Chapter Text
There was no sound more brutal or unwelcomed than the blaring of that blasted alarm clock. At the crack of dawn it wailed and screamed for John to awaken from his dreamless, rather rugged sleep, repetitve and annoying. Groggily, the soldier tore himself from his somewhat comfortable position and slammed his hand on the blessed “off” button. Though the routine of waking up early had been etched into his body’s basic functions, John by no means enjoyed it. His body gave a few cracks and pops in complaint as he rose from the warmth of his blankets, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and rubbing his face to the shine of the rising sun.
Reality is a cruel mistress.
John couldn’t protest much to the life that he was leading; he’d landed himself in two jobs he was content to work and though his shoulder gave him pain every so often, it wasn’t completely unbearable. But the stresses of city life had certianly been weighing on him, what with the increase of rent and the lowness of his pension, and it certainly made living in London tight and difficult. Still, he managed to push by with what little strength remained in his wallet and his heart. It could always be worse.
His thoughts were halted by the small, subdued “daddy?” that came from behind his door, and felt himself melt.
“Come in, Hamish,” he beckoned, rubbing his eyes once more before leaning forward to catch a glimpse his son entering the room.
Little Hamish Watson, soon-to-be six-year-old, padded into his father’s bedroom with a small yawn. His blonde hair was scrawled every whichway, green eyes barely open and ladden with exhaustion, blanket trailing behind him. The boy climbled slowly onto the bed, though he was barely able to do so and snuggled deeply into his father’s open arms. “You need to wake up, daddy.”
“I am awake,” John chuckled in response. “Ready to go to work?”
“Yep! I’ll put ALL the books away~” he giggled, spreading his arms wide to show his father just how many books he would assist with. John produced a hearty laugh, kissing his son on the top of the head and rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles.
God, how that boy reminded him of Mary. His late wife, hair blonde and curled to perfection, with a small nose and almond-shaped, emerald eyes cast her spirit well through their son. She was perfection in a woman, as far as looks were concerned, and though their relationship was anything but top notch John continued to love her even beyond her passing. Hamish and Mary were so alike that it ached John’s heart most days, but he was accustomed to doing what soldiers do best; brushing it off and marching on. He gave Hamish’s tiny nose a poke, warranting a high giggle from the young boy.
“Great. Go on, go get dressed. I’ll be out in a bit.”
Hamish nodded and slid off his father’s bed, obeying the request, no doubt with a smile on his face. John let out a soft sigh as he watched him go, rising from his bed and stepping into the overused, nearly broken bathroom.
He gripped the sides of the sink, head hung, asking the question that every single parent ponders hopelessly; what the hell do I do now?
Raising Hamish had been no easy task. Playing the role of mother and father kept John hanging in the balance of sane and careless, and since Mary’s death shortly after Hamish was born, the soldier hadn’t discovered a route to make him and his son anything more than “struggling to survive”. Hamish knew nothing of the hardships John undertook, thankfully, but that didn’t make them invisible no matter how many laughs and good times were shared between father and son. John lifted his head to the bathroom mirror, seeing a terrified man stare grimly back.
The truth was, he was falling apart.
Adjusting to civilian life hadn’t been easy after getting shot, not in that place, the cruel desert providing the unholiest of heat, blood spilling from his shoulder and out on the thick, hot sand. John wasn’t sure he’d ever see Hamish again under the rage of that desert sun, but the memory of that tiny crooked smile and the threat of him growing up parentless pulled the soldier through and made him sick with the need to recover. Nightmares still enjoyed the occasional visit to him every so often, and his therapist pinned the blame on that ever-present post-traumtic stress. The two Watsons only had each other now; that was the way it had always been and the way it always would be. John would do what he needed to make it work.
Once he’d finished showering and preparing for the day ahead, John wrapped himself in a towel and set out to find something suitable to wear. He didn’t have the luxury of new clothes, all of his money going towards Hamish, school supplies, the like. Not that he minded. Deciding on a corded sweater and a pair of blue jeans, he dropped the towel and dressed himself, buttoning the denim and slipping the sweater over his shoulders when. The black object in the center of his underwear drawer immediately caught John’s eye. His gun. Loaded and ready, it would definitely be something he needed today of all days, regardless of the fact that he never left home without it anyway. Taking the weapon in his hand, he stashed it in the back of his jeans and pulled on his coat, stepping out into the living room, a confused little Hamish standing in his sight.
“Why isn’t the sun up, daddy?”
John felt himself sigh. Such a curious boy, Hamish was. This wouldn’t go without an explanation. John approached his son and knelt before him, taking the tiny hands in his own and meeting those familiar eyes.
