Chapter Text
Captain John H. Watson fell onto his cot, shirtless and sweating. The sun was starting to set, but the Middle Eastern heat would linger until darkness fell. He thumbed the corner of the well-worn postcard mindlessly, and traced the cityscape of London with his finger. It felt like ages since he had last been home. He missed the city, missed the masses of people (or rather, feeling safe amongst a mass of people), missed take away and tea and proper shampoo. He missed the rain. He missed him, too.
John,
Hope you haven’t died of boredom or heat exhaustion. I assumed you would like to have a reminder of home, such a sentimental creature, so enjoy the Earl Grey if you can make it. Cannot say I am envious of your cot sleeping. If you care to, come visit on your next leave. I’ve found a flat on Baker Street.
SH
John stared at the handwriting. Sherlock was the only person who wrote him regularly (post came at least once every two weeks). It helped him feel grounded and less lost as he spent his days wandering in the sand and dirt, with only sun to see for miles.
He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, a shower of sand falling with them. His socks were stained around the ankles from daily sweat and accumulation of the landscape. He found his iPod (his only guilty technological pleasure) and snaked the ear buds in as the rest of his regiment filed in from mess hall. He tapped the screen and succumbed:
Hitched a ride to the peaceful side of town
Then proceeded where thieves were no longer found
Can’t crash now, I’ve been waiting for this
Won’t crash now, I’ve found some encouragement.
The captain’s foot tapped in beat with the 90’s grunge. Behind his closed eyelids, a movie started to roll. He saw Bart’s, back in his university days, before his submission of his CV to the Army Careers Information Office. He saw his feet crunching against freshly fallen leaves, glowing rich reds and oranges against the bland cement of the sidewalk, remembered the feeling of a hot cup of tea seeping into his gloves, the cold of a London winter. Harry at her peak of catastrophe, rolling in at all hours of the morning, his nervous fidget of drumming his fingers on his knees during exams, rugby practice on the fields in the hot of summer. A casual string of lovely women in and out of his dorm in the spring, endless cups of coffee, the first time he met Sherlock Holmes...
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John was in search of the admissions office, in order to discuss his CV and graduation information before he submitted his application to the military. He had obviously believed the office was housed in this building, and he had obviously been wrong. He walked down silent halls, growing anxious at the sound of his own heavy footedness. That’s when he heard it. The violin, seeping out one of the classrooms. John walked straight to the door and glanced into the window, somehow expecting a beautiful, redheaded female. He was surprised instead to see a man. A tall, dark haired individual, a mess of curls, eyes closed and arms moving his bow delicately across the thin neck of the dark wooded instrument. He wore black, well-tailored dress slacks and a pressed, white button down. His frame moved in time with the gorgeous piece he was playing. John nudged the door open as the other man had his back facing him. He leaned against the frame and watched curiously, savoring the sound, but also the form, in front of him.
“Thought you might need an audience.” He finally spoke aloud to the dark haired gentleman.
“I was curious as to when you would offer up words,” the other replied, without turning to face his visitor.
For some reason, John wasn’t surprised that the man had detected his presence. There was something… silent about him. He reeked of intelligence and ego. John chuckled.
“I’m John Watson.”
“Congratulations. You’re also a medical student; you’ve had a combined 6 hours of sleep the past two nights, judging by the twitches of your fingers and the state of your eyes. Finals are close for you. How much coffee have you consumed today, just out of curiosity?”
“That’s one hell of a name. And four cups, likely another four to six this evening.”
The musician turned and faced John, taking his violin from his shoulder and setting it on its stand. He strolled up to John (God, wasn’t he a sight in motion? Like darkness itself...) and extended a hand. John unfolded his arms from his chest and met him with a firm grip. His handshake was strong: a pleasant surprise.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes. An elegant name for an egotistical sod. John decided he liked him. What an interesting face he had: eyes like ice, cold and almost cadet blue in color. His cheekbones were insane, resting high and incredibly defined on his narrow face. And he had the most pronounced Cupid’s bow John had ever seen. Full lips, slightly pursed. John could feel those icy eyes going through a similar process. He grinned.
“So, studying after hours then? Bet it’s nice to have a whole building to yourself.”
“No, this is not the building I normally spend my time in. The professors are idiotic enough to leave the doors unlocked. I come here after lecture to… vent, if you will.”
John felt a smile take his mouth without permission. “You’re in the sciences then.”
Sherlock gave a minute nod.
“You’re intelligent, and far from lacking in the ego category, but you seem less informed about social situations and proper interactions, and mildly heartless, so I would steer away from humanities. You seem honest and concise, not lending yourself to more extravagant majors, such as literature. I might say history, but I don’t know. I don’t pin you as as someone who cares about what others are or are not doing.”
