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It would be overstating the case to say that John Watson woke up. More like, he attained consciousness, slowly, coming very gradually to an awareness of how much his head hurt. Christ, what had he been drinking last night? He managed to lift up a hand and press it to his eyes. This didn't even feel like a hangover; it felt like he'd been hit over the head with a lead pipe. Urgh. He gradually peeled his eyes open. Slowly, he pushed himself up--all his muscles hurt, he must not have hydrated well when he got home--and shook his aching head to try to clear it.
He never should have joined Grindr.
***
The whole thing was Bill's fault. He had texted John one day when he'd been limping back from physio: Johnny boy, up for a pint? John had taken a deep breath, shaken off the vague certainty that nothing was worthwhile any more, and met his mate for a pint.
He'd tried to be pleasant and chatty, talking about who was on leave at the moment, about friends back in their company, about Bill's wife and kids, about football and the state of politics. But Bill wasn't an idiot. "You're having a hard time of it, aren't you?"
John tapped the bar in front of him. "It's fine."
"That's a load of bollocks," Bill said, and finished his pint.
"Yeah, it is," John agreed.
"Come on, then." Bill waved his hand as if to draw more of the story out of him. "Let's have the whole narrative."
"I just…" He tried to find a way to express it. "There's just not much for me here, you know? My sister's a mess, and it's not like we were ever close. My school friends are all settled into practice, or married, or both. All my army friends are still in theatre. Present company excepted." Bill tipped his pint at him for that. "I don't have a job. I don't have a social life. If I died in my sleep nobody would know until I started to smell."
He didn't say what he'd thought about, because you don't do that over pints, but he suspected that Bill could hear it underneath.
"I guess I just--I don't know what I'm doing here right now. I've known what I was doing every step of my life since I was seventeen, what was coming next. And now I don't. That's all." He spun his drink on the bar. "I don't know. I'm certain it'll pass."
"Are you looking for work?"
John shrugged. "Not a lot of use for a trauma surgeon with significant damage to the ulnar and radial nerves." He held up his hand, which trembled just hanging there. "What am I going to do, end up a GP in some little practice somewhere? I'd die of boredom."
"Something different then? You're smart, you're experienced, there must be something for you."
"I've got one skill set, Bill. It involves sewing up people who are bleeding. Not terribly transferrable."
Bill paused and stared into his glass. Just as John was taking another sip of his, he said, "We'd best get you laid, then."
John coughed into his pint.
"Your life's gone to shit," Bill said. "You need to have something to remind you that life's worth living. Therefore. Laid. As soon as bloody possible."
Once John recovered the ability to breathe properly, he snorted. "Yeah, well. I'll get right on that. Huge line of women eager to grab a piece of the crippled unemployed veteran market. I'm absolutely serious boyfriend material, don't know why I didn't think of it before."
Bill clapped him on the shoulder. "I didn't say you needed a girlfriend. I said you needed to get laid. Don't complicate things, mate."
John laughed bitterly. "That's even worse. Hello, attractive single woman. Let me buy you a drink, but nothing too expensive, since I'm broke. I've got a fistful of scar tissue on my shoulder and I limp for no apparent reason. Shall we go back to yours? Mine's a miserable bedsit only slightly larger than my quarters in Afghanistan."
"That's not how 3C used to play it," Bill said, leaning on an elbow.
John shook his head. "Hard to have confidence when your life's gone to shit."
Bill held up his pint in solidarity. John clinked it. They both drank. The pause that followed could have been awkward, but it wasn’t. This is what he liked about Bill.
"What about blokes, then?" John froze, slightly, and Bill thumped him on the shoulder. "Come off it, Watson. It's not like it's some big secret. I knew about Blakeson. And Kumar. And what's his name, the American one."
"Carl," John said before he could think about it.
Bill laughed. "Yeah, exactly. With the hair."
John lifted his pint awkwardly. "It was nice hair."
"Looked miserable under the helmet, though."
John had actually liked the helmet hair. He decided not to dignify this, or the fact that his self-closeting had apparently been an epic failure, with any kind of response.
"What I'm saying is, I hear it's easier with blokes. I was talking with my brother--did I ever tell you about him? Works in Manchester as a barrister, bent as a paperclip. Makes me feel like a failure every time I open my mouth. Anyway. I was talking with him, and he says it's dead easy to get laid these days. People use their phones for it. You just put up a picture and something about you, and people chat with you or whatever. You'd have no trouble."
John didn't quite know what to say to that. "I…is that a good idea?"
Bill shrugged. "I met Janelle on Match.com. How different is it?"
"I don't know, because you didn't meet Janelle to fuck her in a pub bathroom?"
