Chapter Text
John was surprised, as he walked up Baker Street, to see Mrs. Hudson sitting in a folding chair next to the front door of 221. “What’s up?” he said curiously; there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, exactly, but the yarn and knitting needles in her lap indicated that she had planned to be here for a while.
She looked up, her face wreathed in a rueful smile. “Oh, John, I’m so glad you’re here. They’ve been setting things on fire all morning, and the smell is atrocious. But they’re having such a good time that I didn’t want to tell them to stop. Now you’re here, there’s a good excuse.” She stood up, opened the door, and bundled her things inside, John on her heels.
The smell was…really, atrocious summed it up pretty well. John couldn’t have told you what it smelled like to save his life—a swirling mass of many different things, all of them noxious. Mrs. H. tutted, waving her hands and blowing out a disgusted breath before retreating into her own flat.
John could hear two voices speaking indistinctly from upstairs: Sherlock’s deep baritone, in what John recognized as his “here’s what you’ve missed. I will deign to explain it just this once” tone, and another male voice, young, but not someone John recognized, in what sounded like mild irritation.
As John reached the top of the stairs the argument resumed. Sherlock was standing over a lit Bunsen burner, holding a scrap of fabric in tongs. Next to him was a young ginger man that John was surprised to recognize as PC Camden, also holding tongs and a second scrap of fabric. “Hand me your tongs and close your eyes. And concentrate this time,” Sherlock ordered. Camden complied, while Sherlock took one of the samples and held it to the flame. A nasty, acrid order emerged. “Now focus,” the detective continued. “Blend or natural wool?” Camden screwed up his features at the repellent smell but nonetheless took two deep breaths. “Um…blend?” the young man ventured.
“Is that a question?” Sherlock asked snarkily.
“Blend,” said Camden firmly, his freckled face flushing a bit.
“Why?” Sherlock snapped back.
“The overtones of, um, petroleum-based byproducts. Means manmade fibers,” Camden concluded, and beamed when Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Hopefully with practice it won’t take you 11 tries to make the distinction,” the detective said drily. “Come in, John,” he continued, because of course he’d known John was there. Camden looked up, startled, then smiled and strode over to John with his hand out. “Scott Camden, Dr. Watson,” he said. “You might remember me from that whole thing with the serial killer and the hidden room.”
“John, please,” John said. And managed not to say that he also remembered Camden getting his forehead smacked on a table by Sherlock. “So what have you two been up to? Mrs. H. said you were having a good time.” He knew that would get a rise out of his friend—God forbid Sherlock Holmes should admit to enjoying himself.
“PC Camden and I—“ began Sherlock haughtily.
“Scott,” said Camden, with the air of someone who had already said this many, many times.
“…are attempting to teach him the basics of identifying the sources of odors from burnt material,” Sherlock continued, ignoring Camden’s interruption completely. “It will be a lengthy process, clearly, but he has made some progress.” His tone made John feel like he should wait for Sherlock to pat the younger man on the head. “We began this morning with environmental materials—differing varieties of wood, asphalt, wallpaper—and have now progressed to clothing.” He waved the green cloth clutched in his tongs in demonstration, while shutting down the Bunsen burner.
“That sounds—hang on,” said John, looking more closely now, “is that part of my green jumper?”, he continued, starting to bristle.
Sherlock made a derisive sound. “Please. You left it behind when you moved. You haven’t worn it in nearly 3 years. And you got it from Oxfam to begin with.” He gave John a flash of puppy eyes, the brat. “It’s for science, John!” Camden, at least, had the grace to appear a little embarrassed.
“That’s not the point,“ John began, before being overwhelmed with a warm feeling. This, this was what had been missing these past few months: that heady mix of annoyance and fondness over how childish, how ridiculous, how (simultaneously) endearing the healthy Sherlock could be.
