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John looked up from where he was sitting in the back of the ambulance as Sherlock approached. He tried to glare balefully at his flatmate with his one good eye while holding the cold compress the paramedic had given him to the other. He wasn’t sure if the look was successful. Sherlock appeared contrite, but that could have just been a combination of the orange shock blanket over his shoulders, the beer that had turned his thick hair into damp ringlets around his face and the split lip. “I’m pretty sure this is your fault,” John said. Sherlock sat down beside him and shared his blanket without comment. Three hours earlier: John frowned as he checked the address that his sister had sent him on his phone, and then compared it to the black numbers painted onto the purple door in front of him. He confirmed that he was indeed in the right place and then pushed open the door. Loud music hit his ears as soon as he entered and if someone had told him it was Adele singing, he would have been none the wiser. The pub was about three quarters full, mostly women with a handful of men scattered here and there amongst them. John suddenly felt self-conscious. “Johnny!” Harry’s voice rang stridently over the din, and John glanced around the room until he spotted his sister waving madly at him from a table near the back. He managed to traverse the room with only half a dozen apologies as the crowd jostled him, and then Harry had a hand on his arm and was tugging him into a chair across a small table from her and another woman. “You made it. Brilliant! Let’s get you a pint. LONI!” John flinched as Harry bellowed; being embarrassed by his sister’s exuberance had pretty much become habit by now; he grinned sheepishly at his sister’s companion without even realizing he was doing it. The other woman didn’t seem put off by either Harry’s volume or his misplaced guilt. A tall blonde waitress in a low cut pink t-shirt and high cut pink shorts approached their table. ‘Some women marry other women—deal with it’ her shirt proclaimed. “Christ, Harry, I bet they heard you in Doncaster!” the waitress said with a laugh. “As long as you heard me, Loni, my love, that’s all that matters. This is my brother Johnny. Johnny, Loni.” This made Harry giggle, which made John give her a suspicious look. She lifted her glass and waved it under his nose. “Oh, fuck’s sake, Johnny, it’s just club soda!” John briefly hated Harry’s tone, even more briefly hated himself for sniffing at the drink anyway, and then he turned his attention back to the waitress. “’Lo,” he said. “He’ll have a pint of Brains,” said Harry. “How’s your voddy, Mo?” she asked the woman beside her. “I could do with another,” was the response. “Another vodka tonic for my lovely companion, Loni. Cheers; thanks!” The waitress disappeared back into the crowd and Harry turned her attention back to John. “Johnny, this is Maureen. Mo, this is my brother Johnny.” “John,” he corrected her, holding out his hand. Maureen had a strong grip that didn’t seem to match her willowish figure. “Pleased ta meetcha,” she said with a smile, revealing even white teeth that had definitely given some lucky orthodontist at least the down payment on a McLaren. Loni was back with their drinks and Harry insisted on paying, despite John’s protests. “Nonsense, Johnny,” she said. “I was the one that invited you, so it’s only fair that I get at least the first round. Isn’t that right, Mo?” “Too right,” Maureen agreed with a kiss to Harry’s cheek. She watched as John took a sip of his beer and then flashed Harry another one of her perfect white smiles. “Harry,” she said, “you told me your brother was a hottie, but you didn’t tell me he played for our team!” Harry giggled. “Sorry—what?” John frowned, wondering what he had just missed. “Oh, Mo, I didn’t say because I don’t think he knows yet.” Harry sipped at her club soda and her eyes twinkled merrily in John’s direction. “Now hold on—are you saying? What are you--? I’m not gay.” John gave the two women his very serious look, and then followed it up with his you’re ridiculous eye roll. Neither woman looked impressed. “Bloody