"But we did, though," Bill said, wistfully. "Christ, I miss life before children."
He reached into John's pocket and pulled out his phone. "Look, I'm putting this app on your phone. Don't argue with me, and don't try to delete it, which you won't be able to do anyway, you're miserable with technology. Make a profile at home tonight. You'll thank me later."
"What, when I've had my kidneys eaten by a serial killer?" John takes his phone back and stares dubiously at the little green icon downloading.
Bill snorted. "If it makes you feel better, text me where you're going when you go out, OK? Just, please, John. Promise me you'll do something."
John took a deep breath. He must have looked bloody terrible if Bill thought he needed something this badly. "This is a terrible idea."
"Those are the best kind of ideas," Bill said, grinning like a lunatic.
***
John put water into the kettle and rubbed a hand over his face. OK, he felt like shit, that part was clear. But he also…there was something. He felt like grinning at absolutely nothing, like whatever had happened last night was the best thing that had ever happened in his life. So why couldn't he remember it?
While he waited for the water to boil, he took stock. Headache, muscle aches: clearly too much to drink. Although, funnily, he wasn't light-sensitive or noise-sensitive. His mouth was a little dry, but not as bad as he would have expected. He didn't feel hungover; he felt…tired, more than anything else. But none of this explained the amnesia. That had to be alcohol, right? He supposed there was the barest chance he was roofied last night, but no nausea, dizziness, anxiety, weakness in extremities--
He paused. No weakness in his extremities. He'd gotten up and walked out of bed and to the kitchenette without his cane. He hadn't even thought about his cane until now. He took a quick step to make sure--yes, his leg didn't pain him, beyond a slight ache.
The water came to a boil. He pushed down his confusion, poured the water over his tea bag. All right. So, probably not roofied. Just sore. And then…well, there was no point being subtle in his own head; he was pretty sure he hadn't been fucked last night, because it had been a while and he'd be feeling it. The sore thigh muscles, they might suggest that he'd topped, but nothing unequivocal. He'd woken up in his pants with his clothes in a pile next to the bed, so he hadn't showered, at least not at home. He didn't smell like come, but he did smell like sweat, like he'd gotten a workout. So if he'd gotten laid, he'd cleaned up well, but he hadn't taken a shower.
He sipped his tea. What he remembered of last night was blurry, but he knew there had been a conversation on Grindr, and that, for once, it was appealing. He remembered dressing and heading out. And that was it, for the rest of the night. So he'd start there; he'd finish his tea, shower, and then sit down at his phone and try to figure out what the hell happened.
He fairly skipped down the hallway to the communal bathroom. It was just so nice not to have to worry about his leg every damn moment--the pain had been a constant presence since he'd been shot, and he was going to enjoy its absence while it lasted. Come to think of it, where was his cane? He hadn't tripped over it yet. He'd need to find it; couldn't guarantee that his leg would still work as well tomorrow morning. The bathroom was empty, so he locked the door and pulled off his robe.
And stopped in shock as soon as he caught a look at himself in the mirror. Because, holy hell.
There was a bruise on his forehead, of indiscriminate size and shape, dark and pronounced. And the marks on his chest were not at all indiscriminate; they were very clearly fist-shaped, three blows. He looked down at his hands. Yes, his knuckles were more than a little bruised, though they didn't hurt to flex. He leaned into the mirror and examined his body more closely. The bruising wasn't serious; whoever he'd been fighting with had been strong, but the fight hadn't been prolonged. Christ, had he gotten into a pub fight? He wanted to say it wasn't something he would do, but it's possible that, if he'd got riled up, something might have tipped him into a fight.
He sat down on the toilet for a moment. Or maybe…was it possible that his 'date' last night had taken offense to something he'd said? Had he been gay-bashed? It didn't seem terribly likely--if nothing else, he probably would have called the police, because someone like this was dangerous, picking up men online and meeting them somewhere just to hurt them. And, no, he'd been happy when he'd woken up. So what the hell had happened to him, that he was beat up, too hung over to remember what had happened, and still felt good about it at the end?
No question. He was going to have to figure this out. He nodded to himself and turned on the shower.
***
Setting up the profile on Grindr had been an exercise in self-hatred. I mean, what could he say about himself? Everything that he had bitterly muttered at Bill in the pub was just as true for men as it was for women. He wasn't a good prospect, not for a relationship, not for a one-night stand. He couldn't even come up with a reasonable username, something that didn't make him feel ridiculous or remind him, repeatedly, of his own personal failures. I mean, what was he now? Not a soldier, barely a doctor, out of touch with popular culture, doubly out of touch with gay culture, since he'd been so far away for so long.
