sh (humanerror) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2017-10-21 16:15:00 |
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In the lobby of the military base, John sat upon a seat and waited, alternatively checking his wristwatch and the clock on the wall. Sherlock was going to be released from quarantine soon, and he was impatient to see him. Less than two weeks - that was how long he’d been in Tumbleweed, and he’d resigned himself to the possibility that Sherlock might not come for a while, if at all. Sherlock was in Preya for six months before John came, and he knew from talking to others, that sometimes, close ones never arrive at all. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but when the texts came, and it was confirmed that it was his Sherlock, with whom he spent time in Preya, John cried tears of relief. He wouldn’t be alone.
On his lap, John held their basset hound puppy. He wouldn’t dream of leaving her outside in the heat, and she had just as much right to greet Sherlock as he did. She wiggled and sniffed the air in anticipation that something exciting was going to happen, and when the door opened, she bounded from John’s hands to greet her master, barking and wagging her tail so enthusiastically that her entire backside shook to and fro. John stood up with a wide grin upon his face, but a pain in his heart. If only he could be just as enthusiastic. Instead, something inside forced him to hold back, an anxiety that he recognized and understood to be idiotic, but had such a grip on him that it felt impossible to overcome. However, the expression upon his face couldn’t be disguised, full of unabashed love and affection.
Sherlock didn’t need to see John to deduce the hell his boyfriend had gone through. It had been made abundantly clear in his text messages, far too fast and lengthy to belong to the man currently standing before him. You did this a voice that sounded suspiciously like Moriarty sing-songed in his head, but Sherlock dismissed it immediately. Yes, he was likely to blame for much of John’s separation anxiety. Who wouldn’t be, after learning that your best friend faked their own death? But Sherlock was beginning to realize that dwelling on the past was doing nothing to help the future — a future he was so eager and excited to build with John. So, for once, he pushed those thoughts aside and scooped their puppy into his arms, smirking when she peppered his face with kisses. “I love you too,” he said to her, though his eyes were on John. It was a subtle message he wanted to convey in such a way that didn’t make his boyfriend uncomfortable.
With Beatrice (fight him, he wanted that name) secure in his arms, the detective sauntered his way over to John casually. How Sherlock actually managed to look cool despite a puppy attempting to sniff his chin was anyone’s guess. “So. America,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I suppose it could be worse. We have Netflix again.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining with affection as he dragged his gaze over John, not to deduce, but rather to memorize everything about the way he looked right now. God, he was handsome.
The smile upon John’s face hitched a couple of notches wider, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as his heart swelled with joy. How was it possible that one person could make him so ridiculously happy? The moment Sherlock said, I love you, John knew precisely who the message was for, and he had to fight back tears. How patient Sherlock was with him, to agree to preserve his ego by keeping up with the charade that they weren’t boyfriends. Really, he didn’t deserve him, John thought, while hating himself for not being able to be so free and open about their relationship as Sherlock wanted. Along with the receptionist, there were a couple of people in military uniform mulling around, which played into John’s anxieties. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his lightweight jacket and silently mouthed, Love you, to Sherlock.
“America,” John echoed, and quickly moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “And we have 221b, exactly the same.” That was a huge plus. “Except for the outside,” he added with a shrug of one shoulder. “On the outside, it blends in the rest of the Texas town. And we have a lot more freedom to move around than in Preya and…” at this point, John broke down with sigh, “... Christ, Sherlock, it’s good to see you.”
Sherlock’s smirk from before melted into a genuine smile he rarely bestowed upon anyone. John often had that effect on him — and, quite honestly, all the secrecy surrounding their relationship status didn’t bother him as much as John likely thought it did. Sherlock has always been a private person in general, preferring to control exactly what other people thought of him by seeming coolly unapproachable. The only thing he wanted to do was occasionally brag about the fact that he was dating John, an incredible, skilled, and enigmatic man. But that could wait. He was perfectly content having him however John was comfortable, and even if they never got to the point where he felt ready to go public, that would be fine. It wasn’t as if John didn’t make his own sacrifices in this relationship. Sherlock had plenty of those.
“Small miracles,” he commented, hitching Beatrice up a bit so that she could press her front paws against his shoulder and survey the area around them, alert. John’s last comment made him pause, though. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you again,” Sherlock said, his voice just a little quieter, a contrast to how piercing his gaze was. “I meant it.”
