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Enchanted	By : Flavy Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1622 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Note: What’s that?? You still haven’t seen the Sherlock x John video called Enchanted (Owl City) by Deductism on YouTube?? *Does the Moriarty pool-shocked-look* (Which was hilarious, by the way.)
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Chapter 3
After booking himself a direct flight to Paris early the next morning along with a reasonably priced stay at a small Holiday Inn for the week, John took a cab back to the flat. The closer he got to home, the more nervous he felt about the conversation he was going to have with Sherlock. In his mind, John had more or less gone through every possible excuse he could give Sherlock as to why his trip was necessary, but in the end, he knew his flatmate was not going to take the news well regardless of whether there was a valid reason for it or not.
Which, without the shadow of a doubt, there was.
The way John saw it, it was either distancing himself from his friend for a short while to take care of any physical urges that were the most likely source of his undue dream, or letting Sherlock continue investigating him until he discovered the true reason behind John’s unusual behaviour. And then nothing John could say or do would make Sherlock rethink his deductions about what John’s fantasies about him were, regardless of how false and utterly absurd John believed them to be. And once that ‘knowledge’ was wedged into their friendship, John could easily say goodbye to everything he had established with Sherlock over the short period of time they had spent together.
Their openness with each other, the closeness they shared, the comfortable and unassuming silences. It would all be marred by this large, grey cloud of insecurity that would hang about until they slowly became estranged from each other to the point where they simply drifted apart.
And the worst part of it was that John would likely be the biggest culprit for it all. Because he didn’t really expect Sherlock to experience some adverse emotional reaction to the news and start acting as though the very idea was offensive to him. Not at all. In fact, he expected that Sherlock would simply find it to be inconsequential as long as it did not interfere with their work together, and inform John of as much along with the ‘thank you, but no thank you’ bit he had already given him before.
In the end, John knew that it was him who would be left withering in the awkward tension of the situation that was sure to affect their interactions to an unbearable degree. Because being the odd one out was always disheartening and miserable, no matter how mistaken the grounds for it were.
With a deep sigh at his unsettling thoughts, John stared at the ticket in his hand, tucked neatly into an envelope adorned with a bright, colourful picture of a very happy couple posing next to the Eiffel Tower. It was almost funny how unfitting that picture was, considering the fact that he was actually going to Paris to essentially get away from happiness.
Because, in his heart, John couldn’t deny the fact that he was happy with Sherlock. Apart from the recently introduced idea of sleeping with him, John loved the lifestyle he shared with his flatmate, the chases, the playful conversations, the sheer brilliance of Sherlock’s deductions, even the occasional drama. But it was ultimately because of this happiness that John didn’t wish to explore the possibility of more. After all, why go and change something that was already perfect? In his view, all that he was missing to establish the balance he now sought was a wife. With regular affection and sexual activity from a beloved woman, John was sure to have it all exactly the way he wanted it.
John paid the cabby as he pulled up to 221B Baker Street and paused at the front door momentarily to tuck his ticket into the inside pocket of his jacket. He had decided on making some light conversation with Sherlock first and perhaps even have some supper before introducing the existence of the ticket to his flatmate. The less time Sherlock knew about it prior to John’s departure, the better.
When John entered the flat, he reflexively looked about the room, seeking out Sherlock. He hadn’t spoken to him or heard from him all day, after all, and he was more than a little bit concerned about his wellbeing. He was glad to find that Sherlock was in one piece, and had moved from his preferred position at the window to sitting in the armchair with a newspaper opened wide in his hands, seemingly reading through it.
Tossing his keys, wallet and cellphone onto the table, John started removing his jacket and shoes, trying to ignore the slight tension that hung about in the air since that morning, elevated by the fact that John had not contacted Sherlock that entire day. John wondered if Sherlock was upset with him about that, seeing how he had not yet reacted to his arrival. It made him feel more than a little guilty at the selfishness of his actions.
“Hey,” he said simply before padding toward the fridge in his socks.
“Hello,” came the detached response while Sherlock continued staring at the paper without as much as a look in his direction.
“How was your day?” John went on, chancing a glance his way.
“Fine,” Sherlock answered shortly as he turned a page and looked over it disinterestedly. From the way his eyes rested on it, it was quite clear that Sherlock was not in fact reading it.