The problem was, he was curious. Bill was right, he wasn't getting any better with so little in his life. He needed an outlet, an adrenaline rush, something to keep himself going while he figured out what the hell he was doing. And, yes, sex would do it--and, frankly, anonymous sex facilitated by the Internet seemed like an even better option, from a risk/reward point of view. So he forced himself through the sign-up process, dutifully taking a terrible photo of himself, choosing a username that seemed innocuous, and filling out the small list of interests. Taking a deep breath, he clicked through to see what the process looked like past that point.
His jaw dropped.
Alright, apparently taking a picture of his face was not standard for the site, but he was glad, because Christ, that was a lot of waxed chests. And abs. A lot of abs. And…well, he was not going to spend too long staring at the arse, it was just impolite. Even if he did put it on there.
He scrolled back up. Wait, was that the bloke downstairs with the dreadlocks? Christ, John would never be able to meet his eyes in the elevator ever again.
He set his phone down and locked it. That was ridiculous. He was never going to get messaged on there.
The phone pinged.
He picked it up, and forced himself through an uncomfortable and vaguely confusing conversation with a headless torso who couldn't spell. He apparently wanted to know John's favorite songs as a way of deciding whether he was interested. John hadn't bought a CD since med school, and apparently the headless torso did not have a fondness for Peter Gabriel, because he was ditched in about five chat lines. John locked his phone again, and set it down.
It pinged again.
***
The thing about it, John thought as he sat down in his armchair after his shower, was that his primary experience of Grindr had been of disappointment. I mean, sure, he would be sitting with his phone in a café and get pinged a few times, but the conversations always ended up being meaningless. He wasn't impressing anyone, not enough for them to ask him round for a pint or a blowjob. He'd lock the phone afterward and feel strangely empty: what was wrong with him, that on a site entirely dedicated to enabling anonymous hookups, he couldn't get anyone interested? Was he really too old, too uncool, too culturally straight, too ugly, too crippled, too pathetic to attract attention?
Except, when he fought through those feelings, he also realized that he felt…well, bored by everyone. Nobody had held his interest, not long enough for him to flirt harder, push back. If he felt old, uncool, or ugly, he also felt like everyone he interacted with was shallow and vapid. Did he go the wrong places? Attract the wrong people? Was there a more interesting set of potential dates out there, and he was somehow turning them off?
Well, there must have been, he rationalized. Because he'd definitely gone out with someone last night. So he took a deep breath, turned on his phone, and loaded Grindr. Let's see what he'd said.
The chat was stored there, and he brought it up. therosinlessbow, that was the bloke's name, and he'd messaged at half eight. John enlarged the man's profile photo.
Well. That was…well.
The photo was very carefully taken, and showed a hand curved around the neck of a violin. The arm that cradled the violin was long, white, and bare, lithe with muscle, the hand delicate and long-fingered, arched perfectly to support the weight of the instrument. Although the violin body was mostly cropped out of the photo, there was the hint of an equally bare, equally pale, equally muscled shoulder underneath it just at the edge of the photo.
John swallowed. It wasn't like he hadn't seen some incredibly fit blokes on Grindr; he'd sometimes clicked out of the program and been utterly confused by the mixture of arousal and self-disgust he felt. But it wasn't just that this was a beautiful arm, or that he could perfectly picture that hand buried in his hair, digging nails into his arse, those beautiful arms wound around his shoulders or pushing his neck into the bed. No, it was the poise inherent in the photo that appealed just as much, the sense that this was someone with a skill, proud of it, someone who wanted to show off a little but only what really mattered. Because John was sure that past that arm was a chest to match it; he could have just stood there and taken the same body shot as thousands of other blokes on this site, but it was more important to show that this was his thing. And, well. John respected that, was intrigued by it. He wanted to know how that arm moved on the instrument, wanted to know why the violin mattered so much, wanted to know something about the person behind it. And, quite possibly, to fuck him at the end of the conversation.
Before he read their conversation, he clicked through to therosinlessbow's profile and gave it a quick read. It was as sparse as John's in some ways--no elaborate list of sexual predilections, no blanket "no fatties/no femmes" statement (which turned John off even though he was neither), no flirtatious half-details and none of the absurd over-sharing that always made John feel like somebody's dad. He gave his name only as SH, said he worked as a scientist, and mentioned a preference for classical over romantic music. Unlike many profiles, it was grammatically correct and correctly punctuated; it also had a vaguely perfunctory feel, and there was a sort of fragile arrogance about it.
