a_different_equation

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT A SOLDIER

“Mycroft has told me that you have found a new occupation, Sherlock. That you have invented a job...”

“Consulting detective. As my always-concerned brother have informed you already: I invented the job. I will be the only one in the world. It will be brilliant.”

“But what is that suppose to mean, Sherlock?”

“I consult for the police when they are out of their depth. Which I presume will be often. Most people are idiots, after all. Maybe some private cases, only interesting ones, of course. And serial killers, oh I love those; they are always hard to find! I would love to solve a locked room mystery! Oh, it’s going to be Christmas!”

“Sherlock...”

“Anyway. Got to dash! Have to find out what happened to my rooms at Montague Street. Don’t tell me that Mummy took away the skull!”

 

With this Sherlock put on the Belstaff. Drug usage had made him feel cold more often and so his brother had surprised him with a coat. Sherlock had wanted to dislike the Belstaff of course, but when he had seen it for the first time, he knew that some battles need to be lost. Now, when wearing his coat like a second skin, it feels like a fresh start, a rebirth.

“William... Sherlock.”

“What is it? Do you not see that I have more important things to do? Yes, I will call. Yes, I will try to sleep, eat, and drink more regularly. No, I do not need a babysitter. I definitely do not need Mycroft gigantic nose spying on me. I am sorry for taking drugs. I am sorry for scaring you and upsetting mummy. Etc. Etc. Etc. I said it – multiple times, in fact – I am sorry. Can I go now?”

Sherlock Holmes is already at the threshold; ready to for his first case and the thrill of the chase. His father's quiet words summon him back for a moment:

“Just one more thing, Sherlock.”

His father sets an assuming toy figurine on the table. Sherlock, eager to leave the facility for good, barely witness it.

“What’s that supposed to be, father? A soldier, really? And an old one, even. You do not need to process my mental faculty to deduce that you purchased him in a curiosity Shop in London. He is a bit older than I am. I hope you did not paid to much for it because he is clearly damaged. The shoulder...”

His father smiles when he listens to his son’s deduction. When he stops at last, he replies, “How did you say, Sherlock? You see but you do not observe: This soldier is a gift, Sherlock, for you.”

“Why would I need a soldier? It’s a child’s toy.”

“Because you are Sherlock Holmes, dear boy. When you go into battle, like you intending to do, it will come in handy to be not alone. The streets of London are their very own kind of battlefield. Even, if it’s – as you say – only an old, damaged soldier.”

“Thank you, father. Lovely tale. However, no. I have to go, thanks for the coat though.”

 

Twenty-one years later.

 

“Sherlock, have you, by any chance, left a toy soldier made of wood in our house? I found it in the kitchen when I came home last week. I do not want to pry or anything, maybe it is not even from you, I just thought that... I gather just, when it is a gift for Rosie, I hope you do know that it is a bit not good? I mean, now, for now, not for later. It is an interesting gift, I assure you. And she will like it, love it surely, I mean, if...“

“It’s for you.”

“What?”

“The soldier is a gift for you, John. Do keep up.”

“But, Sherlock... I’m not a child.”

“Really, John? I haven’t noticed.”

“I don’t understand. Sorry. Why do you... and why... and no, sorry, what? Sorry.”

Sherlock looks amused at John’s confused words and facial expressions. However, as John has picked up one or another word of Sherlock’s vocabulary, he ponders on and demands:

“Elaborate.”

“Elaborate?”

“Elaborate.”

“The soldier is mine. My father gave it to me as a gift on my last day of rehab.”

And then Sherlock Holmes tells John Watson how he first spoke the now iconic lines, got his trademark coat, created his new persona, and ‘celebrated’ it all with a new name, Sherlock includes John by asking him, “You know what I said to my father at the door, John?”

Once again, John proves to be the perfect companion because he passes the test when the right words tumbles out of his mouth: “The Game is on?”

The world’s only consulting detective grins, when he repeats the words first uttered back then, and repeatedly, during the long years of their partnership: “The Game is on.”

 

It is well after 10 o’clock and John hesitates and wants to call it a night. Then he battles up again: no more hiding, no more lying, no more subtext. Sherlock senses his inner decision and goes to the kitchen, sets up the coffee machine and gives John some privacy to collect his thoughts while Sherlock is preparing the caffeine, which will hopefully bring them further through the night.

When Sherlock brings the two steaming cups out, already added with milk and sugar, John smiles: “Who would have thought that we need that one day? We are getting old, Sherlock.”

Sherlock seems to hesitate for a second and then he whispers, “That is good, John. I, for once, would have never thought that I would need coffee. When I was younger, I could stay up all night, for days on end, as you well know. When I was even younger, as you know now, I couldn't care less, I slept or stayed up, I took drugs or eat nothing for days, I was not foolish, I was just bored and lonely, and I did it because I thought it was the only time I could do it because I would not get old anyway. Therefore, I am grateful for needing coffee in the evening. Do you not agree?”

