Chapter Text
Closing the front doors behind him, John paused and looked around; digging his hands deep into his pockets. The house was still and quiet around him, and he spent an idle moment watching dust motes swirl in the broad beams of sunlight that illuminated the hall. Distantly, he heard a spluttering shout of laughter coming from the library. He couldn't hear what Sherlock was saying to provoke it, but the sound of Violet laughing again made him smile.
(Christ, what a week. And if I never see a bloody art student again, it'll be far too soon.)
Ambling slowly back towards the library, he encountered Katy Boorman emerging from her small study that was next door to Violet's own. She was clearly dressed for the cool October weather, wearing a well cut black coat and a cashmere scarf. She carried a cotton shopping bag on one shoulder, which bulged slightly and rattled as she moved.
Katy nodded at him and smiled a little, and it struck him that this was probably the most relaxed he had ever seen her.
"Doctor Watson! The elder Mr. Holmes has taken his leave, I hope?" she inquired, buttoning her coat. "I do not believe that that man is good for Violet's nerves at all."
"Gone, and hopefully won't darken your door again for quite some time." John answered with relief. Katy gave him an approving smile.
"Excellent. Now, have you seen Phyllis anywhere?"
"Not for a while. Not since she told Hilary off in no uncertain terms before offering to help her out if she could." John smiled reminiscently. He was still tremendously impressed by the earlier scene
"She... offered to help Hilary?" Katy asked incredulously. "You're quite sure?"
John nodded, and Katy sighed, looking rather annoyed. “Damn! Well that was an hour I wasted this morning, teaching her how to throw a punch.”
He stared at her. “You taught Phyllis how to punch someone? Phyllis?”
“Well, somebody had to. A valuable life skill, I think you will agree.” Katy said calmly. “Of course, I was hoping she would try it out on Hilary first.”
“Huh. Um, well if I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”
“Many thanks.” Katy replied, smartly turning on her heel and heading towards the door. “I’ll be in the garden.”
John watched her make her way across the hall. She paused at a large carved oak chest that sat underneath one of the tall windows to the left of the door, and unlocked it using a key she took from her pocket. To his utter surprise, she reached inside and carefully extracted a large shotgun and a small box; presumably full of cartridges. Before he could inquire what on earth she was planning on doing with the gun in the garden, she had disappeared through the door and into the breezy sunlit afternoon.
Back in the library he found Violet tidying her hair in the large mirror above the fireplace, still wearing a broad grin on her freckled face. Sherlock was lounging comfortably on the ottoman, his endless legs stretched out in front of him on the hearth rug. He raised an eyebrow as John entered the room.
“He’s gone.” John confirmed, sitting back down. “Vi, what would Katy be planning on doing with a shotgun in your garden? You don’t happen to have pheasants somewhere among the shrubs, do you?”
Sherlock looked up with interest at this and Violet turned, adjusting one last pin in her hair. She smiled slyly at him. “Ah. I wondered how long it would take. Katy is a terrifyingly sensible soul, and she locked her gun away before the students came to stay. Just as well, really. I might have been tempted to use it on one or two of them over the last few weeks. But she’ll have been dying to take it out again; she does love her shooting. Why don’t you take this wretched gump for a stroll around the garden while I see about lunch? I’ll come and join you, bye and bye.”
Sherlock shrugged, and went to fetch his coat. Within minutes, he and John were wandering between the towering trees and shrubs of the topiary in companionable silence. John paused under the branches of the huge monkey-puzzle tree, looking up into the shadowy arms that swayed delicately in the chilly wind. Sherlock stood a little way away, his hands deep in his pockets as he studied John with interest.
“They don’t seem to bother you as much, today.” Sherlock said, after a minute or two.
John shrugged and didn’t contradict him. He still didn’t especially like the strange twisted shapes of the garden, but they seemed somehow less threatening than they had done over the previous week. Or perhaps it was because the shadows had left the house and grounds along with the students and Mycroft.