hell, Harry, what was your mum then? A big gay Pez dispenser?” “That’s about the sum of it,” Harry replied. “I’m not gay,” John exclaimed. “Have you got a boyfriend, then?” asked Maureen. “Not gay,” John reminded her. “Oh, Johnny, don’t fret. I didn’t invite you here to out you! All in good time, as they say. Relax, drink up, and tell us all about the latest mad caper you’ve been on.” John was remembering every reason he and Harry didn’t get on starting with an incident with a pacifier and vinegar when he was still in the cradle, and wondering if he should just go now. “Johnny solves crimes, Mo, just like a proper secret agent or sumthin’.” The smile on Harry’s face was full of pride and the glass in front of her was not full of booze, so John shrugged and decided it wouldn’t hurt to stay for a bit. Two hours ago: “And it turned out to be the carnival owner after all, just as Sherlock had said. Bastard had done in four kids before we caught him.” John finished his second pint along with his story. “I can’t believe he tried to shoot you, Johnny,” Harry was still loud enough to be heard over the music and the crowd, despite both having doubled in size and volume over the last hour. “So, this Sherlock,” said Maureen. “You fancy him. He your boyfriend, then?” “Sherlock? Are you kidding? No!” John was maybe a touch more vehement in his denial than was actually warranted by the comment, but he decided to blame it on the beer. Harry, quite unhelpfully, just giggled like Maureen had just said something of Stephen Fry cleverness. “Well, sounds like it,” said Maureen. “Do you even hear yourself? ‘Blah blah Sherlock did this, Sherlock did that, Sherlock’s so clever—“ “Sherlock’s so handsome!” Harry chimed in with a knowing smirk. “Shut up! I don’t sound like that,” John snapped. “Sherlock’s so dreamy,” Maureen sing-songed in a besotted teenager’s lisping tone. “Seriously now—" “John and Sherlock, sitting in a tree—"began Harry. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” she and Maureen chanted in unison. “Bloody hell!” John roared, shocking them both into silence. “He’s just my damned flatmate! He can’t possibly be my boyfriend when he barely even notices that I exist!” The silence that followed went from stunned to awkward and John played back what he had just said in his head. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, and drained his glass. “Oh, Johnny,” Harry gave his hand a commiserating pat and then called out for another round. One hour ago: “I never! Not even in the damned army, where it was all bloke-on-bloke all the bloody time!” John finished his pint and Maureen gave him an understanding nod. “But now, Christ! I don’t know what it is.” John hiccupped sadly. “He’s just brilliant, you know; like a—like a—you know, one of those brilliant things!” he made a hand gesture that didn’t explain anything. “A light bulb?” Harry guessed. “No! Brillianter—brillie—more brilliant! You know!” He did the hand thing again and nearly knocked over Maureen’s drink. “A diamond?” Maureen suggested. “Yes! God, yes!” John slapped his hand down on the table. “A diamond—brilliant and priceless and—” A pause. “And cold,” he finished morosely. “You have got it so bad,” Harry told him. “Well,” John tried to muster up his sober inner soldier and met with limited success. “Doesn’t matter anyway. ‘Married to his work’ and all that.” He fumbled around in his jacket pockets, hunting for his phone. “I should head out, Harry. Probably had one too many already. I’ll need to call a taxi…” “Oh, hon, c’mon,” said Maureen. “One more for the ditch!” Harry laughed like she’d never heard anything so funny, kissed Maureen’s cheek and hollered for the waitress. “No, no, that’s quite all right.” John had found his phone and was squinting drunkenly at it trying to remember if he had any cabs on speed dial. Then he considered where he was and what time it was and he thought he might have better luck just flagging one down in the street. When his phone beeped he nearly dropped it in surprise. One new text message
It told him. The fresh round of drinks had arrived by the time he had opened the text, and he had to close one eye to read: Need
you at once.