John’s worried his lips together in a struggle to keep what he was feeling from pouring out in public. The last thing the both of them would want was a scene in front of people. He responded by quietly nodding his head and muttering, “I know. But there are some things beyond even your control.” There was no way Sherlock was able to choose when the vortex brought him to Tumbleweed - as far as everybody knew, arrivals and departures were at random. So, yes, John considered it a miracle that Sherlock came.
Before it became to overwhelming, John touched Sherlock upon his elbow, letting his touch linger as he did, and gestured to the door. “I’ll show you around the town. It’s not as exciting as Ravenmoore, though,” he said, referencing how Sherlock took hm on a whirlwind tour of the city on John’s first night in Preya. “And I don’t know where everything is yet, so we’ll get to explore together. Urm….” he looked around. “Did anything come with you?”
“I’m too stubborn to let anything stop me, John,” Sherlock said, heaving his best haughty and bored sigh. It was true. He really did believe that it would be impossible for any force of nature to tear them apart at this point. Especially now that he knew they kept being reincarnated into alternate versions of themselves over and over again. What other explanation was there but that one of them simply couldn’t exist without the other? Perhaps this was flawed logic, given the fact that another Holmes existed in Tumbleweed without his Watson, but Sherlock fully expected that to change soon enough. (And maybe he was a little bit eager to meet other Watsons. But he wouldn’t mention that to John.)
Both Sherlock and Bee glanced down at John, the latter’s tail wagging while the former may as well have been given his fond expression, had he had a tail. “Brunch first. Or whatever passes for food at this hour.” The detective knew John’s patterns well enough by now to know his boyfriend likely hadn’t eaten well in the short time they’d been apart. So a meal came first. As they left the building, however, he didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Swiss army knife. Flamethrower. Pepper spray. Anderson. He’s being shipped to the flat.”
Sherlock’s pride in this instance caused John to brightly chuckle, then shake his head in disbelief. Such a romantic statement, John couldn’t help but fall for it. “I believe you,” he said with the same conviction he had whenever Sherlock confidently deduced the facts of any given case. He wanted to get to their flat where, in the privacy of their rooms, he could show Sherlock how he really felt by holding him in a tight embrace and kissing him full upon the mouth. John even stared at Sherlock’s lips in anticipation, but instead…
“Brunch. Okay.” Sherlock was correct, though - in the two weeks he’d been in Tumbleweed, John lost at least seven pounds due to not eating - at first he was too miserable about Sherlock not being around to think of food, and then he’d been excited when he learned about Sherlock’s arrival. Feeling awkward, he scratched behind his ear and said, “I… urm… haven’t been out to eat much, there aren’t any restaurants I can suggest. We’ll need to wing it.”
Anderson was a crash test dummy that Sherlock had been conducting experiments upon, and hearing that it came with him made John laugh again. “Great! Then we won’t need an extra seat for him at the restaurant. We’ll need to find someplace that’s Puppy friendly,” he added, scratching their puppy behind the ears. “An outdoor cafe, there’s got to be one around.”
Sherlock would not have considered his statement romantic in any way. It was just the truth. He mistakenly believed that John was the only romantic one in this relationship, and that assertion suited him just fine. Sherlock wasn’t above pushing his luck a little, though, and he winked at John when he caught the man staring at his mouth. It was just enough of a tease to not be cruel.
“I can deduce which restaurants are appropriate, John. Do keep up.” After she got plenty of scratches and pets, the detective set Bee down onto her own four feet and gave her a pat. They’d been training her without a leash before arriving in Tumbleweed, and she seemed perfectly content to trot along next to them.
As they made their way out of the building, Sherlock slid on a pair of sunglasses he’d pick-pocketed off someone in the facility and scowled a little bit. The sun was gross. He led them to the main road where there were plenty of cafes to choose from, though he gravitated toward the least offensive-looking, i.e. something that might repel a tourist. Bee plopped right down at their feet underneath the table, panting heavily. “Water for her,” Sherlock requested from the waiter, crossing a leg over his knee and reviewing the menu. In reality, he was surveying everyone around them, taking mental notes and sorting through anything of interest.