John felt even more interested after reading the profile--what sort of science? Any interesting experiences? Perhaps they'd be able to talk about medicine or research. John didn't know much about music, but he was curious to know why he had those preferences, to hear him play his favorite pieces, to watch those fingers in motion. Christ, he was working this up into something it wasn't--he didn't even know what they'd done last night, if the other man would still be interested. He didn't even know his name.
He sighed as he flipped back to the conversation. Might as well figure out what they'd said, see if it jogged any memories.
therosinlessbow: You're a doctor.
sohardtosee: …How did you know that?
therosinlessbow: You mention you're back in the East End in your profile, means you lived there before, but aren't from there originally, you don't name it as 'home' or anything like that. From your self-presentation you aren't a part of the upscale redevelopment, don't mention being Jewish and aren't Asian, so you're living there because it's cheap and at least minimally familiar. So, familiar but not home? You lived there at university. What universities are in the East End? Not many, particularly not that are selective--your profile is less poorly written than most of these on this site, which is not saying much, but still. So, likely Queen Mary. Your profile suggests both practicality and an interest in the application of knowledge, you're the type of person to want to do something hands on, so medicine. Interesting that you don't say so, I'd imagine being a doctor would interest people. Why didn't you list it?
sohardtosee: Well, I mean. I didn't necessarily want that sort of attention, you know?
sohardtosee: Wait, seriously? You really guessed that from the info in my profile?
therosinlessbow: I didn't guess. I deduced.
therosinlessbow: It's all right there. Just like your military service, which I don't believe you left willingly.
sohardtosee: What the hell? Do you know me?
therosinlessbow: No more than I see. There's a very slight color difference under your chin that suggests you frequently wore a helmet in the sun, and recently; if you rode a motorcycle or were a long-distance bicyclist, you'd mention it, but you say you have no hobbies. Where else would someone frequently wear a helmet in hot sun? In military service in the Middle East or Asia. Perhaps you're home on leave, doing a domestic tour or retraining. But no, your haircut: clearly originally a military cut, but not within regulation limits, getting the slightest bit shaggy at the edges. Implies that you're no longer required to maintain the standard, but you aren't intentionally growing out your hair or otherwise deviating. In addition, you mention in your profile that you're taking some time off right now, but you don't sound happy about it or mention being on the dole. Suggests you've got a source of income, though it can't be much. Military pension fits the bill.
therosinlessbow: Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq, by the way? And what was the injury that invalided you?
sohardtosee: Seriously? You're just--you're asking me?
therosinlessbow: It's nice to know if I've missed something.
sohardtosee: The shoulder. I was shot in the shoulder. In Afghanistan.
sohardtosee: That's amazing. That you could tell that.
sohardtosee: I mean, it kind of sounds like bollocks, but you're right. How do you *do* that?
therosinlessbow: You're actually interested?
sohardtosee: Of course I am.
therosinlessbow: Are you free now?
sohardtosee: I can be.
therosinlessbow: Meet me at the Barbican tube stop in forty minutes. I'll recognize you. Wear comfortable shoes.
sohardtosee: I'll be there.
John blinked. That was…that was brilliant. Everything the man had said, it had been obviously true, and so…so comfortable. John had never felt quite so pinned, and yet there was nothing negative about it. No judgment that he was invalided, no questions about why he wasn't employed right now, no odd fetishization of either of his careers. Just the simple facts: you are a doctor, you are a soldier, you are yourself. He hadn't realized how much it mattered to him that someone see him as something, not as the pathetic cripple limping around (though perhaps there would be less limping in future, he dared to hope), not as someone who'd had his life taken away from him.
Christ, of course he'd gone out to meet the man. He'd have gone much farther than Barbican to see what he was like in person.
Someone pinged him, but he left the program rather than reply. He didn't want to talk to anyone if it wasn't therosinlessbow right now. And that was stupid, because he honestly didn't know how it had gone last night; he'd come home aching and sore and covered in bruises, so maybe he'd turned out to be an awful human being. Maybe he'd been boring, maybe he'd been a cyberstalker, maybe he'd been ugly or smelled bad.
Except that now, John was seeing those hands, the ones that had cradled the violin; he was seeing them cupping a cigarette close, reaching out to grab his arm. With the visual clue of the photo, he could half-reconstruct a picture of the man behind the screen name, something about an endless neck and a pair of sharp eyes. No, it had gone well. So why couldn't he remember a thing?
His phone chimed. He looked down, expecting to see that he'd somehow failed to turn off Grindr, but it was a text message from Bill. A text message. He'd probably sent one last night when he'd gone out. And maybe he and therosinlessbow had exchanged numbers, texted each other or something? That would be someplace to start.