“Remember that mean old burgular who keeps taking our books?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to go early and talk to him. Make sure he doesn’t take anything else.”
Hamish bit his lower lip. “Oh.”
“You’re going to stay with Mrs. Hudson while I do.”
Hamish frowned and nodded; it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the landlady’s company, John knew, but he simply didn’t like the reality of going somewhere without his father. Understandable. He kissed his son on the cheek and stood, keeping one hand over the boy’s and leading him from their small, homey flat before giving his confident assurances and a gentle goodbye.
The wind blew it’s icy vengeance across John’s small body, and he brought his coat closer to him in attempt to keep himself warm. Winter was just beginning to fade, though she was cruel in her passing and never left without a bit of whiplash. Not many people were wandering the streets at this hour, giving John the perfect advantage. He would find this mystery thief and make sure that he didn’t make his shop (and in consequence, John himself) a victim any longer.
Over the past few weeks, John had noticed subtle changes in the way he’d left the shop the night before compared to when he opened the following morning. Books would be misplaced, some returned to their home, others scattered and some missing altogether. The thought of a stranger doing things unknown in his bookstore unnerved him; what would someone want with a bunch of old, used books from a store that barely stayed open as it was? John needed answers, he needed surety.
Slipping the key in it’s determined slot, John turned it with a flick of his wrist and opened the door.
Silence hit him hard. Had he been too late? All seemed to be as it was when he left, except for a few returns placed here and there across various endtables, a mess of books distributed at random along his desk, but nothing too out of the ordinary considering the thief’s M.O.
A loud thud interrupted John’s thoughts and made his head turn. John stayed absolutely still in case the perpetrator decided to make for the door, keeping his options open and his mind zoned in to the current and possibly threatening situation. He waited patiently. Nothing. One. Two. Three minutes. Nothing but turned pages and the occasional cough from the stranger. Deciding to test his luck and creep forward, John tiptoed as close as safely possible, feeling the weight of his gun in his waistband, just in case.
The intruder seemed to freeze. He must’ve heard John’s footsteps. Shit. He peered around the corner in the darkness, unable to see the man in question but the familiar sound of fumbling through papers and books filled his ears. He was preparing to bail.
Oh, no you don’t.
“Stop!” John shouted, pulling his gun from the back of his jeans and rounding the nearest shelf to come face to face with the burgular, whose hands slowly lifted, no sense of rush about him at all.
John’s face immediately fell.
The man had been...reading? Dirty shoes were propped up on the sidetable, a steaming cup of coffee beside him and books arranged neatly by subject, from what John could tell. The man looked rugged and unkempt, yet he wore a composed expression like someone of a high social standing or importance level; certainly not a homeless man, or was he? John lowered his gun slightly at the sight of him, mouth in a thin line, completely take off-guard at having expected the worst. “Y-...” he stuttered, at a loss for words. “You’re in my shop.”
“Obviously.” The intruder’s voice was deep velvet, a look of perplexion on his face. “I...should have asked?”
“Well, ye--wait, are you reading?”
“Yes.”
John lowered the gun completely. The stranger seemed to be studying him through the veil of darkness. How much could he see? “Wh--...there are libraries, you know.”
“Libraries require silence and hushed voices, neither of which I can provide.”
“...oh.” John felt the moment become increasingly, painfully awkward. “Do you...live nearby, then?”
“In a sense.”
“You’re homeless.”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“When was the last time you...I dunno, ate something? Took a bath?”
“Awfully rude.”
“No, I--” Why was he defending himself? This man had broken into his shop! The entire situation was strange to him, and before he could stop himself he’d opened his mouth to make a very grave mistake. “Just--are you hungry?”
“...What?”
“We’ll discuss it over breakfast.”
“Discuss what?”
“If you’re so keen on my bookshop, I don’t see why you can’t stay on occasion and work off the money for the books you stole. But you need to eat something, so, we’ll discuss it over breakfast.”
He looked puzzled at John’s words, which had come as a shock to the both of them. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. How do you know I haven’t eaten in a while?”
“Doesn’t matter. You break into my shop, and you’re turning down free food? Who do you think you are?” His tone was suddenly light and joking, coming from the “nowhere” area of his personality and he cleared his throat to make it seem less bizarre. “And I’m a doctor.”