With the beginnings of something unpleasant tightening in his chest at Sherlock’s cold demeanour, John opened the fridge and scanned its contents vacantly. Apart from a petri dish containing a greenish mold growing over an unidentifiable object, there was pretty much nothing in there that qualified as edible, which prompted John to shut the door with a resigned expression.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and stood there pensively for several moments. “Have you eaten anything at all today?”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
“What about Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits?”
“There’s one in the fridge, if you’d like, although I would strongly advise against ingesting it. It is currently harbouring a colony of a mutated variety of Pseudomonas suspended in a perpetual replicative state. Might cause an adverse effect or two.”
John simply stared at him. “You realize that was our only food for the day.”
“You stated you weren’t feeling hungry this morning.”
“That was this morning, Sherlock. It’s supper time now.”
“Oh, is it already? How time flies,” Sherlock replied in an unconcerned manner, turning a new page.
“So what happened to the rest of them?” John asked almost irritably, seeing how his stomach was not at all happy with the prospect of remaining empty.
“I failed to properly condition them as optimal mediums for my variant’s growth.”
John muttered a curse under his breath. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Sherlock hummed in response. “Technically, the most fitting term would be ‘improbable’.”
John opened his mouth to retort, but decided against it. Arguing with Sherlock was like swimming against a high current, all the while knowing that you were being pulled closer and closer into the waterfall without any feasible possibility of escape.
“… Can you stop pretending to be reading that?”
“I never said I was reading it.”
“Then why are you holding it?”
“Does it bother you that I am?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
John groaned in exasperation, deciding that the ‘light conversation and supper’ plan was not working out in the least. It seemed like all he could do with Sherlock since that bloody dream was argue.
“Sherlock, we need to talk.”
“We are talking, John.”
“Yes, obviously, but there’s something I need to tell you, so will you shut up and listen?”
A moment of silence passed. “I already know.”
John blinked. “What?”
Sherlock folded his paper and tossed it aside before joining his hands together under his chin. “When is your flight leaving?”
At his words, John nearly froze as realization hit like a swift kick to the ribs, causing anger to rise almost instantly. John stared at him with a deep scowl.
“You followed me,” he stated accusingly, keeping his voice steady.
“You told me to get out of the flat, so I did,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly.
John shook his head, not knowing why he was so bothered by the unexpected discovery, but feeling angry and frustrated all the same. Sherlock had followed him plenty of times before, but this time it just felt different. It felt intrusive and unwelcome.
“You had no right to do that,” he said, trying his best to keep the hurt out of his voice. After all, his plan had been to try and convince Sherlock that there was nothing personal going on.
At his words, Sherlock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “It has never bothered you before.”
“I know that, but that doesn’t mean you should go prying into my life whenever the mood strikes for it. You have to understand that sometimes I have a need for privacy, just like everybody else.”
“John, the need for privacy only ever arises when there is a need to hide one’s thoughts or actions. The only reason a felon seeks to cover up his trace is for fear of conviction. By the same token, the only reason people seek privacy is to cover up something that they are uncomfortable with.”
John felt his anger shift gears into extreme annoyance at Sherlock’s inept statement. “Yes, Sherlock, everybody knows that, which is exactly why you don’t go flinging into people’s faces. Some secrets are meant to be kept, and for a good reason. Criminal activity aside, it is not generally acceptable to go around deducting personal things about people that they may be uncomfortable with and then sharing them with the general public. Can’t you understand that? That’s the reason why people don’t like having you around.”
Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line at John’s outburst as they regarded each other somewhat tensely. “I was simply concerned—”
“Not an excuse, Sherlock,” John interrupted sharply in obvious frustration.
“You turned off your phone,” Sherlock went on, looking a little like a child that was being scolded.
“I was at work.”
“It has never stopped you from messaging me back before.”
“Yes, well, that was before and this is now. Sometimes things change, Sherlock.”
“Nothing ever changes without a reason,” Sherlock replied bluntly as he stood up to return to his favourite place by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “All processes in the world, from chemical to relational, have a designated pathway defined by both law and context that governs their inevitable advancement from point A to point B. It’s what makes the science of deduction so flawless, John.”
“So, essentially, you want me to give you a reason as to why I may want to do things my way rather than yours based solely on the fact that I have never opposed your way before.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Actually, I just wanted to know what happened to you this morning that has got you so upset,” he said quietly. “I know you are upset over something, John, and I was merely trying to be a friend to you.”