Sherlock turned and ambled away, deeper into the rambling gardens. He and John had not explored the full extent of them until now, having only wandered through the topiary and the wide back lawns. Tall hedges hid an overgrown fruit garden and small orchard, where an abundance of blushing apples weighed down the curving bows of trees.
Sherlock meditatively nibbled on a stolen handful of jewel-bright blackberries before kissing John slowly against a crumbling stone wall. He tasted sweet and dark as his full lips parted against John’s, his mouth stained with ripe fruit. Grey clouds roiled overhead and briefly threatened rain.
They passed a dilapidated peach house, and a large bronze Henry Moore reclining nude in the shadow of a massive oak tree. At one point they found an overgrown police box behind a bank of laurels; dark blue paint peeling and overgrown with tiny, late flowering yellow roses. John grinned at the incongruity of this structure, wonderingly running his fingertips over the barely visible panel of instructions. When he buried his nose in the petals of one of the soft, lush blossoms that grew over the door he was startled by the intensity of the scent; bitter lemons and black pepper.
Just as they were rounding a corner onto a weedy tennis court, John was awakened from his dreamy musings by the sharp crack of gunfire. Sherlock’s arm flew out instantly, blocking John’s path onto the court. He peered interestedly around the hedge and called “Miss Boorman! May we approach?”
“By god, man - announce yourself in future!” came Katy’s rather annoyed voice. “That’s how accidents happen!”
John followed Sherlock around the tall hedge and onto the disused tennis court. It was surrounded on all sides by tall laurel hedges, and all that was left of the net were two lop-sided posts on either side of the faded orange court. Katy stood at the far end along with Phyllis, who smiled and waved at them both. Katy had lowered her shotgun and it rested comfortably in the crook of her arm.
“Target practice, Miss Boorman?” Sherlock inquired, approaching her to inspect her gun with interest. John followed at his heels, keeping a sharp eye on the double-barrelled gun.
“Indeed. Phyllis is going to accompany me on my trip north tomorrow; I thought I’d better teach her the basics.” Katy said, breaking the weapon and emptying the used cartridges on the ground where they bounced and rolled. “With a spot of luck, we’ll bag a few grouse at least.”
“I’ve never used a gun before.” Phyllis said, with a hint of trepidation. John mused quietly that Katy was filling quite a few gaps in her education today.
“Oh, you’ll get the hang of it easily enough. You just have to watch the kick back.” Katy said confidently. “Be a dear and sort out the next couple of targets, would you?”
Phyllis brightened, and jogged away across the court. At the far end, a collection of battered wooden boxes were arranged in a line, surrounded by several small white irregular objects. As Phyllis reached the end, she reached into a bag that John recognised as the one Katy had had slung over her shoulder earlier. Phyllis rummaged around and extracted a few small items, blocking their view as she arranged them atop the boxes. Her grin was directed at Sherlock as she turned and trotted back up the court. The targets were too far away to make out the details, but John thought he saw her slipping one more into her coat pocket.
As soon as she was clear, Katy swung her reloaded shotgun back up to her shoulder and aimed carefully. She double checked that Phyllis was safely back at her side, before shouting “Clear!” loudly. Her aim was exquisite, the line of her shoulders and arms firm and true as she pulled the trigger. The gun kicked back strongly, but she held strong; the first two targets shattered and ricocheted in quick succession. Lowering the gun, Katy nodded approvingly.
“Not bad. Much harder with live targets, obviously.”
“Would you like a go, Mr. Holmes?” Phyllis asked politely, although she couldn’t stop grinning. Sherlock looked down at her curiously, his eyes widening as he took what she held out in her outstretched hand.
A small, ugly china rabbit.
***
John left Sherlock with Katy and Phyllis on the tennis court, as soon as he was convinced Sherlock really did know what he was doing with a shotgun. He still couldn’t quite wipe the grin from his face, remembering Sherlock’s astonished expression that had quickly been replaced by a knowing nod. Of course, the detective claimed to have known all along why Katy had had the rabbits.