Sherlock smirked. “I’m a chemist.”
John laughed. “Of course you are.”
They stood in silence for a few moments. It wasn’t uncomfortable, at least not for John. He admitted he enjoyed the presence of this multi-talented, oddly attractive chemist, and furthermore, enjoyed knowing Sherlock was just as curious about him.
“I think you understand now that your admissions office is not located in this building.” Sherlock drawled.
“Yes, I realized that, actually. How did you…?”
“Your CV is printed and stored in a clear pocket, which happens to be visible in your bag. You’ve recently run water, I would assume cold, across your face and through your hair, revealing that you might be struggling with a bout of nervousness. One would assume the conversation you were planning to have is an important one. Thus, graduation, future employment, so on and so on. Why else would anyone visit the admissions office?”
“Brilliant..." John breathed. "Right. Yes. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll let you return to your vent session. Enjoy your evening.” John stepped outside into the hall and made his way for the doors to the building.
“John…”
John paused and glanced over his shoulder, curious. “Yes?”
“Would you mind if I walk with you across campus? I know where the admissions office is located, and it's time for my early evening smoke.”
“Sure, yeah. Of course.” John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock disappeared into the room. He heard the hard case opening and closing, clicking shut. Sherlock stepped out, this time covered in a gray, tweed trench coat.
“It’s nearly May, Sherlock, why in hell are you wearing a wool coat?” Speaking the man's name aloud felt second nature, as if John had done it all his life.
Sherlock brushed past him and walked outside into the sun. John, laughing to himself, followed. He heard the click of a lighter and turned to see Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed as he dragged on his cigarette. The end burned a hot red. John, feeling like a traitor, found this act incredibly attractive. He hated smoking, God, he hated it. Sometimes he would turn girls away, even if they just smelled of it. Holmes had become an exception to the aspiring doctor's rule. Sherlock’s pale fingers moved the filter from his mouth and the smoke left his lips. John soon realized he had been staring, and knew Sherlock would have felt it. He broke the trance and instead took to staring at his feet, trying to regain his composure.
“So you play violin as a hobby? I’m surprised by that. The piece you were playing was so elegant.”
Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette and turned to John, raising an eyebrow. “I wrote it.”
Well, modesty was no trait of Sherlock’s, that’s been confirmed. He did seem surprised at the compliment, though. “I only played sax for a few years, so I can’t comment on much. Only that it was wonderful to listen to. I wanted to learn piano, but I don't have the hands for it.” John flexed and wiggled his short, callused fingers.
“Thank… you.”
And obviously, gratitude was also absent on the trait list. Right.
“The admissions office is in that building, room 307,” Sherlock pointed with his cigarette.
“Thanks, Holmes. I appreciate it.” John was about to veer to the left when he felt a hand around his wrist. He glanced up, grinning like an idiot.
“Don’t want me to go just yet?” John teased lightly. Had he just flirted with another man? Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit and John felt his wrist go free.
“If you need help with finals, I’m an excellent tutor in all scientific areas… obviously.” And with that, Sherlock handed John Watson a business card and headed across the lawn. He stood stock still in the middle of the concrete path, watching the trench coat billow as Sherlock moved. So that’s why he wore it, even in May. What a drama queen.
John glanced at the card in his hand:
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Detective
www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
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New meanings to the words I feed upon
Wake within my veins, elements of freedom
Can’t break now, I’ve been living for this
Won’t break now, I’m cleansed with hopefulness.*
John pulled the headphones from his ears, and rose from his cot. He made his way into the hall and walked up to a wash station. Cupping his hands, he splashed water on his face, through his hair. He snagged a towel and stepped into one of the pitiful stalls, drawing a thin canvas sheet closed as he undressed. He knew they had no temperature control, and he was only allotted six minutes of water. He turned the handle and the murky water began to pour from the makeshift shower head. As he ran the bar of soap over all the important areas, he contemplated what he would send Sherlock in return.
Sherlock,
Thanks for the tea. No kettles here yet, unfortunately, so I’ve been making do with terrible, black coffee. There are worse things. The smell of Earl Grey is enough to remind me of home, so thank you for humoring my sentiment. It’s hot as fuck here, as always. I’d give nearly anything, probably anything, to have an overcast day in London. Kandahar is an absolute drag: nothing but khaki colored filth. We’ve gotten proper electricity; they somehow rigged up a solar panel for us to use.
I’ve become grateful for the end of each day that passes peacefully (or as peacefully as they can during war time). Tensions are beginning to build here. As is mine. Tell me more about this flat. I want to hear about home. I miss it. Any good cases, as of late?
John