At the unexpected words, John’s anger flattened as quickly as it rose, leaving him at a complete loss. He stared at his flatmate, suddenly feeling like a sodding idiot. He was screwing everything up. He had to stop before it sunk into more dangerous waters.
He lowered his eyes to the floor. “You wanted to know when my flight leaves,” he said in a subdued tone. “It’s at eight thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Paris.”
Sherlock searched his face intently. “What are you planning on doing there?”
John sighed and shook his head. Preaching to Sherlock about not intruding on others’ privacy was like asking the wind not to blow. It was a contradiction in terms. “Visiting some old mates.”
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“A week or so.”
Sherlock seemed to consider his words before turning back to the window. Another heavy silence settled between them before Sherlock spoke again. “What is the reason for your departure?”
And there it was again – the inevitable question that John knew he couldn’t avoid indefinitely, regardless of whether he had an answer ready for it or not.
“Look, Sherlock…” he started, searching for the right words. He wasn’t sure there were any. “I need a bit of space right now. I can’t explain why and I don’t really want to argue with you about it. I just need you to understand and give it to me this one time.” He paused to glance in his flatmate’s direction, whose face was tilted toward him slightly, indicating that he was listening. “Okay?”
There was an imperceptible shift of something in Sherlock’s expression before he turned back to the window. “Alright.”
John nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I think I’ll go up to my room now, I have packing to do.”
As he jogged up to his room and closed the door, John leaned back against it heavily, feeling greatly unsettled. Bringing his hand up to his eye level, he realized that it was shaking slightly, just as it had when he had returned from the war. He gripped it into a fist, gritting his teeth.
Why was Sherlock making this so difficult for him? And why did it have to feel so wrong? It was just a short trip, for God’s sakes. It was nothing. He’d go and return in a flash, and then everything would go back to normal.
This was just another proof that he was spending far too much time with Sherlock. It was becoming unhealthy for both of them. They lived together, ate together, worked together (on most days), and spent their free time together. In the end, everyone was right. They were too much like a couple. The only thing that made their connection short of a true relationship was the absence of the element of intimacy, which John’s subconscious had apparently decided to supply during his sleep.
Shaking off the intense sense of guilt he was experiencing, John grabbed a large duffel bag and started going through his drawers, tossing clothing and hygiene items into it randomly.
He needed to get out of there before he went raving mad.
####
In the morning, John felt as though he had been hit by a freight train. He had slept in short intervals here and there, in part because he couldn’t stop thinking about everything that was going on, but also because he was somewhat wary of having a repeat occurrence of his dream. His guilt had died down over the course of the night as he became more and more tired, and now he just felt groggy and irritable, ready to get it all over with.
Dragging himself out of bed, he took a quick shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth before getting himself dressed. It was already seven am, which meant he had another half an hour to get to the airport in time to check in. Checking his duffel bag to ensure that he hadn’t forgotten anything, John slung it over his shoulder and went downstairs, hoping that Sherlock was in his bedroom, fast asleep. He just wasn’t sure he could handle him right now, feeling as shitty as he did.
To his great relief, the living room was perfectly empty. The windows were slightly open, a cool morning breeze making its way into the room with a soft wave of sheer curtains. The street was still relatively quiet as the neighbourhood slept, with only a soft chirping heard in the distance from time to time.
The fresh air and calm atmosphere relaxed John somewhat, helping to clear his mind. Yawning, he made himself some of his favourite tea and sat at the kitchen table with it, allowing himself a few minutes to enjoy it. As he sipped it, he stared at the window where Sherlock usually stood in his blue robe, feeling slightly melancholy. It felt odd not to say goodbye to his friend.
And what was even more disturbing to him was the fact that he was finding it difficult to imagine life without Sherlock for a mere week.
Where would he go? What would he do? How would he get the time to pass? He had emailed Fred and Trevor at some point last night, but had gotten no reply as of yet, which wasn’t terribly surprising since most people liked to sleep at night. Still, he thought about it with some degree of apprehension, hoping that they were about and available to keep him company during his stay there. John wasn’t very good at going out on his own, and he didn’t much fancy spending the entire week at the hotel, alone. Not when he was planning on meeting someone special to go sight-seeing with, among other things.
