brushed your teeth.” Sherlock rattles off, following John out and half way up the stairs. Evidently trying to stop him. “It was a crush.” He finally blurts, arresting John mid-stride.
John turns around to face him then. He looks so stunned that Sherlock fidgets under his gaze but stands his ground. John seems to be searching for words and coming up with nothing.
Finally, John gives a relieved smile and says, “Oh I see. You had a crush on one of the soldiers in the pictures. That's good. It's ok. It's good. I'm … I'm sorry I was a berk about it ok. I… I didn't realise. I won't mention it again.” Then he gives a conspiratorial grin and says, “Bet it was April. Everyone mooned over him.” He gives a short laugh then and hops down. “Tea?” He asks.
Sherlock patiently waits for John to finish his tea and watch some telly. He has decided that he doesn't want to upset John’s routine. But tell him he must. John may be an idiot but he is not entirely an imbecile. Sooner or later he is bound to figure it out. At least that's how Sherlock justifies it to himself.
Finally, John has changed into his pyjamas and is brushing his teeth. Sherlock leans against the bathroom door and observes John. There is a sparkle in his eyes as he looks at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror. It seems to say that- John knows Sherlock’s secret and it will stay so. After all it's a guy thing.
As John rinses his mouth Sherlock says, “It's not April.”
John looks up and smiles, the sparkle unabated, “ummm hmm,” wipes his face, turns around and asks, “Which one then? November was popular as well, but I'm sure your choice will stump me. Do tell.”
For one moment Sherlock debates his decision. Then he plunges in. He looks into John’s eye sombrely and says, “It is August.”
Instantly the smile drops and the sparkle disappears. John looks dismayed. “Wh… Aug…and what do you mean is?”
“Because it is.”
“Stop. Please stop. You are kidding me right?” John is almost pleading now. Clearly he doesn't want this and will fight it.
Sherlock does the next best thing possible. “Good night, John.” He says brightly and turns around.
He closes the door behind him and his face crumples. He bared his soul to John and it came to nought. Of course it did. John is emphatically not gay. John does not want Sherlock. Hell, he doesn't even want Sherlock to want him.
He gives a dry laugh and lies down. He wishes he could play, but his violin case is in the living room and John is still out there. He knows that John hasn't gone up yet. He has been a coward and an escapist all his life, one more instance of it isn't going to lower his opinion of himself any further. So he settles in for a sleepless night.
*****
John lingers in the bathroom facing the door to Sherlock’s room. He keeps blinking as though to get some clarity. None is forthcoming and he knows from experience that Sherlock won't explain. Does he want Sherlock to explain! They don’t talk. Not about such things.
John found Sherlock attractive in a way of admiring beauty, and Sherlock disdained both sex and love. He has left it at that. It keeps things uncomplicated. Slowly, like an arthritic, John makes his way back to the living room and slumps in his chair.
August
Crush
Because it is
The same reason anyone else would have it
He rubs his palms over his eyes and rocks back and forth. He can’t make sense of any of it. Could Sherlock have had a crush on him? Or rather his photo? A more youthful him of course. But still him. He is so… ordinary. John has no use for false modesty, he knows that while Sherlock is a peacock he is a sparrow.
Additionally, there is the whole question of Sherlock’s sexuality. He has always seemed asexual.
And finally, there is the picture in the calendar.
Sherlock is wrong. He isn’t ashamed of it. He had been so raw back then. Just out of training, awaiting deployment. Naïve, cocky, and hell, young! He had been unscarred. He has changed since then and a whole lot of it has been for worse. He has killed people and had pieces of himself killed. The scars are on the body and the mind.
He doesn’t dislike this version of himself. He is comfortable with who he is, but he cannot stand to be compared to his younger self, unscarred and unblemished. He isn’t sure he could bear it if Sherlock scrutinised him through lenses tinted with the vision captured in the photo. To be seen as he is, scars and all, is acceptable, but to be compared and either found wanting or idealised would be cruel.
He realises that his why still remains unanswered.
Its getting late, he needs to get to bed. As he rises from the chair, Sherlock enters, rubbing his eyes.
“Couldn’t sleep?” John asks. Sherlock shakes his head as he heads to the couch and flings himself on it.
“Tea?” They say simultaneously and smile. They still have this, John thinks fondly and heads to the kitchen. When he gets back with two cups Sherlock surprisingly makes space for him on the couch. They rest their feet on the coffee table and enjoy the silence. Once again it's Sherlock who breaks it.