Ninety degrees (Fahrenheit - this was the United States, where Celcius didn’t matter) and sunshine in October was something John wasn’t used to - it wasn’t just different, it felt wrong. That’s why, when Sherlock put on sunglasses, John kept glancing over and giving him odd looks. He’d literally never seen Sherlock wearing sunglasses before, and he couldn’t decide whether it was also wrong or if it was cool.
Over the menu, John finally had to ask, “Where did you get those?” Sherlock almost certainly didn’t arrive with a pair, and it wasn’t like the base was handing them out to new transplants.
"Security guard," Sherlock replied, idly. He broke off small pieces of bread from the table to feed a very happy puppy at their feet and gave the menu a cursory glance. In the background, they were drawing stares. Sherlock knew perfectly well that he stuck out like a sore thumb here — the suit was a given, but there were few six-foot-tall British men walking around the area, at least none draped over a cafe chair looking like a bored model. He'd need to look into a new wardrobe at some point. Blending in would be necessary.
"No record of our friend Jim," Sherlock said, careful not to speak Moriarty's name in public. "I checked. No incarnation of him was ever here."
John gave Sherlock a pointed look of disapproval. One would think this didn’t need to be said, but John said it anyway, in a low, warning voice, “Don’t.” He pointed his finger for good measure. “First thing you do out is to nick a security guard’s glasses at a military base. If you had gotten caught… just… don’t do it again.” He scowled, knowing it probably wouldn’t do any good, but he didn’t want Sherlock to get into trouble with the law - there wasn’t anybody around in the government to watch out for him like Lestrade or Mycroft would in their world.
Speaking of which… “I met with one of the Sheriffs in town for coffee while you were quarantined. Emma Swan.” He shifted his weight upon his chair so he could get more comfortable. “She told me that most of the crime in Tumbleweed is petty theft. Very rarely do they have any murders. She works with the Other Sherlock on cold cases. It might be good to meet with her.” Befriend her. Get a foot inside the Sheriff’s department.”
The news about Moriarty was a visible relief. The waiter came to take their orders, so John waited until that was done before speaking in private, again. “”That’s great news.” The threat of Moriarty cast a dark shadow over their lives in Preya, and they could breath easier. However, “Harry hasn’t been here. Neither has Mycroft.”
Normally, Sherlock didn't really heed advice that restricted his behavior, not something so small anyway, but the look in John's eyes made him pause. It was a moment or two of tense silence before a gust of breath left him. "Fine," he acquiesced, and he knew that he would actually listen this time. When it came to petty theft, anyway. They both knew how Sherlock could get when he picked up on the scent of a potential case.
"We aren't working with the police," he said immediately, as if he'd spent the better part of his quarantine thinking about this and coming up with an alternate plan. (Spoilers: he had.) "They've what little murder occurs here well in hand. We'll offer our services to the citizens and assist on a local level. I won't work with him." Over my dead body, Sherlock nearly said, but he had enough wherewithal not to actually go there. John didn't seem in the right frame of mind for it.
He let his boyfriend order for him while he set the bowl of water down for Bee. "They'll come," was all Sherlock said about their siblings, that same conviction in his voice as before. "The flat came, John. It's only a matter of time." How he had become the optimistic one in this relationship was anyone’s guess. It was kind of bizarre, so he didn't think about it.
Not working for the police? John first blinked at how quickly Sherlock blurted out his decision, then realized it was said out of spite toward the Other Sherlock. He’s jealous, was John’s first thought, but he couldn’t blame his Sherlock. The idea of other versions of themselves was weird, and he didn’t think he’d ever get used to it, either. Even so, “It’s still a good idea to have good relations with the police. Somebody on the inside, who might help us in a pinch. If you don’t want to, I’ll still make the connections. It’ll be good, in the long run. Also, we’re not restricted to Tumbleweed, though we’re pretty far away from any big city.”
John interpreted Sherlock’s confidence as something born from desperation: despite the way they often behaved toward together in the past, he knew the Holmes’ brothers were very fond of one another. Protective. John was more used to Harry not being part of his life, but he wasn’t so sure that Sherlock felt the same way toward his brother. It was better to stay hopeful than wallow in depression and separation anxiety. John simply nodded, watched Sherlock interacting with their puppy, and smiled - she worked wonders to relax his boyfriend, he could tell.
