Chapter Text
The Blog of Harry Watson
October 18, 2010
Time to move on from Korea. To tell the truth, I’m both relieved and a little nervous about it – John left for England four days ago, and Seoul is lovely, but…it’s not quite the same without him. I’m almost tempted to stay, except I feel a little bit at cross-purposes here. Like I’ve done what I came to do, and if I stay any longer, I’ll never leave. And anyway, we’d always planned to move on.
Trying to decide between Sydney and Tokyo. John had really wanted Sydney, but he’s not here, is he? (He’s fine, in case you’re wondering – he sent an e when he got into London; more on that later.) So it’s up to me.
I don’t know, Readers. What do you think? Should I go to Sydney or Tokyo next?
*
Sherlock was already awake when John opened his eyes. He lay on his stomach, watching John, unblinking. John smiled, still waking up himself, and stretched out his limbs, felt the muscles go taut as they pulled against each other, felt the duvet slip against his skin, made sensitive from lovemaking and sleep.
John groaned, mostly from the pleasure of the stretch, and he heard Sherlock breathe beside him. He rolled over and let his hand fall onto the mattress, just beside Sherlock’s chest.
Sherlock slid his hand under John’s, and John closed his fingers around it.
“Are you still angry?”
Sherlock’s voice was low and gravelly with sleep. John tugged on his hand and scooted closer on the bed. “I think being angry with you is a constant state of affairs. When do you have to go to the restaurant?”
“Three. I only have lunch service on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes, very.” Sherlock pressed his lips together, thinking. “When do you go back to Upper Brickley?”
John rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Whenever I want, I suppose. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming back.”
Sherlock frowned, and pushed himself up to his elbows. “You…you didn’t plan to come home?”
John glanced over at him. “No.”
“You…just came. Straight to London.” Sherlock sucked in a breath, and moved quick as lightning, until he was straddling John, staring straight down at him. “Your eyes are bloodshot, dark circles. You’d showered in the previous twelve hours, washed your hair—"
Sherlock leaned down and sniffed John’s hair, and John let out an involuntary laugh as Sherlock’s nose buried itself in the short blond strands. “Oi!”
“Lestrade’s shampoo,” said Sherlock, satisfied, as he pushed up again.
“I told you I saw him to get the key.”
“But you were there long enough to shower. And the clothes you were wearing last night were wrinkled in folded lines; they’d been packed, hadn’t they? You just arrived. You mentioned Korea. You flew in from Seoul, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said John quietly.
Sherlock sat back onto John’s thighs. “You…flew home.”
“Yes,” repeated John thickly, and he rested his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “Well…I think I did. I hope I did. I don’t know yet, I guess it depends on you.”
“Me?”
“If this is home.”
Sherlock scrambled off John, and fled into the kitchen. John could hear him rooting around, banging the cabinet doors, opening and closing and slamming shut again, a bit like he was angry or frantic or simply very, very frightened.
John stared after him, and then cursed. He screwed his eyes shut, and tried to stop his heart from pounding straight out of his chest.
He had just sat up and swung his legs out of the bed, wondering where his clothes had landed, when Sherlock came racing back into the room.
“Where are you going?” demanded Sherlock.
“Out. Away. Does it matter?” There were his boxers, on the floor next to the chair. John leaned over to reach for them, and felt Sherlock’s hand on his spine.
“John.” Sherlock sounded almost amused. “Sit up.”
John sat up, still holding onto the boxers, and looked at what Sherlock offered him.
The salt cellar, and a hunk of baguette.
“Bread and salt,” said John slowly, not quite willing to believe his heart pounding hard with hope.
“You’re the world traveler,” said Sherlock.
“I know what it means.”
“Wrong sort of bread. I suppose you don’t mind.”
John reached out and took the items from Sherlock; he twisted and set them on the sidetable gently, and then turned back to hold Sherlock’s face in his hands. “I’m old, injured, in debt up to my eyeballs, and have absolutely no idea what to do with my life. Are you sure you want me in yours?”
“You’re not that old, not that injured, not that in debt,” said Sherlock immediately. “And you’re going to spend your life with me.”
John stared at him, and then chuckled. “You’re so sure?”
“John. Of course I am.”
*
October 22, 2010
Tokyo is like New York if New York was polite and Japanese.
*
Dear Mr Moriarty,
We regret to inform you that the insurance coverage of The Empire Restaurant, 14 Montague Street, Upper Brickley, Kent, expired on February 14, 2010. Therefore, we at Janus Insurance are not liable for insurance payments to cover the cost of the restaurant. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact our Customer Service line. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Ian Monkford Janus Insurance
*
Detective Inspector Dimmock dropped the files on the superintendant’s desk. “Anything planned for the weekend, sir?”
The superintendant barely glanced up from his screen. “Son’s footie game. Daughter’s dance recital. I assume those files are closed now?”
“Yes, sir. Nice twist to the Empire case, though. Turns out the insurance ran out two weeks before the fire anyway.”
