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And So It Began	By : Mrs_M Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2624 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own (BBC) Sherlock, nor the characters and content therein. I do not profit from this work.

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It started out with, of all things, a woman.

8, September
                Doctor John Watson trudged up the stairs of 221 B, Baker Street with care. Just coming off of a twelve hour shift at surgery he was tired, his feet sore, his back aching. Catching the smell coming off of himself his stomach roiled; underneath the smell of antiseptic and menthol cream he was reminded that a particularly ill patient had managed to vomit on his left arm just after lunch time. The bile and grease smell of that patient’s meal still clung to him and he ached to change out of the soiled shirt as soon as possible.
                Had the doctor been more observant he may have realized sooner that his flat-mate, best friend and all around pain in the arse Sherlock Holmes was in quite a state. But John simply could not spare the necessary brain cells to notice anything beyond the ache, the fatigue and the sick smell.
                Moving to the kitchen first he put the kettle to boil and readied the tea pot, thinking absently that tea was just what he needed to un-fog his mind. The tea setup completed he took long strides to the stairs and up to his room. As soon as the door swung closed he stripped, deciding that a full change of clothes was necessary, pants and all. Tired fingers fumbled on shirt buttons, many heavy sighs were heaved, but eventually he emerged in cotton trousers and an old t-shirt. John returned to the kitchen just in time for the tell-tale song of a hot kettle.
                Tea made, he moved to his chair by the fire and swung his laptop up to begin working on his latest blog entry, trying to think of where to begin. This particular case had involved Sherlock, brilliantly, using his homeless network along with data regarding the pigeon population of North London to solve several grisly murders. Chuckling to himself he began to write, fingers clicking away on keys in that way that was always so soothing to him. In many ways his blog work felt more satisfying even than curing the sick. He felt a connection to the world then in a way that wasn’t there when his mask of “physician” was firmly in place. The movement of his hands was familiar and the subject never dull; ah yes, John Watson loved to blog.
                15 minutes later he had just finished the first section, detailing the M.O. of the murderers as described in the press. He would have finished the blog that night at the rate he was going and most likely drifted to sleep right there in his cozy chair, if he hadn’t decided to look up. Stretching his neck to cure his growing discomfort he finally noticed that something was not right.
                There was a crackling energy in the flat. In his time with Sherlock he had learned to identify nearly every possible situation by the underlying emotional tones in the room. He knew the manic energy of an exciting case, the sort-of humming sensation of a focused new experiment, even the pulsing cry of pure boredom. Yes, John was sure he could tell Sherlock’s mindset, in a general sense by those feelings alone. So it shocked him when he realized that he had no idea what was going on with his friend.
                Sherlock was pacing the kitchen like a caged panther. His silk pants dragging against the floor as they fell further down his hips. The detective’s robe was left open, twisting around him with each sudden turn of his feet. This style of pacing was not unfamiliar to John, in fact he was sure it was one of only 4 ways that Sherlock knew how to express himself in motion. But there was something different this time. It took him a moment to put it together before he concluded that the face was all wrong. When Sherlock paced it was because his body needed to work while his mind did. The usual face that accompanied that pacing movement was drawn, brows pinched and lips pursed as he thought. But in this case the face was reversed. Sherlock’s eye brows floated continually up toward his mane of dark curls. His lips were drawn tight together, almost white and he breathed through his nose as if he knew he may run out of air soon, deep draws that nearly whistled as they went. Something was definitely wrong.
                “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” he asked.
                He hadn’t meant to say anything, but he was too tired to properly police the connection between his brain and his mouth.
                “Mmmmf” was his only response. And John was more than happy to leave it at that.
                He returned to his work on the blog, setting up the description of the initial police investigation but it was too late. Now that he saw his friend’s distress the doctor’s attention was divided. In between sentences about genetic material collection, fingerprint analysis and CCTV blind spots John started looking up. He watched as the detective continued on his path, no change in expression or speed; a fluid motion that seemed to go on forever.
                Before long John realized that he had stopped looking down to his laptop altogether and was intently focused on Sherlock once more. He studied the man more closely, trying to use the observation skills that his friend had tried so hard to teach him in all this time. He noticed that his hands routinely flexed, his fingers moving both individually and in groups. Why hadn’t he gone for the violin yet, that’s obviously what his hands craved or they would not be twitching so energetically. John’s only conclusion was that he was too keenly focused on something else to take the time to prepare and play the instrument at all. But what his friend was focused on, he couldn’t say. Until he noticed his eyes.
                John hadn’t paid much attention to Sherlock’s eyes in his initial review, being far too focused on his brows. But now he could see that the detective’s eyes were moving every few seconds or so to his mobile, sitting on the kitchen table.
                Phone. Floor. Phone. Floor. Middle distance. Kettle. Fridge. Phone. Floor. Phone. Phone. Phone.
                John watched for several minutes as those piercing eyes darted around the room, until he thought he might get dizzy. But now he had his answer at least, something was wrong and it was wrong with Sherlock’s phone. Well it was a start.
                “Waiting for a phone call?” he asked quietly.
                “No”, came the reply “but that’s a good observation doctor”.
                “Thanks.” He sighed and continued to watch until, a few minutes later Sherlock finally came to a screeching halt.
