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John Watson had no difficulty navigating war-zones. When it came to minefields, there were two possible outcomes—either he’d successfully avoid any landmines and return safely to his unit, or he would set one off and charred bits of his flesh would rain down like confetti over Kandahar’s deserts. He’d long ago reconciled the idea of a premature death at the hands of rebel forces, if it meant serving his Queen and Country.
What John did struggle with wasn’t related to warfare or military threats. His greatest difficulty, as he’d come to discover these past few weeks, was resigning himself to a life of monotony.
He wasn’t suited for civilian life. He’d been cut from a different, harsher cloth, and the simple comforts and luxuries of day-to-day life held little appeal to him. Sure, he appreciated a warm bed, but it wasn’t all that nice when he couldn’t sleep in it for more than a couple hours before being awoken by nightmares. He also enjoyed commodities like tea and biscuits, and meals that didn’t come out of a can, but they lost their appeal when he was too nauseous and listless to bring himself to eat.
A significant portion of his days were devoted to staring blankly at the ceiling. He could recreate the water stain and the patterns on the ceiling from memory alone. When that became wearisome, he shifted to staring blankly at the wall instead.
You can’t stay holed up in your flat all day, an obnoxious voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his therapist berated. Get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Do something.
He reached for his cane and lolloped out of his sorry excuse for a flat.
Russell Square Park was nice this time of year. “Nice” was about the most praiseworthy adjective John was capable of mustering nowadays.
It was sunny, but a light breeze stirred the sultry air. Sounds of laughter rang out, and men and women on their lunch breaks nursed coffee cups as they ambled passed.
Envy burned low in his gut as he watched the easy strides and confident gaits of other passersby. He was never more aware of his cane than when he was surrounded by physically hale people.
They all seemed so at ease, able to strike up conversation on a whim. Their waking thoughts probably revolved around their children or jobs or hobbies. When John closed his eyes or allowed himself time to ponder, all he saw was gunfire.
A pair of men walked hand-in-hand, and John’s envy went from faintly sour to completely acetic.
He averted his gaze from the tactile couple and limped doggedly on.
“Watson! John Watson!”
John was so surprised at being addressed that he almost wondered if he was delirious. He turned, meeting a round, jubilant face. He couldn’t place a name, but something about the man’s guileless grin sparked familiarity. He grabbed John’s hand and pumped it eagerly before John could consider making a hasty retreat. “Stamford—Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”
“Yes. Sorry, yes, Mike, hello!”
John had never been close friends with Mike during their time at St. Bart’s—they’d mostly run in different crowds, in fact—but Mike had an easy air and was well-liked by everyone. John in comparison wasn’t as extroverted. He was polite and cordial and British to the core, but valued his alone time and was often happier spending the night in than partying with friends. His popularity in secondary school had been more due to association than his own merits. As a member of the rugby team, his popularity had been firmly cemented, and his social standing had been maintained up until he enrolled in the military.
While he had considered Mike to be more of an acquaintance than a friend, it was refreshing seeing a familiar face again. Especially considering the only people he spoke to on a regular basis anymore were the cashiers at tesco’s, and his therapist.
“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at,” Mike continued. “What happened?”
John smiled ruefully, giving his cane a little wave for emphasis. “I got shot.”
Mike blanched. Before he could stammer out an apology that would no doubt be awkward for them both, John pressed on.
“I reckon it’ll help me when I’m on the pull. Women like that sort of thing, don’t they? A manly protector?”
“When have you ever been ‘manly’?” Mike teased.
“I’ve been shot, haven’t I? What’s more macho than bullets and guns and nearly dying?”
“You’re asking the wrong bloke, I’m afraid,” Mike chuckled. “Listen, if I’m not keeping you, I’d love to catch up over a pint? Or even a coffee?”
John’s smile was only somewhat forced. “I could go for coffee.”
Mike insisted drinks were on him, and John didn’t put up too much of an argument. Even the three pounds for a coffee would have hurt his meagre army pension if he didn’t budget carefully.
After purchasing their coffee, the pair settled on a park bench, deciding through some unspoken agreement to enjoy the pleasant break from London’s usual gray, rain-washed horizon while it lasted.
“Speaking of you being a ‘manly protector’, have any women caught your eye lately?” Mike asked.
John sipped unthinkingly at his coffee and successfully burned his tongue in the process. “Ah, no.”