Deciding that he didn’t need to think about any of it until he arrived at his destination and settled in at the hotel, John stood and rinsed out his empty mug, wondering briefly if he should leave Sherlock a note. But what could he say in it? ‘Goodbye’? ‘See you later’? It was all unnecessary and sentimental.
Instead, he wrote a quick note about his trip to Mrs. Hudson, asking her to watch over Sherlock in his absence, and slipped it under her bedroom door quietly before fleeing the small flat.
It wasn’t long before he was checking in with an Air France representative at the London Heathrow Airport, his anxiety dulled to a numb churning in the pit of his stomach. As he boarded his flight, he tossed his duffel bag into the overhead compartment and took his seat near the window, interlocked his fingers in his lap tightly.
His neighbour turned out to be a jumpy, restless fellow that somewhat reminded John of Mike Stamford. He was in his late 30s, with a receding hairline, round flat face, small alert eyes that were in constant motion, and an exaggerated smile. His weight and height ratio put him on the heavier side of the BMI scale that pointed to a sedentary lifestyle as well as a habit of overeating; also, his skin was white and pale as though he spent long hours indoors – some sort of office worker? He was wearing an old but well-kept business suit that was just slightly too short for him – bought at a discount, perhaps, so probably an average business man looking to catch larger fish abroad. One of the buttons on his suit jacket was slightly larger and greyer than the others, pointing to the fact that someone had sewn it on. Examining his ring finger confirmed the theory that the man was married, and for quite some time. The white gold of his wedding band had faded to a slight yellowish colour without proper maintenance of its Rhodium coating, which also hinted toward an unhappy marriage. So, possibly, he was looking to score on both fronts in Paris.
John grinned to himself as he realized he was making ‘observations’. He wondered how many of them he had gotten right. Either way, Sherlock would have surely approved the effort.
The fellow appeared quite nervous as he drummed his fingers against the seat rest, occasionally poking his head into the aisle as though waiting for something to happen. It made John feel jittery just watching him.
“Nervous about the flight?” he asked, wondering what was the cause for the other’s anxiety.
The man turned his head to him sharply as though he had not expected him to talk and appeared to appraise him for a moment before flashing him a broad smile. “Not at all. Just eager to get going.”
John nodded, all the while knowing the other was lying. “Ever been to Paris before?”
“Can’t say I have,” the man replied, checking the aisle again. “I’ve never gone anywhere outside of Britain. What about you?”
“Never been to Paris, but I’ve been abroad. I… served in Afghanistan until recently, as a matter of fact.”
The man turned to survey him again with a hint of wariness. “You’re a soldier?”
“Medical doctor,” John clarified with a curt smile.
At his words, the man’s expression turned to a mixture of ecstatic and a great deal relieved. “Bloody hell, that’s brilliant! Good to know there’s someone with that sort of knowledge around,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Harry Levitt, by the way.”
John shook the proffered hand, hiding his amusement at the other’s obvious pleasure at having him as a seating buddy. He wanted to tell him that if the plane were to crash, a medical doctor would be as shit scared and useless as the next bloke on the aisle, but settled for introducing himself instead.
“John Watson. Good to meet you.”
“Wow, Doctor John Watson. That’s fantastic. So what are your plans for Paris, mate? Going on vacation?”
“Sort of,” John replied evasively. “Just visiting some old friends. You?”
Harry shrugged a shoulder. “Just business for me, I’m afraid. I’m trying to sell a product I’ve developed, but without much success so far. Hoping to get better prospects out there, or, at the very least, better exposure.” He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner and leaned towards him slightly. “See, a good mate advised me that Paris is the right place to go ‘cause it’s swamped with tourists, especially rich women. I was thinking of setting up a small boutique across some major malls, give out some samples. What do you think?”
John gave himself a silent ‘whoop’ for his deductions before considering the question. He really didn’t know much about selling and advertising. “Sounds good, I guess. Depends on the product.”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Oh, would you like to see it? I’d love your input on it, Dr. Watson. I know I’ve got one around here, somewhere…” he said, eagerly starting to rummage through a worn leather laptop bag under his seat.
Several moments later, he came back up with a small glass vial held in the palm of his hand that caught John’s attention almost instantly. It looked very much like a clear Auger seashell with thin gold wiring coiling upward along its long, elegant shape. The clear vial appeared to be empty and was sealed with a golden cap embedded with a sparkling dark blue gem.