Camden, in the meantime, was fumbling for his wallet. “I can pay you for it,” he stammered, before Sherlock interrupted. “By all means. Give John his £7—although really, we could probably allow for depreciation, since it had that unfortunate stain from the—“
“Never mind!” John said quickly. He blew out a breath, then smiled at Camden. “Seriously. Never mind. He does it all the time. I just take his wallet occasionally if he overdoes it and reimburse myself.” He really enjoyed the look of outrage on Sherlock’s face (not that he really believed that Sherlock didn’t already know about his infrequent “thefts”).
Camden left shortly thereafter (not completely voluntarily, most likely). Sherlock suddenly turned to him and said “We’re done now. Don’t forget that we will be beginning our evening run in Brixton at 4 tomorrow.” He stuck out what was apparently a hand-drawn map. “Do not wear those ridiculous trainers again; the point of these sessions is to replicate normal working conditions, and I don’t believe the Met has quite sunk to the level of allowing its minions to wear ‘casual clothing’ “, he added with a sneer.
“They don’t exactly ‘allow’ me to work with you, either, but that hasn’t stopped me, has it?” Camden retorted cheerfully, and John wanted to applaud. Sherlock scowled as the younger man clattered down the stairs.
“God, I’m glad you’re better,” John blurted before he could rein in his mouth. Sherlock, surprised, turned and gave him a tiny, hesitant grin. “I am better,” he said, very softly.
“So, running? I didn’t think you went in for that kind of thing,” John said when the silence started to stretch a little too long.
“Hardly,” Sherlock sniffed. “This is not exercise in the conventional sense of the term. I am attempting to teach PC Camden something of the mental mapping process of London streets. He will, of course, need to spend considerable time on his own to truly gain adequate familiarity, but it’s a start.”
“While giving you a reason to get out of the flat,” John added. That had been something of an issue; since Sherlock’s release from hospital, after a stay of nearly a month, he’d been hesitant to leave the familiar surroundings. John had reluctantly called Dr. Arquette to ask about it—Sherlock had given John carte blanche to speak with his doctor whenever he liked, but John didn’t want to abuse that privilege. The psychiatrist said that Sherlock’s unease was to be expected after a lengthy stay in the closed unit, and would only become a problem if it persisted, or if Sherlock showed no effort to overcome it. This, then, seemed to be a positive step.
“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed. He was generally willing to acknowledge his illness, but seemed to find the lingering reminders uncomfortable if not a little embarrassing. John was working on getting him past that, but hadn’t made much headway.
John abruptly remembered one of the reasons he’d come by. “Mary mentioned you had something you wanted to show me,” he said. That wasn’t the only reason he’d come, but it was a good excuse.
“Oh, yes!” Sherlock exclaimed. “I, erm, I have something for you. For you and Mary.” He flitted off to his bedroom and came back with a large shopping bag. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into John’s arms. “I made it in hospital.” He hovered expectantly while trying to look nonchalant.
John opened the bag and pulled out a large, closely-woven basket. It was quite lovely, actually—a light gray reed of some kind with a small design in maroon woven into the collar. John turned it over in his hands, amazed. “This is beautiful, Sherlock. I can’t believe you made it. And the colors are—wait. What’s this design?” He peered more closely, glancing up to see Sherlock almost bouncing in anticipation. The detective gleefully held out his portable magnifying glass.
John snapped open the glass, peered closely at the design, then broke into peals of laughter, Sherlock joining him with baritone chuckles. “You like it, then?” the younger man said, just slightly hesitant.
“God, yes,” John giggled. “And Mary will adore it. But, I mean, how did you do that? All those little connected hands shooting the bird? They’re so small—it must have taken forever.”
“Well, I did have quite a lot of time to waste,” Sherlock pointed out philosophically. “And it provided a nice challenge. I had the instructor give me extra lessons, so that I could scale down the size of reed used to get the detail.” He trotted over and picked up his phone. “But I have to show you my magnum opus. I made a basket for Mycroft as well, and one for Mummy and Dad. Their version is pretty but boring. But Mycroft’s is …” he pulled up the picture he was looking for and held it out proudly.