S.H. This made John smile and Harry glared at him suspiciously for a moment and then yanked the phone out of his hand. “Hey!” he reached for the phone and knocked his full pint onto the floor without noticing. Harry pressed several keys on the phone in quick succession. “What the hell? Harry, give that back!” John stood up and Maureen pushed him back into his chair with a giggle and very little effort. “It’s for your own good,” Harry said, her eyes glued to the screen. The phone chimed again. Harry’s smile became positively evil and she typed with a victorious air for almost a full minute before stabbing the send button with a flourish. And then she did it again, quicker this time. “There. Sorted.” She handed the phone back to John who stared at the text conversation now posted on his screen with mounting horror. Need
you at once.
S.H. What for JW Coffee. Black. Two sugars. S.H. Sod off JW Problem? S.H. Get
your bony ass over here Blush 8 Cazenove Road Stoke Newington JW
Sorry meant hot ass JW Love me or leave me forever :) JW John put his head in his hands. “Harry, you utter cunt,” he groaned. “You’re welcome,” she replied, and Maureen gave her a hug. Thirty minutes ago: Harry had promised him a ride home if he would just wait for her and Maureen to finish their drinks. He was just that much too drunk that he didn’t realize she was stalling. It might have been more obvious to him if he had believed for even one moment that Sherlock was going to show up. But he suspected his flatmate was probably lying on the sofa, phone clasped between his hands like a catechism and nicotine patches chasing each other up his arms while he stared at the ceiling and tried to deduce whether John was drunk, texting in code, or in fact had gone completely mental. John was making a few deductions of his own about his mental state by this time, although his head was beginning to clear a little, from the drink at any rate. “Okay, Harry, you about ready then?” He started to rise from his chair . “Well, that didn’t take long,” Harry said, smiling at something over his shoulder. John closed his eyes. “No, God, no,” he muttered. He turned around, held onto his chair for support and opened his eyes to stare directly at Sherlock Holmes as he came striding through the room. John just had time to wonder how Sherlock’s coat could seem to flap angrily when Sherlock’s expression was completely neutral, and then said neutral face, complete with full pink lips and wide pale eyes was directly in front of him. “John?” “Sherlock?” John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was seeing in his face, and he had absolutely no idea what he might be seeing in Sherlock’s, so for a few moments there was just staring. It reminded John briefly of that long ago drugs bust that Lestrade had faked during their very first case together. Finally, just as every last fight or flight instinct in John’s body was screaming at him to bolt, Sherlock sat down next to him and arched an eyebrow. “Bony ass, John?” “I can explain?” John offered, hoping the hot blush he could feel crawling up his cheeks was hidden in the pub’s dim mood lighting. “No need,” Sherlock said, turning to level a cool gaze at Harry, who at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable for a moment. But then her chin took on a defiant tilt that John recognized immediately and with some alarm. “Really, John,” Sherlock continued. “Even Helen Keller could see that those text messages weren’t sent by you.” Sherlock was speaking to John, but still giving Harry that assessing look, which Harry was returning with a hefty dose of stubbornness. “The appalling lack of punctuation; the unusual promptness of the replies—I have seen you using your phone, you know. Then there’s the fact that you give me grief for initialing my texts, which means you would never do it yourself, obviously—” “Obviously,” John muttered. “And a smiley face? Clearly not you,” Sherlock declared. “And yet, here you are,” said Harry. John saw that she was caressing her mostly empty glass absently, as if she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. He thought he might cheer out loud if she managed to get through this conversation without ordering all the booze in the place. “I suspected duress,” Sherlock said, ignoring her comment. “Or harassment. Possibly a crime in progress—much like that outfit.” “Hi, I’m Mo!” Maureen interjected brightly as Harry’s face took on shock, brief hurt and then anger. Sherlock barely glanced at Maureen, ignored her outstretched hand and John’s quiet “Sherlock, behave!” and continued. “As soon as I saw the address it