“So?” Harry prompted, staring at him expectantly. “What do you think?”
“Beautiful,” John breathed out appreciatively. “Is there something inside?”
“Not at the moment,” Harry answered, twisting the cap off gently and showcasing it to John. “See, I’ve designed this as a companion product to my line of lady’s perfume. It can be filled with a small amount of perfume and hung on a necklace. My vial design allows for a gradual diffusion of the perfume’s scent into the surrounding air. This way, the problem of having put too much perfume or not enough is completely solved! Just hang this around your neck and you’ll smell beautifully throughout the entire day without having to re-apply.”
John looked up at him in amazement. “That’s… brilliant. Really.”
The salesman’s chest went out slightly as he basked in the praise. “Thank you, that means a lot. I have some samples of my perfume, too, go ahead and give it a sniff.”
John took the extended paper sample that was shaped similarly to the vial and inhaled the scent cautiously. It wasn’t anything very special, really, but it wasn’t too bad either. The man had some talent, to be sure.
“Smells good,” he agreed, his eyes going back to the vial held in the other’s hand. “What’s the blue stone, if I may ask?”
“Oh, that’s a dark sapphire, actually. I’ve got a vial for each birthstone. Ruby, rose quartz, opal – you name it.”
John slid a fingertip along the vial, admiring the contrast the deep blue colour of the gemstone made against the clear crystal underneath it. It was a familiar set of colours that reminded him of… a blue scarf twisted into a simple knot against pale skin.
Sherlock’s scarf.
As John became lost in his thoughts, the plane started moving, gaining speed with every passing second. Before he registered what was happening, they were up in the air, and Harry’s hand was gripping his wrist almost to the point of pain as the poor bloke sat frozen in his chair, looking downright terrified.
“I lied, by the way,” he managed in a shaky voice. “I’m shit scared of flying.”
“I guessed as much,” John muttered under his breath, forcefully pushing Sherlock out of his thoughts. “You alright, mate? You look awfully pale.”
“I will be when we land,” came the strained reply as the plane struggled to stabilize itself. Once its course took on a straighter route, Harry loosened his grip on him gradually, getting some colour back in his face.
“So how much would you charge for this?” John asked unexpectedly as he held out the vial, surprising both himself and his seating partner.
Harry stared at him in disbelief for a moment. “You want to buy this?”
“Yep, yes I do,” John said as he retrieved his wallet. “How much?”
Harry seemed to consider it for a moment. “You’ve been good company, so I’ll give it to you half-price.”
“Works for me.”
As they completed the transaction, John slipped the vial into his inside pocket, hoping it would not get broken there. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to buy it – maybe he felt sorry for the other fellow, or maybe he just liked it that much. It didn’t really matter to him. All he knew was that it made him happy that he did.
He leaned back into his chair and tried to relax despite the fact that he didn’t particularly enjoy flying either. He didn’t dare to close his eyes in fear that his sleep-deprived brain would slip into unconsciousness faster than he could prevent it from happening, and instead focused on listening to his seating partner’s occasional snippets of conversation that also provided a welcomed source of distraction from his wandering thoughts.
Approximately two hours later, the solid blanket of white clouds beneath the plane began to dissipate, giving rise to the sights of beautiful Paris, basking in the brilliance of the full morning sun.
John could do nothing but stare at it with a blank expression on his face, a cold emptiness settling deep into his heart.
####
When Mrs. Hudson got up that morning, she found two notes lying on the floor by her bedroom door. The first was written in John’s quick doctor’s scrawl, which she had some trouble deciphering.
Dear Mrs. Hudson,
I left for Paris this morning and expect to return in about a week’s time. I’m sorry for the last-minute notice, it was a rather unexpected decision. Please watch over Sherlock in my absence. I hope to find you both well upon my return.
Sincerely,
John Watson
The second note was written in Sherlock’s familiar cursive handwriting with letters that curled slightly at the ends. It was far more brief and to the point.
Gone for a week. Stay well.
- SH
She stared in slight confusion at the separate notes held in her hands and shook her head in mild exasperation.
“What are those boys up to now?” she asked the empty space of her room before going on about her daily business in an unconcerned manner.
####
To be continued…
- 2
- 3
- 4
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Enchanted