Word Count: 1,417
Notes: Ficlets are falling out of me :) I should be doing my kink_bingo, but instead I'm writing Sherlock!
Summary: It's an accident that Sherlock ever met John at all - so he can't be important. Can he?
John Watson worried too much. Given his background, and his experiences, Sherlock decided that was to be expected, of course. A man returned from any kind of killing zone was inevitably expected to have things on his mind. However, these days John had stopped worrying about his own issues and begun worrying about their problems, which Sherlock for one considered to be an improvement. Completely unnecessary, of course, because Sherlock always had everything in hand, but it was still, in all probability, much better for John's mental state than dwelling on the past. Sherlock despised people who wallowed in their own emotions, but he rather liked the way that John managed it. No emotional displays, no whining or moaning. He buttoned himself down rather, forced it all smaller and smaller, in the hopes that it would disappear. Sherlock had read a lot of current psychological thinking and knew that it wasn't the approved methodology, but he had to admit that on a personal level he much preferred it.
His judgement of John's emotional state was all theoretical, of course. Sherlock preferred to deal in facts, not the wooliness of emotions, but sometimes it was inevitable. It would be wrong to say that Sherlock himself didn't have emotions, an accusation that had been thrown at him from time to time by Donovan, among a myriad others. He had plenty of emotions. It was just that he was supremely uninterested in other people's, except as they pertained to his work, and even then, only barely. John suited him therefore. Sherlock would consider it lucky that they had met, except that he didn't believe in luck. It was merely a coincidence, and since he had been introduced to John just as he needed a flatmate, it couldn't have been an unlikely one. Sherlock therefore believed that there were many other men in London, in the world even, who also had the correct combination of vulnerabilities, and strengths, to coincide with his own.
When John introduced him to Harry, it wasn't a coincidence either. John thought it was, of course, because he had been careful - one might almost say pathologically so - to ensure that they would not meet. But since Harry was John's sister, and Sherlock was his flatmate, and considering in many sibling relationships there was a desire to socialise beyond the Christmas and birthday card rituals, it would have surprised Sherlock far more if one had not encountered the other at some point.
She was solid and blond like John, which given the genetics involved was a 75% likelihood, since Sherlock had once glimpsed a photograph of John's parents for approximately 3.2 seconds. The picture had been taken in 1977 [Queen's Silver Jubilee] and allowed for his judgement on her hair colour, among several other things, such as the cause of death for John's father. He had opened his mouth to tell John that at the time, and then shut it again, as John put the photograph away rather hurriedly. Sherlock had suddenly realised that John didn't know he was standing in the doorway to his room, and while such an interruption was not an intrusion, and Sherlock could barely tell the difference anyway, nevertheless there was something about John in that moment that meant Sherlock moved silently and swiftly away.
He felt like that in the presence of Harry too. Sherlock might have been disconcerted, if that was the kind of emotion he gave in to regularly. She had an unusually penetrating stare, or perhaps it was merely that she was John's sister. Everyone there was uncomfortable. John kept licking his lips - something he only did when he was nervous. Sherlock kept talking - although he would have done that anyway - but hoped he had some modicum of understanding of his own state of being. Harry held herself too stiffly, and despite the drinking problem, tremens had yet to set in so completely, which meant she was nervous too.
She solved the problem by going onto the attack. Sherlock was aware that John was in an extreme state of embarrassment, but he himself quite enjoyed it. No, he didn't have a proper job. Yes, he knew John was just out of the army. No, he didn't intend to have John support him. No, he didn't know what his intentions were towards John. Sherlock wanted to laugh, and then did, just a small crack, because it was funny. He wasn't going to marry John. It was coincidence that they were even living together. Sherlock happened to be gay but the observations that he'd made [Anthea, Sarah, Pauline, Kathy] indicated that John had a reasonably healthy hetrosexual libido. Harry appeared to be projecting. Given the shambles that her life was currently in, Sherlock supposed that might be considered normal. But it wasn't his problem in any event.
He did tease John about it afterwards however. He hadn't had so much fun in years.
It was coincidence too that meant Sherlock now knew the taste of the inside of John's left elbow. It was an inevitable part of such explorations, of finding out that a touch to the hollow of his hip and thigh made John moan, that a hand there, and a tongue there made John fall apart. It was happenstance that John was in Sherlock's bed [so much closer to the front door] and actually not improbable at all given that Sherlock was gay and John apparently had a healthy libido, and yet kept failing to attract any of the women in his life. He was never going to admit it, but Sherlock had been wrong about certain aspects of John's hetrosexuality, but he couldn't fault the method of discovery.
But given that it was coincidence, Sherlock wasn't going to read anything more into such events either. It was circumstance and convenience, nothing more. Healthy libidos and proximity. The small snuffling sounds John made when wrapped around Sherlock in the middle of the night were just that - sounds. Meaningless noises. When Sherlock heard them [he always had been a light sleeper] he wanted to swallow, as though his throat was dry, but that fact meant nothing. It was another coincidence. The dryness of the cold air. On a winter's night, curling up to the nearest source of warmth was only instinct, nothing more.
It wasn't a coincidence however, that the night Sherlock punched his brother Mycroft in the face was the same night that John Watson lay unconscious in St Bart's on life support. It wasn't carefully planned or thought about, but it wasn't accidental either. Mycroft did not fall onto Sherlock's fist, for example, but it did come as somewhat of a surprise to him. He had underestimated Sherlock's overreaction to his jibe. And that was rare enough that he didn't even begrudge the bruise.
Harry was there and witnessed the punch. She held back Anthea - just - when she went to intervene. Harry was lucky it was only one blow because Anthea knew a great deal about causing pain to the human body, and might have educated Harry if she'd felt Mycroft was in any real danger. Harry's eyes were huge in her face, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks, but she'd smiled at Sherlock, she'd grinned with her whole body somehow, like she meant it. Sherlock had rather thought they'd bonded then. Random violence did seem to be Harry's metier [although usually drunken], and Sherlock wasn't at all sure he should be pleased in the sharing of it. But he was.
John pulled through, by the way. So eventually Sherlock was content to start talking to Mycroft again, or at least sniping, which was their usual form of communication. And he also found he was prepared to open up the possibility that what he and John had was... More important than he'd thought. Not a random collision of warm body parts and occasionally minds. A unique and destined partnership, not that Sherlock accepted the existence of destiny.
Sherlock had once believed that there were many other men in London, in the world even, who had the correct combination of vulnerabilities, and strengths, to coincide with his own. But when John was lying in Intensive Care and Mycroft had offered to do such an analysis [for the next such man] Sherlock had punched him. It meant something Sherlock knew, and it certainly wasn't coincidence.
It was to do with emotions. They were such messy things.