“Not too many birds in war zones, I suppose.”
John hesitated. “There were some fine blokes, though,” he offered, with forced casualness.
To Mike’s credit, his eyes only widened slightly at the revelation. “Didn’t know you swung that way.”
John blew on his drink. “Neither did I. Commander Sholto was… he was something.”
“Well, good on you.”
“Not that good. Haven’t gotten laid once since I was dispatched.” John had never had difficulty pulling—he hadn’t earned the moniker “Three Continents” for nothing, after all—but it was different now. He was older and damaged and who could possibly want a partner who screamed at random points in the night? He received enough ire over that from his landlord. “Er, I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable,” John hastened to add.
“Watson, please.” Mike held up his hand. “I’ve never been that type. One of my best mates is very appreciative of the male sex. He’s a looker too, if you’re interested.”
“Seriously?” He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t lonely. And bored.
Mike nodded. “He’s a brunette, though. I seem to recall you having a preference for blondes.”
“No preference,” John assured. Not when it came to hair colour. He was rather selective when it came to personality. He tended to seek out fellow thrill-seekers, or someone loud and boisterous and even eccentric. Anyone who could hold his attention, really. Of course those weren’t easily observable qualities.
“If you’re up for it, I could set the two of you up,” Mike offered.
“I would like to try dating again it’s just—I’ve had a bit of difficulty.”
“Diffi—oh.”
He scrubbed his cheek with his hand, as if he could will away the flush there. “I get bad nightmares too. Sometimes I wake up shouting. It complicates things.”
Mike’s face softened. “Not too worry. He’s a decent sort.”
John waffled on the idea, but his reservations were easily dispelled. It really had been a while since he’d had any action, and he was desperate to break the tedium of his recently established routine of wallowing in self-pity all day.
“Alright then.” He nodded stiffly. You’re a saint, Mike.”
The restaurant they’d agreed to meet at had soft, ambient lighting, and the booths were thankfully wide enough that John would have no difficulty sliding into, even with his crummy leg.
He was nearly fifteen minutes late, though it had been unintentional. He normally had a much swifter gait, but his cane dragged him down.
He hoped Mike’s friend would still be here. Fifteen minutes wasn’t too long of a wait, was it?
He scanned for single occupant booths, before locating a man who matched the description. Mike’s friend, Chris, was a medical man as well, so they’d have some common ground, at least. John squeezed passed one of the waiters.
Chris had tousled dark hair, as if he’d repeatedly run his fingers through it—sex hair, John’s mind helpfully supplied. His eyes were an indiscernible shade of blue-grey and framed by long, sweeping lashes. His full lips were the kind usually only found on models or Hollywood actors who had relied on copious amounts of collagen or hyaluronic acid.
John was depressingly bland in comparison. His sandy-coloured hair was threaded with strands of grey, his limp was pronounced even at the best of times, and he had perpetual bags under his eyes courtesy of frequent sleepless nights. He wondered how Mike had convinced Chris to agree to a blind-date. He assumed Mike hadn’t show the bloke a photo of John, otherwise he likely wouldn’t have agreed.
John approached the table, wishing for the umpteenth time that he didn’t need his cane. “Hello,” he blurted. It wasn’t the smooth one-liner he was hoping for, but it would have to do.
The crease between Chris’ eyebrows deepened. When he lifted his head from his phone, his expression veered closer to annoyance than surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but upon making eye-contact with John, promptly closed it in favour of giving him a thorough once-over. John felt remarkably like a specimen under a microscope as Chris assessed him.
“Chris, yeah? Mike’s friend? I’m John Watson. Sorry I’m late. I’m, ah, still not used to the limp. Keep forgetting it takes me longer to walk places.”
After several false starts Chris simply said, “I don’t mind.”
Not much of a talker, it seemed, but John could work with that.
John slid into the seat opposite him, wracking his brain for something that wasn’t completely inane to say. “So, er, has Mike set you up on many dates, then?”
Chris snorted. John wasn’t entirely certain what to make of his response, so he followed his intuition.
“Yeah. First time for me as well. It’s been hard connecting with people since, well, since my time in the army.”
Chris’ eyes darted to John’s hands, lingering on his wrists. “Afghanistan,” he blurted.
“Yep. Reckon Mike told you all about it.”