“Beatrice is happy to see you,” he lightly said. “I think she could smell your scent in the flat, but was sad she couldn’t find you. She’d often lie at the foot of your chair, waiting.”
While it wasn't immediately obvious with sunglasses on, Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John when he continued to push the issue about the local police force. He wants to get to know the other you was his first thought, and a mixture of fury and sadness coursed through him. Sherlock was upset about it, deeply anxious, but he couldn't deny John the option of connecting with a different version of his boyfriend. Maybe they'd even hit it off. This Sherlock certainly seemed far more palatable than him -- and who didn't want a friendly genius around?
He swallowed his pride and looked away. "As you like," was all he said, making no attempt to fight it. John was his own person. If he wanted this, Sherlock would just have to deal with it.
As if deducing his inner turmoil, John mentioned Beatrice (by name) and the detective felt some of his stress unwind. "She's extraordinarily clever," he said, directing the words to the puppy at his feet, who paused in her enthusiastic drinking to wiggle her butt happily. Sherlock smirked a bit. "We'll have to continue her scent training. Soon, she should be able to fetch anything we need." They both knew that was the last of Sherlock's concerns. He loved having a dog again, and it really did help with his adjustment. Not once had Sherlock seemed uncomfortable with the crowds around them -- no sensory overload, no irritation.
The tone of Sherlock’s voice, along with his curt reply, caused John to pause and think why would he answer this way. John knew Sherlock well enough to understand something was wrong, and his eyes moved to and fro while he furrowed his brow thinking of what it might be. There seemed to only be one other explanation. “You don’t… you don’t think I want to stay in connection with the police department so I can work with the Other Sherlock, do you?” He asked in such a tone of voice that suggested John thought the idea was silly.
Sherlock was so surprised that John made a completely accurate deduction about his personal life that his mouth almost dropped open. It wasn't that John lacked observational skills — quite the contrary, the man wouldn't be an accomplished army doctor if he was incapable of noticing details — but for so long, Sherlock had relied upon the fact John wasn't able to read him. Or anticipate him. There was always that boundary there, the wall that allowed Sherlock to protect his boyfriend without said boyfriend knowing things were being kept from him. If John had picked this out in only a few moments ... what else would he be able to see? What did this mean for their relationship?
Bee nudged his foot until she could comfortably lay on top of his expensive leather shoe and then promptly settled in for a nap. Sherlock didn't move. "No," he said at length, but the damage was already done. John knew now. And that was kind of terrifying and thrilling. To finally be fully and completely seen by him.
With their relationship came an intimacy that John didn’t have before with Sherlock, opening up a new understanding of how his boyfriend’s mind worked, but more than that: the self-permission and confidence to gauge what Sherlock was thinking, after years of second guessing and trying to explain motivations without equating sex into the picture.
The surprised expression on Sherlock’s face, along with the guilty denial told John everything he needed to know. His eyebrows rose high, but he didn’t try to confront the other man with his insecurities head on. Instead, John nodded and said, “Good. Because that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He scrunched up his face in a ridiculous manner to show Sherlock what he thought. “Granted, it’s interesting that there’s an alternative version of you around, but he might as well be a different person with the same name. Have you seen him? He’s scruffy.” Not the posh boy type that attracted John. “Besides,” he said, casually picking up his water for a sip, “you’re here. There’s no substitute.”
They both knew that John was aware of the truth. Sherlock had been bracing himself for it — a snide remark, something cutting and condescending, a comment that firmly positioned him as a child. I was expecting him to sound like Mycroft, he thought, horrified by the realization, but unspeakably relieved when that very situation didn't play out. John was being kind. Of course he was. Sherlock began to relax, bit by bit, the longer his boyfriend explained his reasoning. He feigned mild interest because it was easier, though the last comment earned John a little exhalation of breath. "Thank God for that," Sherlock said, dryly, pretending he was being sarcastic when in reality he was the farthest thing from it.
And then their food came (with Beatrice perking up from under the table at the smell), and the detective wasted no time deducing people who passed and trying his best to make John laugh. It felt new — like they were turning the page and beginning another new chapter, and for once, Sherlock let himself enjoy the moment for what it was. They could worry about larger concerns later, not to mention a real reunion once they returned to the flat.