The superintendant snorted. “So much for insurance fraud, eh?”
“Would be if I were convinced Moriarty did it.”
The superintendant glanced away from his screen then. “You’re still going on about that?”
“I’ve got a hunch,” said Dimmock, stubborn.
“The kid had turned in his keys. He didn’t have access. There was no forced entry and the fire started in the ovens. Plus he had an alibi.”
“Still,” said Dimmock. “It’s just too neat. What kind of man tells a room full of people that he’s going to burn down a restaurant, and then goes and does it?”
“A stupid one.”
“One thing Jim Moriarty isn’t is stupid, sir.”
The superintendant turned fully from the computer and folded his hands on the desk. “Are you saying you don’t want to close the case, Dimmock?”
“There’s not enough evidence to convict either one of them.”
“Then I suggest you let it go. Or let it sit on the back burner for a while longer.”
“Funny, sir.”
The superintendent turned back to his computer. “Anyway, it’s not like there was anything in it for the kid, was there?”
“No,” said Dimmock uneasily.
The superintendent sighed. “Look, David – he’s a good kid. He might not have any direction and I’m pretty sure half the time he’s a bit more south of the law than we’d like, but he’s never done anything that we wouldn’t approve of. And since insurance doesn’t seem to come into play anyway, you’re telling me you want to bring a whole world of trouble on his head and let that bastard Moriarty actually win?”
Dimmock opened and closed his mouth for a moment, before choking out. “Well. No.”
“Well, then,” said the superintendant. “Have a good weekend.”
“Right, sir. You too.”
*
November 2, 2010
Mrs Kobayashi has been trying to convince me to eat blowfish. I might be crazy but I’m not quite that crazy yet.
*
Work Roster, Week of November 10, St Bart’s Trauma Unit: Monday Early – Murray, Golden Monday Late – Watson, Chapel Tuesday Early – Murray, Trevelyan Tuesday Late – Watson, Trevelyan Wednesday Early – Chapel, Kelley Wednesday Late – Watson, Murray
*
November 17, 2010
I have really exciting news for all of you – I have my first sponsorship! Can you believe? I guess people are reading this blog after all (well, I knew that, but still). Nikon wants to let me give away one of their CoolPix cameras – I guess they’re impressed by some of the photos I’ve been posting. And I’m going to throw in a few other things I’ve found here to liven it up a bit, because I feel bad giving away one awesome thing when there’s so much awesome around me. Here’s the rules…
*
November 25, 2010
Mrs Kobayashi is still going on about the blowfish.
*
December 17, 2010
Business first: congratulations to the winners of my first give-away! That was a lot of fun, I didn’t think it would be half as entertaining as it was but I’m really looking forward to mailing out the Nikon CoolPix and the hand-bound notebooks. Congrats to TravelingAmy, Genovia8764, and VHunter. No idea how long your goodies will take to arrive, please drop me a line when they do. My last week in Tokyo – it’s a bit bittersweet, to be honest. Well, not bittersweet, it’s actually salt and ginger and crunch and not the least bit fishy, but you know what I mean. Tokyo is the first city I’ve been to without John, and I admit, part of the reason I chose it was because it was scarier than anything in Australia. Not anything against Australia – it’s a lovely country with lots of fantastic food and great adventures, but I guess I worried that it’d be a bit like going backward. John and me, we were going to such fantastic strange places together, if my first solo trip was somewhere they spoke English, I was worried I’d never strike out somewhere utterly foreign again.
I don’t speak a word of Japanese, all I knew about Japan was sushi and electronics and samurai warriors. And pan-fried noodles. Now I speak…well, not much more, but I still love it here, and, I’m going to miss a whole lot more than sushi when I go.
(Because it is time to go.)
But of all the things I’m going to miss about Japan, probably the one thing I’m not going to miss is Mrs Kobayashi bothering me about blowfish, and I’m going to start not missing that tonight, because here, friends, is a photo of the meal I’m about to eat.
This is the way I see it: my brother John gave me the courage to pick up a camera again. And all of you reading this gave me the courage to go somewhere strange and scary and wonderful. What sort of person would I be if I can soak up all that courage, and not use it from time to time? And you’re not reading this blog because I’m eating seaweed, are you?
So here’s to fish that can kill you, and here’s to Mrs Kobayashi for being a pain in the arse about it, and here’s to Tokyo, and here’s to you.
Next stop: everywhere.
*
The trees in Upper Brickley’s park hold no counsel, share no secrets, and really can’t be arsed to bother paying attention to anything that happens under them in the first place.
Which was why, when the two young people showed up at two in the morning to bury a shoebox, the trees didn’t notice.
“Did you remember everything?” asked the girl, pulling on her red ponytail in her nervousness.
“Yes, I told you—"
“The butane? The torch? The—"
“Do you still have your key?”
The girl fumbled with her keychain for a moment, and then handed the thin bit of metal over. The boy opened the shoebox, and she dropped it in. It rattled and clanked with the other objects in the box.
