There had been a brief moment when John had contemplated telling her to bugger off, that whatever reason he had for getting completely pissed on a Saturday night was none of her bloody business, but he was so tired of telling people that knew that he was fine, and dodging all the people that didn’t.
This woman obviously didn’t know who he was or who he had known-although that had to be a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself, considering how the news was still blaring the news of ‘the suicide of fake genius’ all over the telly and the papers-and instead of questioning her motives, he just let himself go for one night.
“It wasn’t... I’m not... It’s not like you think, although you and half of bloody London keep getting that all mixed up; he wasn’t a family member or lover.” The flash of pain he felt at the admission made his chest heave and John had looked at his pint, wishing that he hadn’t swallowed it down so quickly, that he would have something to wash away the bitter taste those words leave in his mouth.
Sherlock wasn’t family, nor was he John’s lover, but he was a strange mixture of both that made John scramble on more than one occasion to try to figure out what in the bloody Hell Sherlock actually was to him; the feelings of frustrated care and grudging acceptance for his faults are emotions that only Harry had been able to produce in him, while the sudden want to hold and defend-violently, in some cases-are things that he had only ever allowed himself to indulge in whenever he was with a date.
(Harry would kick his arse halfway back to Afghanistan if he ever tried ‘to pull that overloaded testosterone bullocks on her like she needed a bloody man to defend her’ or even thought about it where she could somehow pick up on it.
His sister was perceptive when she wanted to be.
It was one of the reasons why he loved her so fiercely... her inability to keep out of trouble notwithstanding.)
“Oh?” The humor was gone from the woman’s face as she settled more beside him, one hand in her lap and the other settled just beside his in a move that no doubt implied that he was more than welcomed to hold it if he needed to. “Who was he?”
“My flatmate. My best friend. My...”
‘My everything’ seems like revealing too much to a woman he just met, so John had given her the best smile that he could manage that no doubt was more grimace than anything remotely resembling good cheer before motioning to the bartender that he needed a top off, his brows rising slightly when The Woman-he had a mental chuckle when he realized the significance of that particular nickname-had ordered a Guinness with a hint of her lost merriment.
“What? I’m not driving anyone anywhere tonight and my friends seem to be getting along just fine without me...”
John had glanced over to where she nods and sees a small group laughing at something one of them has said, their moves the loose and uncoordinated dance of the truly inebriated. It had brought some of his own flagging good mood back when one of them inadvertently ends up flailing right into another’s face, a cascade of apologies and laughter causing a few of the other patrons to glance over in their direction, more than a few raised brows and mutterings following after.
“They seem like a lively bunch.” John had offered neutrally, his smile growing as The Woman huffed out an exasperated sigh beside him.
“They drive me mad half the time, but I love them anyway...” There had been another loud thud at her words, coupled with a few of the other patrons asking if everyone was alright-John had given a cursory glance; no obvious wounds or actions that might lead to unconsciousness, they didn’t need him-while The Woman had closed her eyes and amended, “Well, most of the time.”
Well, I Came Home Part 3d/?
This woman obviously didn’t know who he was or who he had known-although that had to be a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself, considering how the news was still blaring the news of ‘the suicide of fake genius’ all over the telly and the papers-and instead of questioning her motives, he just let himself go for one night.
“It wasn’t... I’m not... It’s not like you think, although you and half of bloody London keep getting that all mixed up; he wasn’t a family member or lover.” The flash of pain he felt at the admission made his chest heave and John had looked at his pint, wishing that he hadn’t swallowed it down so quickly, that he would have something to wash away the bitter taste those words leave in his mouth.
Sherlock wasn’t family, nor was he John’s lover, but he was a strange mixture of both that made John scramble on more than one occasion to try to figure out what in the bloody Hell Sherlock actually was to him; the feelings of frustrated care and grudging acceptance for his faults are emotions that only Harry had been able to produce in him, while the sudden want to hold and defend-violently, in some cases-are things that he had only ever allowed himself to indulge in whenever he was with a date.
(Harry would kick his arse halfway back to Afghanistan if he ever tried ‘to pull that overloaded testosterone bullocks on her like she needed a bloody man to defend her’ or even thought about it where she could somehow pick up on it.
His sister was perceptive when she wanted to be.
It was one of the reasons why he loved her so fiercely... her inability to keep out of trouble notwithstanding.)
“Oh?” The humor was gone from the woman’s face as she settled more beside him, one hand in her lap and the other settled just beside his in a move that no doubt implied that he was more than welcomed to hold it if he needed to. “Who was he?”
“My flatmate. My best friend. My...”
‘My everything’ seems like revealing too much to a woman he just met, so John had given her the best smile that he could manage that no doubt was more grimace than anything remotely resembling good cheer before motioning to the bartender that he needed a top off, his brows rising slightly when The Woman-he had a mental chuckle when he realized the significance of that particular nickname-had ordered a Guinness with a hint of her lost merriment.
“What? I’m not driving anyone anywhere tonight and my friends seem to be getting along just fine without me...”
John had glanced over to where she nods and sees a small group laughing at something one of them has said, their moves the loose and uncoordinated dance of the truly inebriated. It had brought some of his own flagging good mood back when one of them inadvertently ends up flailing right into another’s face, a cascade of apologies and laughter causing a few of the other patrons to glance over in their direction, more than a few raised brows and mutterings following after.
“They seem like a lively bunch.” John had offered neutrally, his smile growing as The Woman huffed out an exasperated sigh beside him.
“They drive me mad half the time, but I love them anyway...” There had been another loud thud at her words, coupled with a few of the other patrons asking if everyone was alright-John had given a cursory glance; no obvious wounds or actions that might lead to unconsciousness, they didn’t need him-while The Woman had closed her eyes and amended, “Well, most of the time.”