“Ye-es. But I would know even if Stamford hadn’t mentioned it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s… what I do. I observe and deduce and induce.”
“You’re saying you could deduce I was invalided from Afghanistan?”
Chris puffed out his chest, clearly rankled by John’s disbelief. “Your haircut and your bearing both say military. You have a cane and a limp when you walk, but you stood perfectly fine in front of the booth to introduce yourself, as if you’d forgotten about it. Your injury is healed, but it was traumatic. Your face is tanned, but with no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. The only viable explanation is you were wounded in action, and, given your tan, leaves either Afghanistan or Iraq.”
“How did you narrow it down to Afghanistan?” John asked, breathless and hanging onto every word.
Chris shifted. “I didn’t. I happened to say ‘Afghanistan’ first and from your facial cues was able to conclude you’d been there.”
Mike was a verifiable Cupid. John hadn’t met anyone as fascinating and enthralling as Chris in ages. Maybe ever. “That was amazing,” he breathed.
“You really think so?”
John considered teasing him for fishing for compliments, but it occurred to him that Chris might genuinely be insecure. “Of course,” he said emphatically. “I have no idea how you managed all that.”
Chris shrugged in a self-effacing manner, but his pleased smile betrayed him. “Most people see but do not observe. I, on the other hand, have trained myself to search for fine details and to connect points of data.”
John shook his head, disbelieving. “Mike mentioned you’re a medical man, but he didn’t specify which branch. Bet you’d make one hell of a psychologist with your observational skills.”
“Probably,” Chris agreed, “but most people are boring, and their problems are tedious.”
“What do you do, then?”
“I’m quite passionate about chemistry,” he said vaguely. “I also have something of a side-career.”
John leaned forward. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
Chris hesitated, and John wondered if he was embarrassed. “I’m a consulting detective.” He met John’s gaze with the glint of a challenge in his eyes, as if daring him to laugh or belittle him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have. I’m the only one in the world.”
“And what do you do as a consulting detective? Who consults you?”
“Oh, the police, when they’re out of their depth.” He paused. “Which is always.”
John snickered. “That’s brilliant.”
“Do you know you say that out loud? The compliments.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No, it’s… fine.”
John grinned, feeling the last of the tension in his shoulders drain away. He suspected Chris had some interesting stories to share about his line of work. Before he could broach the subject, the waiter came by to introduce himself and take their orders.
John realized he hadn’t even glanced once at his menu. He felt a little irrationally annoyed at the waiter for interrupting.
“I’ll have the, er, risotto.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter commended. “And for you, sir?”
“I’m fine,” Chris dismissed.
John frowned, assessing him. Chris was thin and slender, and easily below the healthy weight range for his height and age. “Did you already eat?”
“Not hungry.”
The crease between John’s brows deepened. He’d have to force Chris to eat some of his, then. He wondered why Chris would have chosen a restaurant to meet at if he had no intention of eating. Did he have an eating disorder? Refusing to eat in anyone else’s presence was a common sign. He glanced at Chris’s hands. Calluses on the knuckles from frequent induced vomiting was a dead giveaway of bulimia, but Chris’s hands were unblemished.
“I don’t have an eating disorder, but thank you for your concern, Doctor.”
John lifted his eyes guiltily. “Is there a reason you’re not eating?”
“Eating is boring. I never eat while I’m on a case.”
“What case are you on?”
“One of the patrons of this restaurant, along with the sous chef, are involved in an underground smuggling ring. I’m afraid once the gentleman requests to speak with the chef in order to give his compliments, I’ll have to leave you. It should take no more than seven minutes to apprehend them. The police are waiting nearby for my text.”
Chris said it all so matter-of-factly that John had to wonder if his leg was being pulled.
“I hope that’s alright with you,” the consulting detective added.
“O-of course.” Far be it from him to get in the way of a police investigation. “I take it this is why you chose this restaurant for our date.”
“Yes,” Chris said softly. “I take it that was a bit not good.”
“No, it’s brilliant, actually.”
“You mean it?”
John laid his hand atop Chris’ unthinkingly. “Chris, this is the most entertaining night I’ve had in a while.”
Chris stared at where their hands touched. He made no move to pull his hand away. “You miss it,” he murmured.
“What?”
“The war. You miss it. You miss the adrenaline high. Ironically, you’re at your most alive when you’re fearing for your life. I think you’d do well in my line of work.”