(Yeah, right.) John chuckled quietly to himself, catching sight of Violet waving at him from the kitchen door. When he entered the warm room, scented with the aromas of roasting chicken, onions and rosemary, Violet was wiping her hands dry with a tea towel and humming to herself. She gave John a smacking kiss on the cheek and handed him a large fruit scone, warm from the oven and dripping with raspberry jam.
“You have a lean and hungry look about you, you loathsome worm.” She beamed at him, and laughed a little as he mumbled his thanks around a large mouthful. “It’ll be a while until lunch. Let’s go and lounge in the conservatory for a while, shall we?”
Once they had ensconced themselves on piles of cushions on the raised walkway in the conservatory, Violet lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke with so much satisfaction that she looked almost post-coital. “Oh, John, my fabulous monster. The bliss of it! Can you hear that?”
John listened closely, but heard nothing but the low hiss of steam coming from the vents in the floor below; and a faint splash from the koi pond. He shook his head and looked inquiringly at her.
“Absolutely fucking nothing!” Violet sighed. “No arguing, no tedious debates on the merits of Chagall versus Matisse. No bitching or moaning. No bloody students!”
"Well, there is still Phyllis.” John pointed out, leaning back against the trunk of a nearby palm tree that grew conveniently close to the platform. “Katy seems to have rather taken her under her wing.”
Violet shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Alright, one student. She’s not the worst.”
John peered through some trailing vines, trying to catch a glimpse of the garden where the unlikely trio were still practicing their shooting. “What is the situation with those two, do you think? Katy’s not in love with Phyllis, is she?”
Violet hummed in a non-committal fashion. “She may well simply be turning Phyllis into the kind of person who could withstand love. Real love, that is.” She added, tapping some ash absently over the railing. “Do you remember what it was like, laddie? That kind of aching, hopeless unrequited love? It can destroy you if you feel it too long, I think.”
John could, although it was a long time ago now. A girl in his year at medical school, who had barely spared him a glance. He had pined for her for months. It seemed like a million years ago, now. He couldn’t even remember her face properly.
What he felt for Sherlock – well, no matter the parameters of it, on some level he’d known he was loved by the man. It had been frequently infuriating, stressful, and occasionally hurtful. But even during the worst of times, he’d always felt needed.
“I wish it hadn’t taken Sandra dying for Phyllis to break that habit.” Violet said sadly. “She’s cheered up a bit, and Katy is probably doing her a world of good. But it’s going to take a while for her to get past it.”
“I wonder what would have happened, if Sandra could only have loved Phyllis back?” John mused. “Would she have just been able to walk away from Freddie and Hilary? Would she have been happy?”
“What-if’s and maybes never get anyone anywhere, though, do they?” Violet sighed. “I’ve lain awake at nights, wondering about what would have happened, if I’d never hired Sandra? If I’d decided never to teach? Would she still be alive?” she took a glance at John, and smiled wryly at his face. “There’s no need to tell me that it’s not my fault. But there’s no way of knowing what direction our lives will take, based on the tiniest things.”
“I sometimes wonder that too.” John murmured, gazing thoughtfully into the depths of the plants and shrubs below. “Meeting Sherlock – it was such a fluke. I could have chosen to walk down a different path in the park that day. I only took that particular path because I wanted to avoid a crowd of tourists on the other one. And I met Mike, whom I hadn’t seen in years. I didn’t want to talk to him. I could have made an excuse; I could have gone away without stopping for coffee with him. And he told me about somebody else he knew who needed a flatmate.”
“Ah. The trousers of time.” Violet said seriously, and grinned at his reaction. “You know what I mean. Alternative histories. You could have gone down the other path, bumped into a Japanese tourist, fallen in love with them and ended up living in Tokyo until you were killed in an earthquake at the age of a hundred and seven. I could have taken another job than the one Sherry offered me, I’d never have settled in Scotland, I’d never have met Sherlock. I’d never have had the accident. I could have continued my work as a forger and ended up shot dead in an alley within a year. It’s an entertaining kind of self torture, really.”
“I used to be so angry at Mary for stealing my future.” John mused, then glared inwardly. As usual he found himself saying things in the company of Violet that he had never meant to utter. “That’s my ex-wife.”