“I didn't keep it to mock you. I have had it for years. Ever since it was published in fact.” He explains and knows John is listening attentively even if he doesn't turn. “I stole it from a desk in the Diogenes club,” he adds mischievously. “I had been summoned by Mycroft and after our usual tiff, had stormed out. On my way out one of his more obnoxious and thick skinned acquaintances spotted me, and dragged me to his room at the club, for a chat." John has to laugh at the scorn. "It was the second week of August. The calendar was open, looking away from the door, which of course roused my curiosity,” he gives a rueful smile, “I turned it around and then, when he turned his back to get a drink, I stole it and ran out like a common thief.” He finishes with a glitter in his eye. It reminds John of the look Sherlock gets each time he nicks things from the Yarders.
Sherlock pauses then and rests his mouth on his knuckles, contemplating. He turns to John and says, “You will say now that I haven't yet answered your why, I suppose?”
John simply smiles and looks on. Sherlock straightens again and rests his head against the back of the sofa, looking to the ceiling. “I was at my lowest point then. Just before I started using drugs regularly. I was great at pretending otherwise, but I didn't really think much of myself back then. And there you were, an exact antithesis. You looked so alive. Embodying everything that I wasn’t, but wished subconsciously to be. Handsome, friendly, confident, sexy and happy.” John is startled at the adjectives. Not simply because Sherlock is applying them to him, but also because he is saying he didn't believe himself to be any of those. The most surprising is handsome, and the least surprising but terribly saddening, for him, is happy.
“Don’t, John.” Sherlock admonishes, reading him accurately. “So there's your why. I’ve had it for a long time now. It gave me joy to look at you, to imagine that if we ever met, you would like me, that you would find me attractive.”
“You fantasised about me?” It's not just a query, it's an expression of astonishment.
“I suppose, yes, you could call it that." The smile is shy and rueful, adorable! "I wanted a boyfriend like you. In fact, I wanted you, or rather how you were portrayed. It was a pleasant dream. The calendar is among the few possessions that have survived my years of addiction and multiple evictions.”
John isn’t sure he wants to ask the next question. Of course now that he has thought about it Sherlock would have deduced it. Why does Sherlock still have it? What did he meant by saying – it is? He wonders if Sherlock will answer regardless. After a lengthy silence he concludes that Sherlock won't.
He picks the cups and takes them to the kitchen. “Good night, Sherlock.” He says and turns to the stairs. As he nears the stairs, the lights in the living room are turned out, and he has barely climbed two steps when Sherlock grabs him from behind and pulls him close. They are almost of a height then, John stumbles and reaches for the wall, but Sherlock grabs his hand and wraps it around John’s stomach, entwining their fingers.
“Let it be.” He breathes into John’s ear.
“Sherlock…”
“Yes, John.” He affirms, softly turning John to face him, holding him close. John is leaning heavily on him and they are so close that he can't focus on Sherlock’s face. The darkness in the living room isn't helping either. As usual, Sherlock reads his thoughts, “Let the lights be. It’s better this way.”
What does he mean? Sherlock gathers John closer and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck. “John!” he breathes, “Please John, just for a moment.”
John can't breathe. He isn't sure what Sherlock wants. Not sure if he can give it to him. Sherlock simply holds him, gentle but close. His breathing is ragged and he is trembling. John is holding his breath.
“Breathe, John. Breathe.” John exhales, shuddering and Sherlock strokes his back. Soothing him. “Yes, John. Slowly now.” He whispers.
His own breathing, however, has kicked up. John can't bear to see him suffer and so he puts his arms around Sherlock, and leans in.
Sherlock’s relief is palpable. His entire body seems to calm and John can't help trying to get closer. They stand there and slowly Sherlock’s breathing returns to normal.
“John.”
“Hmm.”
“I know you don't want this.”
John tenses again, about to respond, but Sherlock prevents him.
“Hush. You don't need to say anything. Just don't. It's ok. I know.” He draws a deep breath and continues, “You aren't gay, and I am me. I know I'm expecting too much, John, but you have never denied me anything. So, just let me hold you. Just this once.”
John nods in his embrace, unable to form a better response.
“We will go back to the usual tomorrow. I promise. No demands, no touching, nothing. Just friends. I just need this one moment. Just us. Which is why I don't want any lights. It will be easier this way.”