John cleared his throat. “Yes, well, if there’s ever a vacancy, let me know.”
“I would be amenable to having a partner.”
“Seriously?”
“You’re an army doctor. A medical man could be useful.”
John smiled. “You’re a medical man, too.”
“Yes, but a different type.”
“Your IQ must be off the charts,” John commented.
Rather than appear pleased with the compliment, Chris clucked his tongue in distaste. “The Intelligence Quota Test gives a false indication of actual intellect. My parents tried to get me to take the test when I was younger. I folded it into quite an impressive origami figurine.”
John threw his head back and laughed. He may have been just a teensy bit besotted with the man across from him. “Of course you did.” Realizing he was laughing too loudly and in a public setting, John forced his giggling to subside. “Your brain—the way you think—it’s extraordinary.”
A flush seeped across Chris’ pale cheeks. “Most people would be inclined to disagree. Or they get tired of it eventually. It’s a magic trick to them, and it gets old fast.”
John made an involuntary noise at that. “Not to me. It’s been so long since I’ve met someone genuinely interesting.”
“Most people are idiots,” Chris agreed.
“I was going to say most people are ‘dull’ but that works too.” He tilted his head. “Do you think I’m an idiot as well?”
Chris hesitated. “You’re not as stupid as most people,” he offered.
A sane person would surely take offense to that, but John could only snort. “Cheers.”
“You have other redeeming qualities, though.”
“Really? Such as…?”
“You seem to appreciate me.”
That set John’s laughter off again. On most people, arrogance was an unflattering look, but Chris managed it well. “Yes. My one good quality, clearly.”
“I suspect you’re in no dearth of positive traits.” Chris stroked his thumb over John’s hand. Only then did he realize neither of them had retracted their hands, or moved away. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“You mean you can’t deduce everything there is to know about me?”
“Unfortunately not.”
John shook his head. “A pity.”
“It is.” Chris didn’t sound like he was joking.
“What would you like to know?”
Chris had no shortage of questions. The depth and breadth of his inquiries almost made John wonder if he were assembling a profile on him, for whatever reason. He was in the middle of regaling Chris with a story of the time Harry trapped him in a treehouse for seven hours by destroying the ladder, which led to him jumping out of the tree and breaking his leg, when the waiter came by with John’s food and a bottle of wine.
Chris reached for a glass. John immediately arched a disapproving eyebrow.
“Drinking on an empty stomach?”
“I’m hardly going to die of alcohol poisoning from one glass,” he huffed.
John wasn’t placated. “Here.” He shoved a forkful of risotto at Chris.
Chris’ protests faded. He stared uncertain at the fork for a moment, before accepting it.
“How is it?”
Chris shrugged. “It’s adequate.”
Despite it apparently being only adequate, Chris stole several more bites.
They continued to banter in between sipping at their glasses and passing the fork between them. Chris deduced Harry’s drinking problem and the sports John had been involved in growing up. He told John about the blog he ran, in which he enumerated an absurd number of tobacco types, and then went on a tangent about the uselessness of the solar system, and mentioned he had a sibling of his own. Chris had no positive adjectives for his older brother. John found every mundane tidbit about Chris’ life fascinating, and although he assumed it was mutual, as time went on Chris checked his watch with increasing frequency.
“I’m not boring you, am I?” John asked, uncharacteristically self conscious. He didn’t lead the most exciting life anymore, and his past as an army doctor paled in comparison to the career Chris was leading now.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s almost time for the smugglers to meet.”
“Ah, right.” John shifted. “In that case, I’ll use the loo quick. It’d probably look a bit suspect if we both left the table at the same time.” He slid out of the booth, belatedly remembering his cane.
“It’s psychosomatic, you know. Your limp.”
John bristled at Chris’ pragmatic tone. He felt his hackles rise. It was one thing for others to view him as a useless cripple, but to have his limp trivialized as something imaginary was another matter. “That’s a little rude, you know.”
Chris looked stricken, as if the thought genuinely hadn’t occurred to him. “I—I’m sorry.”
John blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s fine,” John assured, a bit regretful he’d voiced a complaint. Chris was acerbic and a bit pompous, but he was a delightful change of pace from most people who hid their actual opinions behind polite mannerisms and societal conventions. Not only was it refreshing, but John had a sneaking suspicion Chris was a bit awkward in social situations and didn’t always know how best to conduct himself.