“You are right, of course you are, brilliant git.”

John smiles at Sherlock, openly now. He takes the cup and takes a sip. Probably, he is getting sentimental on his old days too, because he does not remember being so at ease and so aware and the particular smell of the brew before. The warmth of the coffee takes over his body warms up first his hands and arms, then his face and then the upper part of his body. In the end, everything is contently warm.

When he finally murmurs “Thank you”, John knows that it is for much more than just coffee.

 

For a while, they stay like that. From time to time, the fire creaks. They can hear the city calming down outside; the rush hour long gone but London is a city that rarely sleeps anyway, but the loud talk from the pavement dimmed down and the cars got rare with every passing minute. The bus stop is a bit further down the road, just like the 24/7 Tesco Express, which means no party people or tourists hitting the city or coming back close by. John knows that he cannot really hear Rosie or Mrs Hudson in the flat below (and he hopes that Rosie is in bed) but he tries to listen anyway.

 

“Mrs Hudson is watching her favourite Sunday evening show on the telly. It is this crime show with this hideous plot but she has a crush on this one detective, the old one with the grey hairs, do not know why. When I asked her once, she got all-defensive. Oh, and Rosie is in her cradle since 8 o’clock. I know, too late for your liking, and you are right, of course, sleeping routines might be good for children, but it is today. We will work on it, though.”

“You are amazing.”

John should know by now that Sherlock can do that. Maybe he should be less amazed but he still is and he still would love to hear how he did it, what give him away. People say that one is accustomed to things and people but John think that they are wrong on both accounts. He feverishly hopes that he never gets accustomed to Sherlock, his deductions, and his character traits and that he continues to amaze him. So, John smiles, wide and carefree, and is brave, for once, and let a bit of his ‘sentiment’ blend in, too.

Sherlock might have been blushing in reaction. Sherlock clears his throat now and looks more at the wooden floor than anything else, when he says quietly:

“Want to talk some more?”

Then Sherlock winks. And it is like the first night, the first cab ride, their first meeting. The start of everything. Therefore, John knows his line:

“Oh God, yes.”

 

OOOOOOO

 

“Why a soldier?”

“Because I can assume that you hopefully listened to my tale about how my dad brought the soldier to me and I was so foolish to reject the gift and the gesture. Therefore, I can only conclude that you want to know why it ended up in my belongings after all and why, after all those years, I bestowed it upon you. Am I correct?”

“Of course you are, eloquent as ever, posh git.”

However, there is only fondness in John’s voice, a slight of teasing maybe. Moreover, because they have always functioned at best when turning serious conversations into funny remarks and childlike humour, John adds, “What I want to bring across: Do go on.”

 

John misses the upper-class accent by a mile and his voice range is far away from the deep baritone Sherlock possesses but it lightens up the mood and that is all that matters. Because John sees the shoulders of his best friend, finally dropping and the last remaining tension his body leaving.

Sherlock is now all the man the world does not see: the human being.

He is still strikingly gorgeous, all long limbs and dark curly hair, high cheekbones and pale skin. The dressing crown, the blue one, is draped carelessly over his features.

John thinks about getting them a blanket and talks himself out of it immediately.

Just because he was (and is!) the lucky one who is blessed to see Sherlock Holmes like this: the man instead of the myth, it remained true: Sherlock is not a child, not a misled youth, not an angry young man; he might have been all those incarnations, but he was not part of John’s life back then.

They are here and now.

And here and now, Sherlock did (and does) not need babying, neither to be set on a pedestal, Sherlock does not treats him like damaged good or like an imbecile (even if he might act like one from time to time).

They learned their lesson: They treat each other equally, as two men (in love).

Therefore, John gives the man he loves a smile and listens to his tale.

 

“I did not go back and apologised to my father, if that is what you are expecting, John. I did not realize how wrong I was after almost a decade later. I still have to apologize, twice in fact, because I might have nicked the soldier when we visited them on Christmas. He knows that I got it, probably, he is the least smart of our family, but he is not a complete idiot. Surprisingly, he knows me the best of the three children, but that might be because I am the least intelligent of us. Why I stole it? First, it is not technically stealing because it is technically mine; I just accepted my gift 10 years later. Second, I do not know. No, that is a lie and I am done with hiding. I stole it because it was the horrible Christmas I knew that you would go back with Mary and I had to shoot Magnusson to keep her secret safe because I had made a vow which would lead to my intermit death because I knew the outcome would have been a suicide mission. I am Sherlock Holmes; I know when I am being played. I might have not remembered my sister but you have met her; I never would have stood a chance. Mary, Moriarty, her, and Magnusson on top, it was a losing game. As we, all know, and yes, you know it first, I am not a real high-functional sociopath. I am terrified of dying, too, and as you well know thanks to our lovely encounter with Smith, I am terribly human. Therefore, when I waited for my fate and my dad was talking about childhood tales and showing you all embarrassing photos and all the food and festive sheer that were just a staging, just playing pretend, I remembered my father’s words. That my life is a warzone, my personal battlefield, and that I might need a soldier by my side. Back then, I had dismissed the idea, now I realized that I would have done everything to have you at my side again. All would have been so much easier with you at my side. And because I could not have you, I took second best, hence the wooden toy soldier. As a reminder – just like my father intended back then – that I do not have to be alone and if I am alone that at least I know what I am fighting for. And maybe, he even wanted to tell me that I should be more of a soldier myself because he is my father and he knew me best: he knew that I am terribly human. And that I thought that I would be ready for the world, the battle, and all the darkness but that I am not made of wood. And he even maybe feared that I would become a toy in someone else play again. He was right on all accounts. I was wrong, I was so terrible wrong, about so many things, John.”

