Chapter Text
No one… No one… to set me straight when I’m uneven… As far as I know I’m the only person…. -Know Your Exit, Vivian Darkbloom
John had had it. He was good with words, ran his own blog. Why couldn’t he put these three words together. It was verging on ridiculous. Everything was good, fine really. Sherlock was even being more flexible about proper containment of integral parts in the fridge, he’d been busy with cases as well so his general mood had been elevated. ‘A locked door, John! It’s wonderful isn’t it?’
It was.
A ‘Locked Door’ was one who couldn’t be partnered, or so they thought. Enter Sherlock Holmes, matchmaker extraordinaire, and all at once the locked door became an open book... well you understand. It was exhilarating to see the madcap matchmaker honed into the brilliant love detective. Fine, the phrasing needs work... point was, Sherlock was on fire with this client. He’d helped them meet, now he was helping to coordinate the wedding, thus the refrigerator debacle, but still it was good to see him in his element. The locked door in question was actually the bride’s brother, and John’s long time friend, one Major James Reginald Sholto, VC. Very secretive, quiet life since early retirement.
He hadn’t seen his ex-commanding officer since 2001 and the accident that sent him into seclusion. It would be good to get to see him at the wedding, perhaps help Sherlock find him someone suitable. John had a bit of a dalliance with James, but it had been kept extremely quiet them being different pay-grades and all. Fast forward to now, and the happy circumstance which would bring them back together again.
If push came to shove, maybe he’d ask his old friend for advice, because the situation at home was reaching critical.
At home.
It sounded so... wistful... domestic. It was nothing close, but John wouldn’t have it any other way really, it was how he’d fallen for Sherlock after all. There, though, was the lay of the land. John. In Love. With one Sherlock Holmes. His brother had even mentioned it in passing more than once... ‘And shall we expect a Happy Announcement from you by the end of the week?’ Arse. The man knew somehow, even then. It was grating, to know he could be read like that by a virtual stranger before he’d even fully decided on it himself.
Well, that was years past now. Water under the proverbial bridge.
Not any easier on his heart though.
So here in lay the rub, how to tell one Sherlock Holmes, that he, one John Hamish Watson was in love with him. He’d tried before, with semi- disastrous results. His first attempt at gauging Sherlock had gone... well... not as expected, but had at least given him a starting point. Well, he thought it had been one, then Sherlock had become slightly unreachable again thanks to that damned Sebastien.
“Help me find a suitable bird, just like you used to do in University... that trick...”
“We were always trying to figure how he did it... quite the trick...”
It wasn’t a trick, it was human nature. And by God if Sherlock hadn’t made a science of it. This had bristled John, but he felt he got some back when he was putting the nice fat retainer into Sherlock’s account, (because, of course the man couldn’t be bothered to do anything himself), and once again with the final cheque for services rendered. He loathed the man, but the woman seemed just as upwardly mobile minded, so maybe she’d be able to round the idiot’s edges.
Coupled Bliss.
Enough to make his stomach roll a bit and need a bicarbonate.
Instead, John sipped his tea.
A few days later, John had worked himself into a strop and called Greg for advice. If anyone might be able to help, it would be him. The silver-haired baker had nabbed the elder Holmes’ heart after all. They’d met through Sherlock, of course, and Greg inadvertently had caught Mycroft’s eye one time he brought up his latest samples. The rest, as they say, was history. They were due to be wed this winter.
Yes, this had to work.
John entered the local, a much-needed smile on his face. He ordered, then found a booth for the both of them before starting in on his first pint. Greg breezed in not a few minutes later looking quite pink and lively. Damn them both. Well, no. They were happy and John was happy for them, but did he really have to have a snog right before meeting his love-lorn mate?
“How’s Mycroft today? Well, I’d say by the stubble burn...”
“That noticeable, is it? Damn. I’m sorry, John.” Greg sipped his own pint and looked sheepishly at John. “You know what Wednesday’s are like-”
“Yea, fine, just... don’t elaborate.” John shook his head and finally chuckled. “Wish I had Sherlock all over me the way his brother is with you. What is it? The confectioners sugar?”