“I can’t always help it,” Chris continued earnestly. “The observing, I can’t turn it off.”
“I get it. Really it’s fine.”
Thankfully there was no wait for the toilet. John relieved himself quickly, admittedly eager to return to Chris company. When he arrived back at their booth, however, Chris wasn’t there. John swallowed tightly. He’d thought that they’d both been enjoying themselves, but perhaps the enjoyment was more one-sided than he’d realized.
“Ah, you’re back.”
It was embarrassing how relieved he was to hear Chris’ smooth baritone.
“Where were you?”
“Helping the police catch the smugglers.”
“Oh. That was fast, then.”
Chris shrugged. “Lestrade wanted to take my statement now but I snuck away while his back was turned.”
“Is that legal?”
“I’ll go into the station tomorrow; they can wait.”
“Guess that means I have you all to myself then.” John tried not to cringe at his own words. He really was out of practice.
“Most people wouldn’t view that as a positive thing.”
“Guess I’m not most people.”
He could almost see the gears turning in the complex machine of Chris’ brain. “You mean it? You really don’t mind me?”
I adore you, more like. “Yes. I do.”
His eyes narrowed unexpectedly. “If you’re flattering me with the expectation of sexual intercourse as a reward, I must warn you in advance that I am not interested in so-called ‘one-night stands.’”
John choked a bit on his saliva.
“You’re startled,” Chris surmised. “Either by my forwardness or you generally weren’t thinking about sex with me.” Chris tilted his head. “Odd. I’m pleased you weren’t being presumptuous, but part of me is hurt you don’t think of me in a sexual manner.”
John fumbled for his glass of wine, suddenly desperate for alcohol. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re fit, but this is a first date.”
“Do most people not sleep together on the first date?”
“I wouldn’t know, but I’d hardly classify us as ‘most people.’”
Chris smiled. “Touché.”
“While we’re laying everything on the table, I’m not sure how much Mike told you about me.” He gulped another mouthful of wine. “In, um, regards to my dating and sex life.”
“Not much,” Chris hedged, “But I’ve already deduced a lot about you. I can tell from your gait and stance that you’re sufficiently-sized, and I’ve also deduced you enjoy vocal partners.”
Sufficiently sized. He’d never heard it worded quite that way.
“You enjoy pleasuring your partners greatly, and you prefer to top,” Chris continued.
“That’s not—I meant if he’d told you about...” John couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“Oh, that. You needn’t worry. It’s common enough in veterans, and I’m a patient man. Your night terrors wouldn’t bother me, either.”
“You sure about that? I can't imagine it’s pleasant being woken up nearly every night to the sound of screaming.”
Chris shrugged. “I’m awake most nights anyway. Sleep is boring. I have my share of oddities too, you realize. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. I’ll also quite fond of the violin. Would that bother you?”
“No. I don’t see why it would.”
“Potential partners should know about the worst in each other.”
John’s heart quickened. Before he could reply, his phone let out an angry ring, cleaving through the tension between them. He checked the caller ID. “It’s Stamford. Probably calling to know how the date’s going. Should I tell him it’s going well?”
Instead of smiling back, Chris stiffened, his countenance suddenly inscrutable.
John hit ‘accept.’ Before he could even get out a “Hello”, Mike’s tinny voice filled his ear.
“What the hell, Watson? If you weren’t going to show couldn’t you have at least given a heads up? Poor Chris waited more than forty minutes. I kept assuring him you were on your way, because the Watson I know would have been decent enough to cancel in advance.”
“What are you on about? I’m sitting across from Chris right now.”
“That’s… interesting,” Stamford said slowly. “Since I just got off the phone with him.”
“But then… who…” John stared helplessly at the man he’d thought was Chris. He stiffened under John’s bewildered expression. “Sorry, Mike. I’ll have to call you back.”
Not-Chris cleared his throat.
John’s jaw clenched so hard he felt it was going to snap. “Something you’d like to say?”
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t discover the truth until later.”
The truth.
“Preferably much later.”
“Less chance of me breaking your nose,” John agreed.
Not-Chris winced. “Yes. There’s that too.”
John could have put the Afghan sun to shame with how hot his face burned. God, he was such an idiot. Of course no one who looked like that would have actually wanted to spend all night talking to a washed-up army doctor with trust issues and a psychosomatic limp. Had 'Chris' played along solely to embarrass him? What else did he get out of it?