confirmed John’s choice of drinking companion tonight, even though his reluctance to discuss his plans with me prior to this evening combined with his significantly higher rate of irritation over trivial matters in the last few days already indicated that he was going to be seeing someone that he really doesn’t get on with.” “Entrails in the bathtub are not trivial,” John argued. “At this point, how my brother and I get on is really none of your business,” Harry replied, her tone far less cool than Sherlock’s. “And as long as you keep being as stupid as you are now, it will continue to be none of your fucking business—shut up, John!” Harry waved a finger at her brother, then growled at Sherlock. “Christ, what kind of idiot are you? Don’t you notice anything?” “Anything for last call, ducks?” Loni sidled up to their table, tray in hand. Sherlock barely noticed her as he leapt to his feet, his expression murderous. “So, what?” he exclaimed, far less cool now. “You’ve gotten tired of harassing your brother so you thought you’d take your failed marriage and ineradicable alcoholism out on me?” “Sherlock!” John was standing now as well and tugging on Sherlock’s coat sleeve. “Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes! You don’t know anything!” “Harry, c’mon—” Maureen was as successful at pulling Harry away from the confrontation as John had been with Sherlock. “Now then, ladies, let’s bring it down a notch,” said Loni. Sherlock looked over at the waitress for a moment, then switched his attention to Maureen, and then back to Harry. “What?” Harry demanded. “What?” asked Maureen. Sherlock sniffed the waitress, stared at her, sniffed again. “What?” Loni frowned at him. “Oh…OH!” Sherlock’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ and he clapped his hands together in a way that was dreadfully familiar to John. “Oh, no, no,” he pulled on Sherlock’s arm but it was futile. “You stupid bint!” Sherlock was loud enough that several women at tables near them were starting to notice the disturbance. “I think you’d do wise to keep your idiotic nose out of your brother’s affairs when it’s obvious that you can’t even manage your own!” “What the hell are you talking about, you freak?” Harry snapped. “Harry!” John turned on his sister; he knew just how off-putting Sherlock could be, but that insult—that word—he hated it, and all the connotations associated with it. Mostly he hated the way nobody but him seemed to notice how Sherlock’s shoulders would stiffen just so slightly every time freak was thrown his way. It was bad enough that all the Yarders seemed to think it was just fine to toss it out, but be damned if John was going to stand for it being hurled at his friend by his goddamned sister. “It’s obvious to anyone noticing—” Sherlock put a sarcastic emphasis on the word, “that while you’ve been having it off with “Mo” here, she’s been stepping out with our server.” “What?” Harry’s head snapped back as though Sherlock had slapped her, and then she was giving Maureen a confused look. “Wait just a fuckin’ minute,” Loni growled. “Harry, uh—I—” Maureen was still holding Harry’s arm but dropped her hand away now like she’d touched something hot. Sherlock stood back and put as much scathing contempt into his posture and tone as he could muster up; it was a lot. “Also, you may want to consult your local physician, Ms. Watson, as not only have they made a cuckold of you, they’ve also been swapping a scorching case of herpes back and forth for two—” He glanced at Maureen. “No, three months.” Harry slapped Maureen. “Come along, John,” Sherlock turned to leave and Loni’s tray came down squarely on his head. “You bastard!” she exclaimed. John caught Sherlock as he stumbled back and kept him from falling, and then he stepped between Sherlock and Loni, who was hefting the tray with murderous intent. “I never said we were exclusive!” Maureen wailed, shoving at Harry, who backpedaled and pin wheeled her arms frantically to keep from falling and managed to knock the tray out of Loni’s hands. Remembering then that Maureen was only fifty percent of the guilty parties here, Harry caught her balance and swung a determined fist at the now unarmed waitress. Loni ducked just as Sherlock was pushing John away from the women and the blow took him right in the face. He couldn’t stop the yelp of pain as he felt his lip split. “Dammit, Harry!” “Sod off, John!” “What’s going on?” One of the women from the next table stepped forward, immediately tripped over Loni’s tray and fell into Sherlock’s legs. As they were hanging on to one another by this point, both John and Sherlock tumbled to