Chapter Text
“You’re pulling my leg, right?” John’s voice had risen a bit in volume.
Sherlock fumbled with the magnifying glass to have something to occupy his fingers and thus hide the sudden influx of nervous energy. The expression on John’s face did not bode well.
“I am afraid not.” He chose a casual tone, business-style and matter-of-factly. “It’s not a such big deal, actually.”
Surely John would see reason if Sherlock kept calm and collected about it.
Apparently, John did not.
Because John threw his hands into the air in a gesture that reminded Sherlock of a priest attempting to bring down the Divine Wrath onto the ungodly heretic.
“You can’t be serious!” John shouted, looking furiously at Sherlock who gnawed on his lower lip and averted his face to avoid getting pierced by John’s angry stare.
“Well?” John prompted. “Do you have nothing to say?”
“Erm…”
“No witty remark?” John clenched his fists. “Or God forbid maybe an explanation why you so conveniently forgot to mention this minor detail?”
The last three words were shouted on top of John’s voice.
Sherlock stared dumbly, his mind as empty of any helpful thoughts as their newly shared refrigerator was devoid of any palatable food. The only thing that came to his mind was Mrs Hudson must have heard this.
John grabbed his jacket, opened the door and briefly turned around to hurl a menacing “I need some fresh air” at Sherlock.
This could have gone better, Sherlock thought.
John slammed the door for good measure and then quickly stomped down the stairs.
Now, Mrs Hudson definitely must have heard this.
Sherlock was proven correct and wished that for once he had not been right when the door of 221a was promptly opened and their landlady stepped out into the hallway.
“Oh John,” she called after him, “did you just have a lover’s spat?”
John grunted something unintelligible while rushing past her.
“Don’t be angry with him. Sherlock can be annoying but usually he doesn’t really mean it.” Mrs Hudson soothed.
This might make things worse, Sherlock assumed. If only we were lovers.
Slamming the second door as well at least did help John to vent some of his still rising anger. He stormed across the street and invaded the nearby park as if it were a hostile country, in need to be conquered and subdued to his command.
How could he keep this a secret?
John’s mind raced.
He’s deliberately lied to me before I signed the lease to share this flat with him. What now? Now I can’t get out of it.
I can’t find another flat on such a short notice and I also can’t afford one on my own. I’ve already moved into 221b and my army-issued bedsit has already been given to the next soldier who’s been invalided out.
So, I’m stuck with this colossal arse of a flatmate for the next three months.
Oh, no, I forgot.
He’s also supposed to be my sodding boyfriend!
John kicked a stone that flew high and far enough to hit a dustbin located next to a bench. The metallic clang sounded like a shot from a muffled gun.
John wished he had taken his gun with him. Shooting at inanimate objects might help deal with his boiling anger.
Alas, the service weapon was now quite illegal since he had managed to smuggle it home to England when he had finally been sent back here from Afghanistan.
Only to find out that England, or London did not feel like home any more.
After all this time spent in the army it was exceptionally depressing to have nothing to do apart from attending physiotherapy sessions and the occasional therapist group meeting to talk about his PTSD.
Which John did not. The other veterans would babble endlessly about their traumas but John only wanted to forget it all and get on with his life.
As long as he could not move his arm properly and his left hand was still trembling now and then, he would not be fit for retraining to work as a doctor. Ever doing surgery again was out of the question, thanks to the Afghan bullet that had wrecked his shoulder and damaged some of the nerves controlling the fine motor skills in his fingers.
The circling thoughts brought John back to his current predicament.
Namely, that he was stuck with his new flatmate Sherlock sodding Holmes whom the landlady assumed was John’s long-time boyfriend.
Because there was a stipulation in the lease that Mrs Hudson would only let the flat to married ones or couples.
John walked up to the bench and in a bout of embarrassment picked up the offending stone he had kicked and dumped it into the bin. Best to discard all of the reservations he had concerning the situation together with it.
One thing the army had taught John was to quickly adjust to sudden changes in a situation and cope, finding a way to get over the problem and carry on.