                Without warning the other man grabbed his phone, strode directly to John and forced the device into his face in offering. John looked up to see Sherlock biting his lip and staring at him intensely. He felt a strange sensation, under the detective’s gaze. A tingle ran up and down his spine, settling in his belly with a tremble of…what? Fear, excitement, delight? He shook the thoughts away before they could take root.
                “Perhaps you can help” Sherlock sighed, “this seems to be your area of expertise anyway”.
                “My area?” John croaked. “In what possible universe is there anything that I know more about than you?”
                “Just look at the phone, John” he grunted, before tossing the gadget smoothly onto his stomach and backing away.
                John took the phone in hand, flipping it up to face the right direction, and entered the required pass code to unlock. What he saw there shocked him.
                Gripping the phone tightly to secure his shaking fingers, John went over each detail in his mind, one by one to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Two full, pink lips surrounded by a dusting of brown hair, only recently beginning to grow. Above there was a hooded bump of plumping flesh; below was a line that continued to parts unknown. And right smack in the middle of it all, an opening. In his mind John knew that moist heat and a blissfully tight sensation rested further inside.
                His eyes went wide and he dropped the phone into his lap, stretching the fingers that had clutched it so tightly. “Why do you have a picture of a…of a…”
                “Vagina”, Sherlock clarified mechanically.
                “Yes a, one of those, on your mobile!”
                “It was sent to me in a message earlier this evening.” He said simply, reaching to retrieve the phone and shove it into his trouser pocket. “She’s waiting for a reply, I’m sure”
                “She? Who is she?” John stammered. “What – not Molly?!”
                The other man scoffed, “don’t be absurd, of course not Molly”
                “Then who do you mean she?” he asked again, slowly working his way through the list of women Sherlock even knew. Mrs. Hudson was out before he could even shiver at the thought. There were, of course Mycroft’s many assistants, and the women they had encountered on various cases. There was Sally Donovan but this certainly didn’t belong to her the skin tone as all wrong. He slowly began to realize that Sherlock did not associate himself with many people and even fewer of those people were women. He was drawing a blank, at a loss.
                “I…who?” He asked again.
                “Don’t be daft, John even YOU should be aware enough to realize” he spat back.
                “Oy, no need to be a prat about it. Look, Sherlock I’m tired, I’ve had a long day and I simply don’t have the brain power to…” And then it struck him like lightning. “Her.”
                He looked up at Sherlock’s face to confirm but he already knew, deep in his gut he knew, that Sherlock had meant Her. The Woman, Irene Adler, it was the only possible answer. As Sherlock nodded his assent John felt a burning rage rise up. The heat of that ire swept through him so quickly he barely noticed when he shot to his feet. The laptop clattered to the ground and John’s face contorted into a mask of confusion and indignation.
                “What the fuck?” he hollered, his face just inches from Sherlock’s. “You’re in contact with her? Are you insane? Oh no, of course you are, I forgot you’re an absolute mad man…she-she’s dead. I know we have been saying she’s in America but she’s dead. I thought you knew she was dead. Months of mourning, months of pretending that I didn’t see how you tightened up every time someone said her name and now I find this shit? FUCK, man! What did you do?”
                “I saved her.”
                Why was he being so calm about this, why was his face a mask of indifference just mere inches from a raging soldier? John wanted to punch the man, to take him by the collar and swing. He felt betrayed, after everything they had been through and every secret he kept for his friend to be left in the dark on this was something he could not stand.
                The doctor’s mind skittered back to the last time he had been left in the dark…15 months ago. His heart clenched as he remembered The Fall. Then he had spent months in the dark, alone and scared, unable to leave the flat except to visit the grave. 5 months and 4 days of his life lost to a spiraling depression that seemed to have no bottom. And when Sherlock had come home he thought he’d finally gone insane. He didn’t like to think about that time in his life if he could help it; altogether it added up to 6 months of torment and confusion as he waited for explanations. But at the end of it all, when Sherlock was finally settled at home John had made him promise that he would never lie to him again.
               “This lie predates that promise”, Sherlock said, pulling John from his thoughts. “I never said I would share old secrets”.
                With that John’s anger left him and he sank to his chair again, knees weak.
               “Yes, I suppose” he sighed. “So how can I help with his, er – problem?” He motioned to Sherlock’s pocket and the phone lying within.
               “I have no previous experience in this area”, the detective began. “I simply don’t know how to respond.”
               “Well generally,” john giggled, “you would send her a response in kind.”
                “Meaning a picture of…”
                “Of your cock, yes Sherlock. Sexting is all about reciprocation.”
                “Sexting?” The detective asked, rolling the word over in his mouth and committing the pronunciation to memory no doubt.
                “Sexual Texting” John clarified
                “So to properly participate in this act of sexual expression I have to take a picture of my...anatomy and send it back to her?”
                “Yes, that’s the idea” John laughed. From where he was sitting he could see a pale pink blush starting to make its way up Sherlock’s neck and into his pale cheeks. As far as he could remember he had never seen his flat-mate blush. He rather liked to see Sherlock’s skin this colour, it agreed with him. John smiled at the younger man’s naiveté and felt that warm tingle rush back to sit in his core.
                “Can…” Sherlock began again, before going silent.
                “What, Sherlock” he asked, quite enjoying the other’s embarrassment.
                “Can you elaborate please?” he asked in a very scholarly tone.
                John let out a slow chuckle before sighing to himself. Finally, something he knew more about than Sherlock “Genius” Holmes.
                “Put the kettle on, and yes I will.”
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And So It Began