“Someone’s going to find it,” she said. “This is stupid.”
“I hope they do,” said the boy. “Help me dig.”
Burying the shoebox didn’t take long. When they were done, the two people stood and looked down at the makeshift grave.
“I feel like we should say something,” said the girl.
“Jim Moriarty can rot in hell,” said the boy fervently.
“D’you think John and Harry know yet?”
“About the fire? Maybe.”
“D’you think they mind very much?”
The boy didn’t say anything for a few minutes.
“Yeah, probably,” he said finally. “But not as much as they minded the alternative.”
“Guess not.”
The boy and the girl left, and the park fell silent, except for the leaves rustling in the breeze.
*
Every so often, someone will recognize him. John can usually tell before they speak; they’ll give him this side-eyed look, their foreheads will crease as they try to place his familiar face, name, voice. Out of context, most of them can’t figure it out.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” they ask, and it depends on his mood, on the day, on how many people he’s treated so far whether or not he tells them.
Sometimes, they don’t need his help. Those are the more-than-casual fans, who watch the shows and own the books and read the reviews and interviews.
“You’re John Watson,” they say, excited. “You were on that show, Restaurant Reconstructed. With Sherlock Holmes?”
How Sherlock would hate that phrasing.
“Yes.” No point in denying.
“So you’re a doctor now?”
“I was always a doctor,” says John, listening to their heart or palpitating the skin for bruises.
“So the restaurant was just…an aberration?”
“No,” says John, because the A&E isn’t exactly the place where John wants to get into his own history with the Empire. “I’m just going to prescribe some antibiotics and then you’ll be on your way.”
Sometimes, they think to ask. “Do you still keep in touch with Sherlock?”
It’s always the parting question, always as John is heading out the door. And John knows the answers they expect: doesn’t matter if they’re the truth or a carefully crafted lie.
“Yes,” is what most of them want him to say. “We talk every now and then. Good fellow, is Sherlock.”
“No, not really,” is what they actually expect him to say. “Sent a kind note after the show, but he’s got his own life, and I’ve got mine.”
Once, just once, there as a patient who was a real devotee. John hasn’t met many of them, not yet, though he knows Sherlock knows them all by face or allergic reactions. He deletes their names; those are immaterial when compared to what matters, like who prefers the extra pepper and who will become deathly ill with the inclusion of shellfish. Who had the blogs and the webpages, who have been to the restaurants – both Sherlock’s and those where he’s appeared. John can’t help but wonder what they would have ordered off his menu, what they might have said afterwards. The what-if, the would-have-been.
The girl in the A&E, his patient for the next ten minutes, watches him, never says a word, as if she hasn’t recognized him, but the way her eyes stay on him, John knows she has. Her brow never creases in thought; she doesn’t try to talk about restaurants where she’s eaten; she is nothing but respectful, seeking more information about her health and her recovery time, and John is almost at ease.
It’s as if they have reached an unspoken agreement about knowing who the other is; that they know, and that they know that they know, but will say nothing about it. And having made that agreement, decided not to refer to it again. In a way, it’s refreshing.
It’s only when he is done with his examination and the follow-up explanations that John says, as is customary, “Do you have any other questions for me?”
She’s quiet: and there, that’s the pause John has come to expect, when someone is weighing what is right with what is desired.
“No,” she says finally, drawing it out, making her decision (even if it’s one she doesn’t like).
“Go on,” he says, and leans back in his chair. He feels generous. He can.
It’s enough. She looks at him, eyes focused and serious. “Who does the cooking, when you’re at home? You or Sherlock?”
John holds his breath for a moment. It’s always about Sherlock, that last shot. Do they still talk, do they still see each other, is there anything between them still? But this one, she seems to know about it already. To be recognized, quite so thoroughly…John had wondered if he was such a known element, among the true devotees.
“Me,” says John, and she grins. John thinks he’s answered more than one question.
“Good,” she says.
“I think so,” he agrees. “Take care of the leg, now.”
It’s as he’s leaving that she fires off the last shot. He should have expected it.
“I’m sorry about what happened to the Empire.”
John pauses in the doorway. It’s a familiar ache in his chest, the remembered scent of the kitchen, the feel of the dining room stretching around him, the tinkle and laughter of the customers those last few weeks, blending with the whistles and beeps and sobbing of the A&E.
Sometimes, he’ll enter a kitchen or a restaurant, a small café on the corner, and the scent will be so familiar, he stops in his tracks, expect to see James Watson come around the corner, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, a smile on his face. He’ll order too much, sit for too long, just to pretend.
The memory of James, untarnished. Perfect, unaltered by later revelations. This is how James would want to be remembered, with the scent of garlic and ginger, not ashes and dust.
But here and now, she’s waiting for his answer. He smiles, fondly. “Don’t be. I’m not,” he says, and with a cheeky grin, goes on to his next patient.