John slumped down on the bench, suddenly exhausted. The flaring ire had drained his energy reserves and he needed a rest.
A lot made so much more sense now, John mused.
There had been this moment when Mrs Hudson had exclaimed “Oh, he’s lovely!” while looking at John after Sherlock had introduced him to her.
He had not really thought about her words.
Then she had patted Sherlock onto the shoulder, playfully admonishing, “You kept him a secret all this time.”
John had wondered about her phrasing but nothing more.
Also, Mrs Hudson’s remark that there was another bedroom upstairs but that he and Sherlock surely would not need this one. The way she had winked conspiratorially should have told him all.
But Sherlock had quickly talked over the first words of his confused question and had proclaimed loudly he needed to show John the exceptionally beautiful view of the street out of the sitting room window while throwing an arm around John’s shoulders and pulling him into an awkward and uncomfortable hug. John had been taken by surprise and had stumbled along Sherlock’s side to the window.
But when John began to draw a deep breath to protest about being manhandled like this, Sherlock once again talked over him. Prompting the landlady to offer John one of her delicious chocolate cookies. Those that Sherlock had told John so much about, claiming to have praised her baking skills at least a hundred times to John on every occasion.
Which he had not, of course.
Because they have only met the day before yesterday.
Thinking back to the morning when John had met his old friend Mike Stamford in another park, he realized just how quickly the time had passed in a whirlwind of events since then.
Mike telling John about somebody else needing a flatmate.
Meeting Sherlock Holmes, the mad infuriating fascinating genius consulting detective.
Helping Sherlock solve the case of the fake suicides had John feeling rejuvenated, genuinely alive for the first time in an eternity. His cane forgotten, the limp gone and his hand had been steady as a rock.
The evening had culminated in saving Sherlock´s life by shooting an awful cabbie who had tried to kill Sherlock with a poison pill.
Who, of course, could tell that it had been John who had shot the man and was absolutely fine with it.
Who actually offered to get John’s now even more illegal gun cleaned by equally illegal professionals who would also get rid of its serial number.
Sherlock asking John to move in with him shortly after ordering pasta in Angelo’s restaurant and John not thinking a second before he agreed to share the flat with the madman without having taken one look at the location.
There had been only one awkward moment when John had enquired about Sherlock’s relationship status and Sherlock misunderstood that John was interested in him.
But everything had been clarified quickly, thankfully.
Sherlock was single and not interested in any relationship with a man currently.
John was also single but not gay.
Everything had been settled and fine.
Only yesterday, John had visited Sherlock at 221b and the flat had been perfect.
There was the promise of pure danger and constant surprise being hidden in every drawer and corner of the cluttered rooms. Harpoons, skulls, a kitchen table burdened with chemical equipment filled with dubious liquids and cut-off human fingers in the fridge. John would never be bored and would always get his adrenalin fix when coming home, never knowing what would await him.
John had eagerly signed the contract for the flat lease without reading it. That had been a grave mistake, of course.
Mrs Hudson had been happily grabbing her copy of the papers, waving it around victoriously.
“Now I can tell Mrs Turner that I’ve got a couple, too.” She had proclaimed proudly. “Maybe you’ll also want to marry soon?”
Then she had winked and walked away, bounding down the stairs with her bad hip apparently forgotten.
John had been dumbstruck. Sherlock’s guilty face had made things worse and his reluctant confession that he seemingly had “forgotten” to tell John about the minor detail of the “couple” stipulation was a red line John would not have crossed if he had known.
John was not gay. Sherlock was not his boyfriend. John did not want Sherlock as a boyfriend. Sherlock would be a horrible boyfriend. Also, there was Layla, the cute secretary at his therapist’s practice whom John had planned to ask out.
But, John assumed and came to a weary conclusion, it was all moot now. He had no other choice than to pose as Sherlock’s boyfriend or he would be homeless.
At least, Sherlock was a real eye-catcher so John did not have to pretend to love an ugly duckling. Small mercies.
But I’m still not gay, he added petulantly in his mind.