the floor. “Mind your own business!” Maureen shoved the woman away and then turned a beseeching look on Harry. “Harry, love, it’s not like—AACK!” The rest of the neighboring table had rushed to defend their friend. One woman seized Maureen by the hair. A second one pushed Harry and for the second time in a span of a few seconds her arms were flailing around wildly for balance. One hand slapped Loni as she was reaching for her tray and the other hand clipped Sherlock across the forehead as he was sitting up, knocking him back onto the floor. He came face to face with John, who was struggling to get to his feet. For just a moment their eyes met and held. Someone above them swore, someone else shouted “Oi, eat me you rotten cow!” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled and John’s lip twitched, just a fraction. “Eat this, you stupid dyke!” And then what seemed to be a full pitcher’s worth of draught beer rained down on Sherlock’s head. John giggled. Sherlock frowned and shook his head like a dog, sending fat beer droplets flying in all directions, which only made John giggle more. He opened his mouth to berate John for laughing at him, but when their eyes met, he wound up chuffing out a soft laugh himself. John stood up and held out his hand to Sherlock, but just as their hands clasped, Maureen’s fist connected with John’s face and drove him back to his knees. A moment later a huge woman in cargo pants and a black vest lifted Maureen and threw her like a body surfer into the knot of fighting women. Sherlock watched her fly over his head, remembered his Falstaff and shook John’s shoulder hard. “We need to get out of here. Despite the indignity of the means, I suggest we crawl.” John had a hand clapped over his eye where Maureen had hit him. He pulled it away and Sherlock couldn’t help but wince at the swelling that was already happening there. John noticed before he could smooth out his expression, but wasn’t sure what to make of a sympathetic look on Sherlock’s face, so he chose to ignore it, then decided to ignore the breaking glass and how much louder the screaming was when it wasn’t just his sister as well, and he turned towards what he hoped was the door, although he couldn’t actually see it through the forest of legs, human and table. It took several minutes for the two of them to get through the crowd. John’s fingers were growing numb from being continually stepped on, and he thought that it was only some divine intervention that none of his digits had actually been broken. Sherlock wound up with more liquor in his hair (gin, if John’s nose served him right) but merely shook it off and kept close to John. Sirens heralding the arrival of London’s finest had John both shuddering with relief and internally moaning over another potential ASBO and he felt clear headed for the first time in over an hour. Of course, being sober now did nothing to help him as the police swarmed through the building and he and Sherlock were both hauled outside. Now: John and Sherlock sat side by side, watching as Maureen was carried past them on a stretcher, and Loni was goose-stepped past them in handcuffs. Harry trailed behind them both, paused briefly to throw a scathing glance at Sherlock and a muttered “He better be worth it, Johnny” at John, and then she was gone too. “Your sister’s an idiot,” Sherlock said conversationally. John punched him in the side, not hard. “But I wonder about her rather limited powers of deduction, John.” Sherlock turned to face the other man. “What do you suppose could have possessed her to send such ridiculous texts?” John was sadly not drunk anymore, and the entire left side of his face was aching. “Dunno,” he replied tiredly. “Same thing that had you in a dyke pub causing a riot inside of twenty minutes, I reckon.” When Sherlock took John’s free hand in his own, John gave him a suspicious frown, but didn’t comment beyond a pained hiss when he ran his long fingers over the scrapes and bruises on his knuckles. “Nobody’s leaving, John,” Sherlock said quietly. “That’s good,” replied John. “Then, unless you want to help your sister post bail for her friends, or watch as she winds up in a threesome in a few hours, and also to avoid the potential for a late night visit to magistrate court, I suggest we find a cab and continue this conversation in our flat.” Sherlock didn’t release John’s hand and John didn’t ask him to, and when the policeman sent over to question them got to the ambulance, he found only a crumpled blanket and a rapidly melting ice pack where the two men had been. |
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