John was fundamentally too English to make a scene, but he desired nothing more than to flip the table to illustrate his anger. “I’ve been calling you Chris this entire time!” he burst out.
“You have.”
“Why didn’t you correct me?”
“I’ve learned that as a general rule if an attractive man sits with you, you should go along with whatever he says.”
“But… you knew I was a doctor. And about my time in the military. How is that possible?”
“I told you. I deduced it.”
“But you had to have known some of it!”
“Deduction is what I’m best at.”
“I don’t understand. You knew I was here meeting someone on a blind date and you let me believe it was you. That is so fucked up.” John’s hands curled into fists. “Hang on! You knew about Mike. I mentioned his first name to you, but you said his last name, which means you do know Mike Stamford.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I am acquainted with Mike Stamford.”
“Jesus, what are the chances?”
“Approximately—“
“It was a rhetorical question,” John snapped.
“Oh.”
“Is it just a coincidence, then? The fact that you know Mike? And that he set me up on a blind date at the same restaurant you were going to be at tonight for a case?”
Not-Chris squirmed in his seat. “Not exactly. The restaurant really was my suggestion.”
“How do you mean?”
He shifted again. “I was at St. Bart’s carrying out an experiment when I overheard Stamford conversing with one of the doctors there. He was trying to cajole his friend into going on a blind date with you. I haven’t been privy to many blind dates and I thought it would be interesting to observe, so I suggested they go to this restaurant since I had prior cause to be here. The smugglers,” he clarified.
John nodded slowly. “Okay. So why didn’t you tell me you weren’t Chris? Why sabotage me?”
“I didn’t realize.”
“Realize what?” he demanded, his patience wearing thin.
“How attractive you’d be.”
“I’m not attractive.”
“Physical attractiveness is subjective, but I can assure you, you most definitely are.”
John felt a small rush of pleasure at the compliment, but it was chased by suspicion. “How do I know you’re not just having a lark? Or that this is all part of an experiment?”
“I like you, John,” he said softly. There was something so vulnerable about his expression, that John instantly knew it wasn’t contrived. “You’re interesting. And believe me when I say that is the highest compliment I’m capable of giving.”
John’s anger filtered away. “I think you’re interesting too. No offense to the real Chris, but somehow I can’t imagine him being as fascinating as you.”
“He’s not. And he has a bad case of halitosis.”
John laughed again, this time the sound of disbelief. What an insane night. His therapist was always hassling him to update his blog, and it seemed he finally had a story worth sharing.
“If you’re amenable,” Not-Chris began tentatively, “Perhaps we could start again?” John held his gaze. “Alright. Yeah, sure.”
A small grin formed on the face of the hijacker of his blind-date. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”
He shook his hand, admiring Sherlock’s perfectly manicured nails and long fingers. “John Watson. But you already knew that.”
“I know most things,” Sherlock pointed out.
His lips twitched. “Would you like to know some more?”
“I’m not a religious man John, but in this case, my answer has to be ‘oh god, yes.’”
They shared a small smile. John still felt residual annoyance, but it was quickly subsumed by endearment and affection. Sherlock Holmes was a ridiculous, impossible man. In other words: he was perfect, and John had no intention of letting him get away.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The sky was overcast, with bloated storm clouds gathering on the horizon. John’s mood was impervious to the bleak weather. He strode through the park with confident movements and a slight spring to his step.
If Mike Stamford noticed his lack of a cane, he didn’t comment on it. The pair sat on what was becoming their usual bench.
John filled him in on Sherlock’s deception, and how he’d allowed John to believe he was the intended date.
Mike shook his head with a full-bellied laugh. “If I’d known you and Sherlock would hit off, I would have simply introduced the two of you.”
“Knowing Sherlock, I doubt he would’ve actually agreed to a blind date,” John pointed out.
“That’s a fair point. Glad it worked out for the best, though. I always said, love is finding someone who complements your weirdness.”
“I’m not that weird, am I?”
Mike hummed. “Depends. You haven’t agreed to move in together, have you?”
“Of course not. That would be ridiculous, moving in with someone so soon after meeting them.” He sipped his coffee. “I don’t move in until tomorrow afternoon.”
“John Watson,” Mike said slowly. “You are an absolute madman.”