“No, mate,” Greg leaned in a wolfish smirk on his lips. “It’s the icing... or meringue...”
“Alright, enough. Don’t want to know more.”
“Yea, well you wanted to have a chat didn’t you? About our little loves? I take it you haven’t yet?”
John’s face twisted a bit at the ‘little loves’ but knew Greg was just trying to break the ice. How had he ever wound up here? He was Three-Continent’s-Watson. Never needed any help in this area. Well, until he did.
“Yes, it’s Sherlock... no, I haven’t told him. Tried once. A couple of weeks ago. He fed my words to the prospective groom claiming they were ‘inspired!’ I tell you Greg, that man is going to be the end of me.”
The laugh was expected, but loud. Finally Greg settled, still chuckling a bit as he patted John’s forearm.
“Listen, honestly John. Go to Molly’s. You know he’s a sucker for those dahlias she gets.”
“And then what?” John shook his head. “Here Sherlock, for you. I think you’re grand? So... pedestrian... that’s what he would call it-”
“Yet, he’d prescribe it for a second or third date... did with me.”
“Fine, just fine. I’ll go to Molly’s.” His voice sounded as resigned as he felt. Maybe flowers would bring attention to the issue. John never brought flowers, well hardly ever.
They finished a few pints and ate, the topic switching to something more comfortable, things decidedly not about their relationships, or lack-thereof in John’s case. He shared a cab with Greg to get close to Molly’s shop, promising to let him know how things went and threatened to kill Mycroft if he texted tonight. Greg promised he’d keep him occupied.
How would Sherlock react? What should he say... before it was in prose. Written. Not said out loud! Damn it, he was an army journalist. Seen some harrowing things and lived. Been through some of the worst. This should be... easy. Love. It was happy, sweet, timid... not as terrifying as a war zone. No, John could do this. He’d just walk right up to the dark haired embodiment of Puck and plead his heart. Flowers in hand, he looked them over, hoping they’d been the right way to go.
John took a deep breath and took the seventeen steps up to home. Their flat. He could do this.
“Well, as you can see,” Sherlock looked up smiling his ‘indulgent’ smile as he continued to speak to the newest client, John supposed. “Ah! And here is John now, with flowers for later no less. Must have gotten my text... thank you, put them in there? As I was saying Mr. Anderson, I’ll find your match...”
John stopped in his tracks before remembering ‘Client in Room’ and pulled a smile before heading to the kitchen, closing the pocket doors behind himself once he had placed the bouquet down. Shaking his head he flicked the kettle on and fished his mobile out to check it. Sure enough.
“Bloody hell...” John pulled the good cups and saucers down, then set about finishing the measurement of tea and pouring the boiled water into the pot to let it steep. Everything on the tray as he liked, he opened the doors once again before getting the tray to serve in the lounge. “Tea, Mr. Anderson?”
“Yes, thank you.” The wiry bespeckled client said, his voice almost nasal. “You’re his... colleague... correct?”
“His biographer, yes.” John answered.
“Well, it is good that you two have hit it off, but we were speaking of your dating woes and lack of luck, as it were, with the female persuasion, were we not?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes... Sherlock we were.” Mr. Anderson sipped at his tea a slightly disgruntled look upon his face. “I know you can, that you have, but I’m divorced. A detective... my hours..."
“Well, Phillip... I’m sure the lovely woman you’ve been seeing as a fling might actually be more keen on you than you believe. And you on her, as a matter of fact. If I am not mistaken, she too is in your division?”
“How did you-”
“Her hair is on your jacket, her gloss just beneath your ear... mostly translucent, but in this afternoon sun, at this angle clearly visible... you even began wearing the same brand of cologne to compliment her perfume, have you not?”
Mr. Anderson, as well as John himself, if truth were told, were amazed at the deduction. “Brilliant.”