John says nothing as he stands there in the dark, in the circle of warmth and light that is Sherlock. He aches for this beautiful, sad man. He wishes to tell him so many things. Doesn't he know that in any situation, in any world, in any time, John Watson would do anything for Sherlock Holmes? Give him anything he asks for? He can't find the words. It's all too new to him. He is overwhelmed and at a loss of how to respond. He simply holds Sherlock close, hoping he understands this too, just the way that he does everything about John. He hopes he doesn't need to put any of it in words because he doesn't have any.
They simply stand there in silence and John’s hope fades as finally Sherlock breaks away, turns towards his room and closes the door behind himself. John stands there feeling bereft.
The day has been a roller coaster of emotions and revelations and he is torn between tearing down Sherlock's door, holding him close, never letting him go, and fleeing far away and burying himself safe. As he climbs up the stairs and slips into bed, he wonders- since when did he crave safety? None of his choices had ever been about safety. He finally falls into a disturbed sleep, feeling that he has failed Sherlock spectacularly.
*****
John wakes up next morning feeling unrested. His eyelids feel gritty and he wishes he could lie in bed all day. He closes his eyes again, but the memory of the events of the previous night floods back, eliciting a groan. As usual, sleep and morning bring clarity, but they also bring guilt.
How had he let that happen?
Sherlock, the most private individual he knew, had bared himself to him, laid bare his once youthful insecurities and fantasies, and John had failed to respond. Hell, he hadn't even sympathised.
What a bloody pathetic excuse of a friend was he that he made Sherlock apologise for his softer feelings and hide them in dark.
He knew that it had been a relief not to have to respond to or return them in anyway, but in the stark light of the day he could not absolve his inaction of the night. He has finally joined the legions that have bruised his friend. That final thought spurs him to get out of bed.
He has no idea how to go about healing such wounds. They ran deep and were, in part, self inflicted, but he would be a damn pathetic soldier and doctor if he didn't try to protect and heal. He would need to do both today and in the days to come, but most importantly he will be a friend.
The first question of course is- what does he feel about Sherlock and Sherlock’s confession? Resolving something within, he steps out.
Sherlock is already dressed and at the table, working. It is a white shirt today.
“Good morning.” John beams at him as Sherlock looks up warily. He masks it quickly though and sifts through some papers and pokes through some petridishes. It was rather well done. To anyone else it would have seemed that he was busily occupied cataloging his observations or some such thing.Although John, the only expert in Sherlock Jolmes, and heck yes he invented that field of specialisation, thank you, knows better. Sherlock is nervous and John adds an extra layer of normality, morning cheer and good mood to his voice.
“Tea? Toast?” Sherlock merely grunts. “Both then.”
He hums to himself as he bustles about, heating water, clearing a portion of the table, digging into the cupboards. He gets out some raspberry jam and honey (for himself and Sherlock respectively), mulls over a bit and then pulls out some butter as well.
By now, Sherlock is on high alert. He hadn't been sure what to expect this morning but the ‘usual’ had not been on the list. For months now he has been fearful of John’s reaction to discovering his attraction. So this calm morning seems anti-climactic. He knows that resolution to action always makes John happy and he is now humming under his breath as he places two tea mugs on the table and turned to get the toast. Sherlock deduces that John has resolved to ignore yesterday and carry on as before. Just as Sherlock had asked. Just as Sherlock had promised.
So why is he feeling so heartbro.... so disappointed?
The status quo is going to be maintained. So why does he have the urge to shake John and provoke a reaction to shatter it?
John finishes setting the breakfast on table and sits down. “We are out of eggs.” He says in his usual fond-exasperated tone. “Does your experiment need the entire egg or just the shells? I suspect the latter. You could just crack them in a bowl and put it in the fridge, you know.” He munches on his toast then not really expecting an answer. Sherlock simply sips his tea.
“Eat.” John prods. “I've buttered the toast and got that Himalayan honey. No excuses,” he preempts, and Sherlock grudgingly spreads the honey and bites on a slice.
“I've got the late shift today. Will be back by six though. Anything on at the Yard? Bart? Are you stepping out?”
“No.”
“No case or not going out?”
“Both.”
“Good. We have the morning to ourselves then. Stay with me for a bit.”
Sherlock panicks then. What if? Would John? He can still leave and avoid this.