 

There are tears glittering in Sherlock’s eyes. John is in an emotional turmoil himself. He does not really know how to react: comfort him, probably, but how? Hug him, as they did the last time? A hug seems not enough anymore. John is feeling lost but he knows that Sherlock is as lost as he is. Sherlock's entire monologue has been almost rushed and spit out, full of emotion and wavering voices. It is a clear signal of his inner state. His posture is not relaxed anymore; strung like a bowstring, all tensed and ready to bolt.

Still, in all the years of knowing him, Sherlock never reminded him more of a soldier. Because Sherlock Holmes is in a state of distress but he is not hiding. Behind words or actions, he sits there, alerted for sure, maybe expecting a blow, but he waits. There is no running off, no shooting the wall with a gun, or doing mad experiments instead, but there are no harsh words either, or big speeches full of melodrama and Shakespearean attitude. This is not a drama queen or the consulting detective, it is not the myth or the fraud, and it is the man.

This made it so much easier for John to reach out and to take Sherlock’s hand.

 

OOOOOOO

 

In the end, it is simple.

John has already Sherlock’s hand in his. It is just one smooth motion, slowly, not to startle them and to disturb the silence, and then John is pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s wrist.

Right to Sherlock's pulse point.

 

There is no hand snatched away, only a shudder that goes to Sherlock’s body and then the soft exhalation of breath. It might have been a sound, maybe even a whisper of a word, but John cannot be sure. Of what he is sure is that there are hesitant hands now; long and slender fingers, with calluses from playing the violin and some scars from experiments and life experience, well-known and all-new at once, that are brushing through his hair.

John’s hair is shorter now, not the hairstyle that had screamed midlife crisis from the rooftops. There are almost completely grey now; he does not try to hide his age anymore.

 

These days are over.

 

Sherlock's hands move over his neck and over his shoulders, a bit skittish and unsure at the beginning, overwhelmed and/or inexperienced, John cannot tell. He should ask, maybe, he maybe should even know it, but John senses that this is not the time.

This is Sherlock. He has to trust him. Simple as that.

In the end, they find themselves in the same position like the last time: After the horrible confrontation with Smith and the even more horrible encounter in the morgue and later at the hospital bed, the talk about being human.

That it is what it is.

 

There is a poem that has similar lines. It is about love, that it might be unreasonable, that it might be unwise, that there is so much obstacle and possible downside and potential hurt (and danger, in their case) but it is what it is. Love conquers it all; and John does not think about this particular phrase in any other context than this:

Sherlock in his arms.

 

And this could be the end,

the end of a long evening and an even longer day

and an almost never-ending story of two men.

There had been the tale of the man behind the myth,

there had been the soldier who finally could come home,

there had been the second chance and now, close to midnight, it is the choice to take it.

Maybe Sherlock is brave to make the first step and John follows.

Maybe John is brave to make the first step and Sherlock who follows.

And maybe they both are simply brave and follow their heart at the end.

 

OOOOOOO

 

In the end, there is a kiss.

 

One kiss for ‘’Afghanistan or Iraq’,

one kiss for ‘the game is on’,

one kiss for ‘Hungry?’

and one for ‘starving’.

 

One kiss for ‘Alone is what protects me’,

and one kiss for ‘Caring is not an advantage’.

 

One kiss for ‘I don’t have friends. I only have one’.

 

One kiss for ‘Keep your eyes fixed on me’,

one kiss for ‘You machine!’,

one kiss for ‘Goodbye, John’ and one for ‘Sherlock!’

 

Kiss after kiss after kiss for all the time away,

kiss after kiss after kiss for all the time lost,

kiss after kiss after kiss

because they can.

 

Because they can.

 

Because there was, is, and always will be two of them: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 

And maybe it did not really start with a soldier.

Maybe it was not “Afghanistan or Iraq”, but instead every “amazing” and “brilliant” and “fantastic”.

Maybe it was killing a cabbie the day after meeting Sherlock or maybe pretending to kill yourself to save John.

Maybe it was a boom or maybe it was a whimper.

The details were and never will be important.

 

That it happened, however, was elementary.

 

THE END