Still, sometimes it felt like Sherlock, who seemed to think himself reason incarnate, eclipsed reason entirely. Living with him it was like his massive intellect, and massive capacity to, frankly, be a an enormous twat cast an inescapable shadow. John felt suffocated. He needed to get out. He needed to go somewhere and talk to someone normal.
///
When John met Mike at the pub, it felt like stepping out of one world and into another, a world where mates talked over a pint instead of running around fetish parties chasing murderers. It made his leg ache. When he sat, it was a relief, but was quiet for a little too long, he knew that. What did normal people talk about? He was forgetting. Maybe he had forgotten a long time ago.
Mike, bless his heart, put an end to the silence, "What've you been up to? Still playing detective?"
"Still very unemployed.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. Real person problems that real people had -- they seemed so small in comparison to what he faced with Sherlock, what he had faced in his life before this point and yet somehow they still felt more daunting than they really should have. He blamed the military for that. “Lots of bad telly with my landlady, endless grocery shopping. Sometimes, there's a case."
"Are you on one now? You look worried.”
Mike had always been perceptive. In medical school, he had always been the one people went to when they had problems. He was a bit of a He could always be counted on to give comforting but humorous bits of advice like, ‘Of course you’re crazy. You have to be crazy to be a doctor. If you’re not when you start studying, residency will make you.’
"I am." On both counts, he was.
Mike patted him on the shoulder, "I suppose I'll see it when it's up on the blog."
John shifted under Mike’s touch and was relieved when it was lifted, "Actually, I really don't think you will."
"No way this one can be cleaned up for the kiddies?"
"No way in hell."
"Why can’t you clean it up?” A smile crept across his face. “Are you two at it now?"
“I’m not gay.” He was, however, a broken record on this point.
“Yes, you’re heteroflexible.” Mike used air quotes around the word to illustrate his point. “You’re sure you’re not at it?”
"Nope." He wasn’t sure but he hoped that was the end of it, for once.
Mike nodded, "Alright, good."
Somehow that wasn’t the response he was expecting. There was nothing wrong with being gay. He just wasn’t. "Good?"
"I'll lose the St. Bart's betting pool if you two lovebirds don't hold out for at least another few weeks."
John shook his head, "The lot of you are deranged, truly."
"Maybe,” Mike shrugged. “Personally, I plan on using my winnings to quit my day job and become a matchmaker for misfits and misanthropes. What's the case?"
"Serial rapist in the BDSM scene and we're undercover, sort of, as a couple.” It felt good to say it aloud, even if it would invite more questions. He added, “Sherlock's idea not mine."
Thankfully, Mike didn’t question. He just said. "You have misgivings about that last bit."
"A bit, yeah," he admitted.
"Do you think Sherlock can find him out?" Miked asked now, suddenly sobered and serious.
Of course John did. "Given time, and more of our charade, absolutely."
Mike leaned in to John as if he was about to divulge some great secret, "There was a doctor in my practice, into that sort of thing. Anesthesiologist, specialized in chronic pain. He was a sadist. Can you imagine, a sadist specializing in chronic pain. Scum of the universe.”
“Yeah,” John replied numbly. Mike’s words carried more weight and hit closer to home than John thought Mike realized.
“I mean, that’s all well and good,” Mike back peddled. Maybe something in John's eyes had given him away. "Do what you’re into, just keep it at home.”
“It’s fine, of course.” Was it?
“Thing is, nobody knew he was molesting girls, boys, men, women, all of them right there in the practice. I didn't know and I worked in the office next to him for years. I had not a clue until I came in one morning and he was being lead out in handcuffs."
“Bet that was one hell of a court case,” John offered.
Fill: The Worst Man in London [6f/?]
///
When John met Mike at the pub, it felt like stepping out of one world and into another, a world where mates talked over a pint instead of running around fetish parties chasing murderers. It made his leg ache. When he sat, it was a relief, but was quiet for a little too long, he knew that. What did normal people talk about? He was forgetting. Maybe he had forgotten a long time ago.
Mike, bless his heart, put an end to the silence, "What've you been up to? Still playing detective?"
"Still very unemployed.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. Real person problems that real people had -- they seemed so small in comparison to what he faced with Sherlock, what he had faced in his life before this point and yet somehow they still felt more daunting than they really should have. He blamed the military for that. “Lots of bad telly with my landlady, endless grocery shopping. Sometimes, there's a case."
"Are you on one now? You look worried.”
Mike had always been perceptive. In medical school, he had always been the one people went to when they had problems. He was a bit of a He could always be counted on to give comforting but humorous bits of advice like, ‘Of course you’re crazy. You have to be crazy to be a doctor. If you’re not when you start studying, residency will make you.’
"I am." On both counts, he was.
Mike patted him on the shoulder, "I suppose I'll see it when it's up on the blog."
John shifted under Mike’s touch and was relieved when it was lifted, "Actually, I really don't think you will."
"No way this one can be cleaned up for the kiddies?"
"No way in hell."
"Why can’t you clean it up?” A smile crept across his face. “Are you two at it now?"
“I’m not gay.” He was, however, a broken record on this point.
“Yes, you’re heteroflexible.” Mike used air quotes around the word to illustrate his point. “You’re sure you’re not at it?”
"Nope." He wasn’t sure but he hoped that was the end of it, for once.
Mike nodded, "Alright, good."
Somehow that wasn’t the response he was expecting. There was nothing wrong with being gay. He just wasn’t. "Good?"
"I'll lose the St. Bart's betting pool if you two lovebirds don't hold out for at least another few weeks."
John shook his head, "The lot of you are deranged, truly."
"Maybe,” Mike shrugged. “Personally, I plan on using my winnings to quit my day job and become a matchmaker for misfits and misanthropes. What's the case?"
"Serial rapist in the BDSM scene and we're undercover, sort of, as a couple.” It felt good to say it aloud, even if it would invite more questions. He added, “Sherlock's idea not mine."
Thankfully, Mike didn’t question. He just said. "You have misgivings about that last bit."
"A bit, yeah," he admitted.
"Do you think Sherlock can find him out?" Miked asked now, suddenly sobered and serious.
Of course John did. "Given time, and more of our charade, absolutely."
Mike leaned in to John as if he was about to divulge some great secret, "There was a doctor in my practice, into that sort of thing. Anesthesiologist, specialized in chronic pain. He was a sadist. Can you imagine, a sadist specializing in chronic pain. Scum of the universe.”
“Yeah,” John replied numbly. Mike’s words carried more weight and hit closer to home than John thought Mike realized.
“I mean, that’s all well and good,” Mike back peddled. Maybe something in John's eyes had given him away. "Do what you’re into, just keep it at home.”
“It’s fine, of course.” Was it?
“Thing is, nobody knew he was molesting girls, boys, men, women, all of them right there in the practice. I didn't know and I worked in the office next to him for years. I had not a clue until I came in one morning and he was being lead out in handcuffs."
“Bet that was one hell of a court case,” John offered.