Violet nodded. “I know. Sherlock told me a bit about her.”
“I had this idea, of what my life was going to be like. I had it all planned out in my head. I was so sure of it all. Of… of everything.” he swallowed hard. “And that doesn’t mean that I’m unhappy with my life now. I mean, Christ, no! It’s still all a bit new and unexpected; but I’m so- well. Happy. But a year ago, I thought I’d be a dad and Mary would still be my wife and we’d still be living in Crouch End. This isn’t where I thought I’d end up.”
“Nor I.” Violet said calmly, and he was glad that she didn’t attempt to commiserate. He didn’t want that; he didn’t feel cheated any more. Life was different now, and it was a different life to the one he used to imagine.
(Caroline. I wanted to name her after my grandmother. And she never existed; not my Caroline. Some other bloke’s daughter, and lord knows what her actual name is.)
“Are you happy, Vi?” John asked curiously, after a pause.
“Yes, I suppose so. Most of the time. But I rather think, dear old heap, that what you actually want to ask me is ‘Am I lonely?’” Violet answered evenly, with a hint of a smile.
John reddened slightly and scratched the back of his neck.
Violet took her time answering him, slouching further down into her nest of ancient mildewed cushions. “Not the way you mean it, I don’t think. You’re wondering if I’d like a husband and kids, or even a significant other. And the answer to that is unreservedly no. I’m… I don’t think I’m wired that way, laddie. Don’t get me wrong, I like the sex and the companionship and all that… I’ve loved people, but I’ve never met someone who could be quite enough for me, you know? I’ve never really gotten the hang of that sort of thing.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “We can’t all find our Boswell. And at the risk of sounding incredibly bloody soppy, the way he looks at you… well. I can’t quite imagine having that. And I’m not sure I’d want it, to be honest.”
“Did you mind Patrick taking a shine to Mycroft?” John wondered. Violet grinned, lighting another cigarette.
“Blimey, no. I just wish that I could be there when he finds out about the LARPing. And the blood kink. And the fact that I got there first.”
“I warned him to open that envelope in private, you know.”
Violet glared at him. “Bloody spoilsport.”
***
They had eventually left Violet’s house on Saturday afternoon. They had spent the night before in the conservatory, where they had had a kind of picnic dinner, drank far too much champagne and listened to music on an ancient portable record player. At one memorable point Sherlock and Violet had solemnly danced the tango before knocking over several plant pots. Violet demanded that John cut in, and he had managed to waltz with her quite well for at least thirty seconds until Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him crossly off to bed.
In the morning, John had wanted to leave them alone together, to say their goodbyes. But in the end, Violet had stood in the hall and grinned up into Sherlock’s face; merely saying: “So long, revolting article.”
“Goodbye, Violet.” Sherlock had said, and with a small smile added: “Ghastly wench.”
***
John watched Edinburgh disappear slowly, first the Victorian glass roof of the station and one last glimpse of the towering castle before the train vanished into the darkness of a tunnel. Sherlock was hunched in the seat opposite, and didn’t even look up from his phone as the train picked up speed.
“And I didn’t even get to try a deep-fried mars bar.” John murmured, stretching his legs out under the table between them, tangling them companionably with Sherlock’s.
“Mm.” Sherlock hummed, nudging his ankle. “Next time, perhaps.”
“Next time?”
“Hogmanay. We’re going to spend it in Aberdeenshire with Violet. Didn’t you know?”
“I do need to be in the room when you tell me these things, Sherlock.” John pointed out, with a smile. “But good. Sounds like fun.” He watched Sherlocks fingers flying over the keys of his phone curiously. “Who are you texting, anyway?”
“Currently? Lestrade.” Sherlock muttered, without looking up.
John sighed. He supposed it had been nearly a week since they’d left London. Who knew how many cases had cropped up in their absence? A small, secret part of him had been hoping that they’d have a few more days to themselves. To settle into Baker street again, for John to carry a few things down from his bedroom to Sherlocks. Not everything, but a few bits and pieces. Just enough to establish it as their room now.