“John- So, you see Mr. Anderson, go take the flowers my biographer has brought and take them to the woman in your office... no, wait... not those. Go pick up pastel roses. Feminine to counteract the more masculine job she has during the day. Show her you see her, Phillip. Go.”
John was momentarily horrified, then relaxed into his chair as he heard the correction. Rising himself, he saw Mr. Anderson to the door before retracing his steps to the lounge.
“Sherlock, these flowers...” He steadied his breathing and brought them over to his heart’s desire. Wait, that too will need to be revisited. At any rate, he brought the bouquet, deep purple dahlias interspersed with hellebore, to the consulting matchmaker. “Well, they are for you.”
“For me? Thankful client?” Sherlock raised his eyebrow as he pulled the card. “John, this is signed-”
“By me, yea. It is.” He cleared his throat and sat on the edge of the low table between their chairs closing the distance. “I got them for you.”
“You... is it my birthday?”
“No, Sherlock, it’s not your birthday.” John laughed and smiled widely. “They are ‘just because’, isn’t that the advice you give?”
“Well, it is to my clients.” His eyes roamed, quickly taking in John for the first time since he’d entered their flat. “Tell me, John, why... flowers? My personal favourite, no less?”
“Well, you seem in the mood to deduce today, so I’ll let you puzzle it.”
“Solve it. Solve, not puzzle. John, we really must work on your language skills if you are going to be conversing often. Your versatility with words seems to be trapped to the page. Take that beautiful work of poetry you wrote just the other day-”
“Week. Weeks, actually. Two. Yes, I am aware of how much you enjoyed it, pity you gave it to a client.”
“It was the personification of such a sweetly derived sentiment. Saccharine, but not enough to set one’s teeth on edge. You should be proud, John, it garnered an affirmative response to the proposal of marriage that followed-”
John drooped his head and sighed heavily.
“You know what, I’ve had it.” He stated then giggled before clamping his hand over his mouth to stop the manic titter. John shook his head and walked toward the dark-curled, wiry love god that was all science and little ardour. Passion would never be discounted. John had seen it. Felt it’s lick at the tips of his being. Warming him uncomfortably, when he thought it unprofessional. Now though, he welcomed it. Chased it even. Stopping just within Sherlock’s personal space (they had no borders really, they weren’t kidding anyone) John took the long-fingered hand in his before he knelt.
“John? What are yo-”
“I’d be shutting that brilliant mouth of yours and opening your ears instead.”
“But-”
“Sherlock William Scott Holmes, shut your bloody mouth or you will completely screw this moment to oblivion. Do you understand?”
“No, I-”
John just shook his head and chuckled once again, this time softer. He should have known that wooing between the two of them would never be easy.
“Sherlock, I love you. For as much as you may be insufferable, I have found that I would rather suffer your mouth and sharp wit the rest of my days than be without it. I may be a medical man, and you a brilliant psychiatrist; but what does it say of your heart that you’ve chosen to matchmake? Of me, that I write up all the beautiful moments we have witnessed to give others joy? To give them the sense of the depth of you outside of your chosen profession as well...”
John looked at their joined hands. Rubbing his thumb along the creamy skin he smiled at the difference in colour. The dark from the kiss of the Afghan skies that would never truly leave him.
“I’ve seen so much... sadness, loss, confusion... I am happy to follow you into the softer, though no less deeper emotions, and choose to drown myself in them with you. That would be so much more of a merry death than the ones that I’ve witnessed. Be mine?”
John finally moved his gaze back up to Sherlock’s face. The man looked as if he’d been struck dumb, the surprise clearly evident before his mouth set in a firm line even as his fingers gripped at John’s own.
“I-” The matchmaker’s words halted as if he himself had lost the ability to put a string of words together to form a coherent sentence. Sherlock reset his features and blinked several times before he began again. It was the sweetest gesture John had ever seen. Sherlock speechless. Honestly. “I am, very... It’s been for me? These last few weeks?”
How could John deny the open curiosity? The almost-innocence in the query?
“Yes, you berk. All of it. For you.”