The picture, taken in the hospital dayroom, showed a large golden-brown basket resting on a sunlit table. Around the collar was what appeared to be a tasteful abstract design in red-brown. Mycroft stood behind the table, wearing a sardonic smile, while his mother beamed from beside him.
A second picture, immediately below, showed a close-up of just the basket. And this time, it was easier to focus just on the rusty red design on the collar. Which—“You didn’t,” John gasped.
“I think you’ll find I did,” Sherlock said drily, peering at John through his lashes.
“So you gave your brother a basket, in front of your mother, which had a message in Morse code around the collar. A tasteful message, which says, repeatedly, ‘Fuck Off’”, John chortled.
Sherlock bobbed his head. “And the best part is, because I gave it to him in front of Mummy—who, thankfully, does NOT read Morse code—he has to display it somewhere public, or he’ll never hear the end of it.” He gave that crooked smile that people rarely ever got to see—the one that let John know he was truly happy.
“You are an evil little bastard,” John said with delight.
“I know,” Sherlock said modestly.
John stayed for dinner. Mrs. H. had already planned to feed Sherlock, and was delighted to add John into the equation, so they settled in her kitchen for a meal of roast chicken and potatoes, followed by fresh fruit and scones. They stayed for tea and a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit; Sherlock lost, which happened at least half the time. He could answer every question except those relating to sports or entertainment; it drove him mad, and led to sulking until John agreed to a barter system—one sports answer in exchange for two science ones, usually. (Mrs. H. drove a harder bargain—she asked for three). The gaps in Sherlock’s knowledge meant that it took him much longer to get those last two wedges (since he always made several attempts on his own before asking for a trade), and gave John and Mrs. H. a reasonable chance to get theirs first.
When John noticed Sherlock starting to look a bit drowsy, they headed upstairs. The detective was gradually tapering off his medication, but for the time being was still taking a reduced dose; it did wonders for his sleep habits, though John knew it wouldn’t last.
They settled in the lounge with a last cup of coffee, seated on the sofa with their feet on the coffee table, staring at the fire.
“Dr. Arquette says I shouldn’t return to active cases quite yet,” Sherlock said suddenly. He didn’t seem upset, especially.
“I know. He told me,” John replied. “Until being out doesn’t make you quite so anxious, yes?” Sherlock had started working on cold cases, but Greg Lestrade knew not to approach him on anything else until John gave him the go-ahead.
Sherlock hummed in agreement. “I’ve noticed, though,” he continued. “It’s…I’m starting to get better. The running, with Camden.”
John suddenly found himself blinking away tears. “That’s good. That’s really good, Sherlock,” he said once he had beaten his emotions into line.
“The only concern I have is keeping myself occupied,” Sherlock continued, in that tone he used when he was troubled but didn’t want to admit it. “I can’t…too much time employed in circular thinking is not conducive to recovery,” he said stiffly. To John it was an indicator that Sherlock still had a ways to go, however healthy it was that he recognized his potential pitfalls.
“Well, as to that, Mary and I have an idea. I ran it by Dr. Arquette, and he thinks it might help,” John began, since this was, after all, the idea that had brought him here in the first place. “But understand—if you don’t want to, we won’t be upset, and no one will be angry with you.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.
“Well, you know we had postponed the wedding until August,” John began. They had, partially because of Sherlock’s hospitalization, and partly because they found that virtually every possible venue for the month of May had been booked for a year or more.
Sherlock nodded, clearly mystified.
“So we’re discovering that there’s a whole lot more to putting something like this together than either of us thought, especially since everybody and their uncle suddenly has to be invited. And neither one of us has ever done this kind of thing, and we’re discovering that, well, we’re sort of pants at it,” John continued, hoping he was presenting this right.
Sherlock’s eyebrows crept further up into his fringe.
“Oh, bugger,” John sighed. “Bottom line is, we need help. And you need help—well, you need a distraction. So we thought…your doctor thought…crap. Sherlock,” John finally said, giving Sherlock an earnest look, “how do you feel about wedding planning?”