Tomorrow was Sunday morning, though. What would Sunday mornings be like now, he wondered as he stared out the window at the distant stormy sea. He was looking forward to resuming their routine of lounging around, drinking coffee and reading. He had missed hearing Sherlock’s violin over the last week, and he hoped that tomorrow he might hear him play again. Maybe some Bach, or Satie. And who knew what else?
His stomach lurched a little as he imagined what lay in store, his skin prickling slightly. He knew what came next on Sherlock’s schedule, and he unsuccessfully fought the blush that was creeping above the collar of his shirt.
Sherlock pressed the send button on his phone one last time, and set it down on the table with a sense of satisfaction. He leant back in his seat and studied John, no doubt taking in his quickened breathing and dilated pupils. He bit his lip and smiled, a little shyly. He reached out his hand across the table, and after a moment John slid his fingers slowly across his palm until they came to rest against the inside of Sherlock’s wrist.
He could feel the mans pulse, strong and quick under his fingertips.
“Schedule.” John murmured quietly, aware of the other passengers seated across the aisle. “Can we resume it tomorrow?”
Sherlock nodded wordlessly, his eyes never leaving John’s face. There was a kind of wonder in their depths. They sat there for a long minute, unable to take their eyes off each other. John’s phone chimed, and he ignored it. Then it happened again, and he frowned. And again.
Sherlock made an impatient noise when John pulled away, seeming reluctant to release his hand. John swatted him away affectionately, digging in his jacket pocket.
“Oh, it’s Lestrade. Case, maybe?” he muttered, opening the first of five or six unopened messages. “Blimey, I’m popular today.”
JESUS! ABOUT BLOODY TIME!
“What? What did you tell Greg?” John asked, busily scrolling
“Oh, a few salient facts.” Sherlock said vaguely, lolling back and staring out the window at the darkening countryside.
JOHNNY, WHY THE FUCK IS SHERLOCK TEXTING ME? WHY DID I HEAR THIS FROM HIM AND NOT YOU? YOU ARE A PIECE OF WORK, LITTLE BROTHER.
John’s eyes widened as he scanned the next few texts. His jaw sagged a little when he read the one from Mycroft.
GRATIFIED TO HEAR THAT YOU’VE MADE THINGS OFFICIAL. WOULD YOU CARE TO CHANGE YOUR MIND ABOUT MAKING A HAPPY ANNOUNCEMENT, JOHN?
“You texted everybody we know and told them we’re shagging, didn’t you?”
“Oh don’t be dull, John. It will save time; and it merely confirms the suspicions of most of our acquaintances.” Sherlock said airily, not quite meeting John’s gaze. John glowered at him a bit, grasping for words.
“Who, exactly have you-“
JOHN, SHERLOCK JUST TEXTED ME TO SAY THAT YOU GUYS ARE *ROMANTICALLY AND SEXUALLY COMMITTED TO EACH OTHER*!! WHICH IS NICE, BUT WHY? IS IT YR ANNIVERSARY OR SOMETHING? PLEASE TELL ME U DIDN’T SNEAK OFF AND GET MARRIED WITHOUT TELLING EVERYONE!
That one was from Molly.
John groaned slightly and slowly tipped forward until his forehead rested on the table. He hadn’t given much thought about how he would go about telling all his friends and colleagues about the new developments in his relationship with Sherlock; but sending mass texts wasn’t part of it.
His phone chimed, and chimed again.
“Come along, John! Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“Sir, are you quite alright?”
“He’s fine. He’s just making a fuss about-“
“I’ll have some of that wine, please.”
“Of course, sir. Chardonnay or-“
“Don’t care. Big glass, thanks.”
“Honestly, John! It’s not as if-“
“Sherlock, I need you to be quiet for just a minute or two, alright?”
“Really, J-“
“I mean it, Sherlock. Shut up now. Go and have a canter around your mind palace for ten minutes. It is very important that you don’t talk to me right now.”
“Just one thing, though, John. John. John!”
“Sherlock, I swear to god!”
“Does this mean that we get to try having angry sex when we get home?”