John clears the table and washes up, including the cups from last night that he caresses fondly as he recalls the conversation that they had been privy to. Sherlock continues to sit at the table. He tenses a bit as John joins him. He opens his mouth but John cuts in, “Wait. You spoke last night and I listened. I'd like to have a go now. I haven't prepared a speech or anything, and I'm hardly as articulate as you are. So bear with me, ok.”
He then pauses, takes a deep breath. Sherlock does not react. He is peering at him closely. John starts again, “There are two things I want to speak about. I will begin with the calendar…. You asked if I was ashamed of it. The answer is no. I'm not ashamed. I…”
“You don't want to be compared!” Sherlock pronounces, eyes narrowed as he read John’s face.
“Aaa… Yes.” John gave a self-deprecating smile.
Sherlock’s eyes widen as if he’s just seen something unfathomable. “But you are still the same John! What I see in that photo is still in you. Those haven't changed.”
John gave a short laugh, “Really, Sherlock? Handsome, confident, sexy and happy? Which one fits me now?” He smiles fondly.
“Fishing for compliments, John?” Sherlock grins.
John can't help laughing then. In a way he had been. Trust Sherlock to pounce on that. The git!
Sherlock suddenly turns serious and looks into his eyes, saying, “All of them. That first day at Barts, I almost behaved like one of those silly fans of celebrities. I wanted to impress you so badly. Heer was my icon right in front, speaking to me, about to ask me if we could share a flat, and all I could think up were stupid clichés. In flesh, you looked more handsome to me. More sexy. The confident and happy parts were somewhat lacking, but I hoped that I would be the one bringing them back.” A wry disparaging smile. Once again John finds himself stumped. How had he missed all the cues? “So when you giggled and quipped after shooting the cabbie I was ready to burst.”
“But I am scarred, Sherlock. I have nightmares. My limp may have gone but there's my hand. I still can't perform surgery.”
“But you can shoot. Far better than the raw youth in the photo could. Would he have killed to protect a near stranger? Would he have stood up to Mycroft? Would he have been able to hold his nerve strapped to explosives? Would it have angered him to hear an uncaring arrogant sod called a 'freak'? Would he have placed his loyalty to a recovering addict and a sociopath above his own welfare, would he have found me good enough to fight for? I could go on John. The truth is that if there were a comparison, then you, this you, will come out trumps against your youth.”
“Sherlock..."
“The unblemished cocky youth might have done it for the barely out of teens, ugly, almost addict. But I am far more impressed by a battle hardened soldier and a preserver of life.” Sherlock leans back as if finished. He tips his chin challengingly at John, willing him to contradict a single thing he has said.
John’s lips twitched but his expression was still thoughtful. “That's the other thing. You expressed your… attraction as… as current. I mean…”
“And I also said that you need not bother yourself…”
“Give me a minute to finish, will you. That's what I'm trying to say. It's not a bother. It's… I'm willing to try Sherlock. I mean… I really don't know, I haven't figured it all out yet, but I'd like to. You are my best friend. I can't remember being so close to anyone else before. And… Uh um… I find you attractive too. Always have. That could be a start right?... I mean we could figure it out together. If you want of course. You told me this wasn't your area, so if you don't want to do anything, then that's fine too. But after last night... When you… and you said… so I thought that… you know may be we could. You could help me... figure it out and we could…”
“John Watson, are you proposing that we start dating each other?” Sherlock grins, eyes glinting.
“Is it dating if we are already living together?” John retorts back with an equally big grin. They laugh together then. “I’ve got to be out by 12 so I best get a shower now.”
***
John is about to leave for the clinic, he checks his pockets for his mobile, keys and wallet. “I’ll see you in the evening, right?”
“Yes, John.”
“Let's go out for dinner.”
“Angelo’s?”
“It's a date.” He smiles. Suddenly he can't stop smiling. The happy part is definitely back thanks to his mad flat mate. But the confident… He bites his lower lip nervously and walked over to the table where Sherlock is now working in earnest. “Umm… Sherlock? We can do that again now you know. I mean … that thing on the stairs… if you…”
“Yes.” Sherlock springs up and holds out a hand.
John takes it and draws him closer, looking into his face the way he had been denied last night. He gives a contented sigh as he wraps his arms around his detective. His temple resting on his shoulder. Sherlock's arms are around him and all is well with his world.
He pulls back after a moment, and before he can lose his nerve, quickly pecks Sherlock on his lips, turns and leaves.