John remained still until the stranger rose from his seat. He gave John a once-over before taking the books he’d gathered and organizing them again, long, delicate fingers tracing lightly over the spines of the books and eyes scanning the room to locate their homes. John was surprised at the quickness of the man putting away stolen books, but there was also the matter of the small twitches in his fingers or the often scratching at his arm. “Here,” John offered after some time, extending a hand to take a few of the books from the man’s trembling ones. He hesitated before letting John take them, slipping them between the titles of their like until the doctor was satisfied with a shop that looked just the way he wanted it to. Apprehensive and shocked at his own potentially rash actions, John turned to the dirty man and drew in a breath.
“So. Breakfast?”
The dark-haired stranger cleared his throat, thinking the idea over before agreeing with a small, forced “...fine.”
John extended his hand and met the other’s unrealistically blue eyes for the first time. “John Watson.”
His lips parted in hesitation, eventually taking the soldier’s hand and giving it a brief shake. “...Sherlock Holmes.”
Well, this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ didn’t seem like a very happy man, that was certain, but John’s interest wasn’t in Sherlock’s well-being. He would get back the money for his stolen books one way or another, and coaxing this stranger with kindness might do the trick. He exited the shop and found himself once again facing the bitter relapse of winter, holding himself close, destination near in sight.
The restaurant around the corner seemed the perfect spot for John to take his unexpected guest. A 24-hour diner would be the only place that was open, and though the place had a suburb and casual style to it, John thought it was perfect. He pushed open the heavy swinging door, locating a suitable seat near the window and waiting for Sherlock to finally sit down. He ordered a small cup of coffee and some toast along with a full plate for the other man, who grimaced.
“I don’t eat that much.”
“Oh please, these plates are massive. We’ll share.”
“I could have herpes for all you know.”
“You don’t have herpes. Not the kind I get from sharing a plate, anyway.”
“The flu?”
“Sucks for me.”
Sherlock scowled and sat in the chair across from John, completely unable to comprehend the situation before him, or so it seemed. John didn’t study him much for fear of making matters worse, and sent a brief text to Mrs. Hudson to see if Hamish was doing alright, which, of course, he was. Hamish was a well-behaved boy.
The still silence between the two men was aching. John looked up to see if the stranger was still there, only to see piercing blue eyes stripping and studying him.
“...What?”
“Hm. Average.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re just an average man, why take a stranger who broke into your shop out for food? It doesn’t add up. Something’s wrong.”
“It’s called generosity, ever heard of it?”
“Very funny.”
Sherlock didn't back down, and his stare made John uncomfortable in his own skin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Observing.”
“Observing what?”
Sherlock hesitated, parting his lips in thought before folding his hands below his chin and staring across the table. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation. He was curious now.
John watched as Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him one last time, unsettling at best, but the man’s sudden stream of words rendered him defenseless.
“Army doctor. Single father. Widow. War veteran. You’re running two jobs, an obvious one at the bookshop, the other likely to do with your medical degree, I’m guessing a part-time doctor at some small clinic because you can’t afford to be away from your young son for too many hours of the week. I say young because your body shows signs of aching more than the usual man of your age, stress from your gunshot wound and also playing with your son. The texts you’re sending under the table to his babysitter are proof enough that he’s, oh, five? six? You’re wearing your old wedding ring on a chain around your neck, you haven’t taken it off in years except for the occasional cleaning. Your marriage wasn’t a happy one to begin with, but you’re not going to tell your little boy that. You’re a depressed trauma survivor whose only cling to life is his child, and you find that fitting because that’s what you deser--” John’s leg was twitching, eyes turned towards the napkin that his hands were fumbling with, jaw clenched, a dog kicked. Sherlock must have noticed it, for he suddenly stopped talking and cleared his throat, backing off and looking away. “It’s been a while since I’ve deduced to that extent. I...sorry.”
“No,” John shot bitterly back. “That was amazing. Nice little trick. Let me try that, yeah?” He leaned forward a bit, seeing the distress in Sherlock’s eyes as he did so. No holding back.
“Drug user, or rather, ex drug user. You’ve been scratching at your arms like mad. Just out of rehab, judging by how unfed and distraught you look, no one to take you in, give you a shower or something to eat. I’m not as good at this as you are but it takes a flawed man to know one, and I’m not falling for the ‘genius’ act no matter how much of an act it actually is. If you’ve got any kind of bloody decency in there somewhere, I’ll see you tomorrow morning when my shop opens at nine because you’re going to work off the money that you stole from me. And if not, I don’t ever want to see you around my shop again, is that clear?” He slammed a twenty pound bill on the table in his frustration, refusing to make eye contact and shot up from his chair to leave. The broken man pushed the door harshly open, fuming with anger and freezing from the cold, left hand trembling and the clacks of his cane lost to the wind.