He opened his texts, and read through the conversation with Bill.
Text to Bill Murray: Heading out to meet someone from that app. Meeting at Barbican tube. Expect you to send search party for my corpse if I don't reply by morning. Sent 8:42 pm
Text from Bill Murray: LOL good luck mate. Maybe in the morning you'll still be at it. Received 8:47 pm
Text from Bill Murray: Don't spare the details, either. Well, I mean, maybe some of the details. Received 8:48 pm
Text to Bill Murray: I don't just owe you a pint, mate. I owe you the whole bloody pub. Sent 12:04 am
Text from Bill Murray: That's 3C back again! Good on you mate. Received 9:39 am.
He couldn't help but smile at that. So, yes, it had gone well, he wasn't making it up.
He texted Bill back.
Text to Bill Murray: I don't suppose I called you, or said anything else at any point about last night? Because I can't remember a bloody thing. Sent 9:42 am
While he waited for a response, he went over to his contacts and scanned through them. Nothing new; therosinlessbow hadn't put his name in there. (Maybe he should think of him as SH, but the violin image was sticking with him, for fairly obvious reasons.) He checked his text messages, and nothing exchanged with anybody but Bill last night. He flipped over to his call history. Not a thing. "Dammit," he muttered to himself. How had last night not left any more traces? Should he take this as a sign that he shouldn't try to find out anything about therosinlessbow? I mean, the whole point of joining Grindr had been to get laid, not to get a boyfriend or anything like that. Probably he should just put it out of his mind.
His phone made that annoying text noise again, and he swapped over.
Text from Bill Murray: That good? Received 9:58 am
John stared at his phone, and wished he could answer.
***
By the time it was gone three, John had almost decided to let it rest. He told himself, repeatedly, that he was just curious at this point. Yes, something probably insane had happened last night, and yes, there had been an extremely sexy man on the other end of it, and he should just--should just take that as written, pat himself on the back, get back on the damn horse and see if he could find someone else to make it happen with again. Maybe head out to a pub for once, try his luck in person. Or be proactive--message men who seemed interesting, start a bloody OKCupid account and try to meet women, something. He got laid, he felt better, he should try it all again.
But he didn't want to. Because it wasn't just that he'd had a good time last night. Whatever had happened last night had fooled his bloody leg into thinking it could work properly. His hands were steady. He hadn't thought about how miserable his life was once since he'd woken up. For the first time since he'd gotten back on English soil, he felt right. He felt fixed. It couldn't just be that he'd gotten laid last night. Whatever had happened must have been amazing, and he didn't have a bloody clue what it was. This wasn't curiosity, it was necessity. He needed to know what happened.
He forced himself to log on to Grindr and go back to therosinlessbow's profile. And there was the little light that said he was online. Christ. John set his phone down. OK. He could do this. There wasn't a three-day waiting period with someone you'd had anonymous internet sex with the night before, was there? No, couldn't be. He picked up his phone again, and then set it down and rubbed his hands over his face. If he could only remember, this whole bloody thing would get a lot easier. I mean, what should he open with?
The phone made a noise, and he picked it up, expecting to have to dismiss some vapid chat from another headless torso, but that wasn't it. Instead, therosinlessbow was messaging him. Well, that made things easier.
therosinlessbow: I assume you got home safely last night.
John tilted his head at the screen. That was an odd way to begin the conversation--but, well, if he'd been totally blitzed when he'd left, that would make sense, he supposed.
sohardtosee: Yeah, fine, thanks.
He considered, figuring out how to transition into a more detailed discussion of the night before.
sohardtosee: A little bit worse for wear this morning, though.
therosinlessbow: That's to be expected, I suppose. The bruises should clear up soon enough. Have you noticed yet?
sohardtosee: What, the bruises? They're a little hard to miss.
therosinlessbow: No, not the bruises. The other thing.
John squinted at his phone. There was another thing? Christ, if it turned out he'd gotten a tattoo or something that he'd missed, he was going to lose his shit a little.
therosinlessbow: Your cane. You left it in the alleyway.
John didn't realize he was smiling until it had already spread over his face.
sohardtosee: *That's* where it is.
therosinlessbow: I was unsure whether its absence would occur to you.
sohardtosee: Of course it would, why wouldn't I notice it? I only use the thing every bloody day.
therosinlessbow: Not today, apparently.
sohardtosee: Apparently.
This was it, John realized. It wasn't just him who knew something interesting had happened last night. Maybe he could just bluff through the conversation? Propose a proper date?
therosinlessbow: You surprised me last night. That thing you did, in the alley there, it was…it was good.
John scrutinized the words, but he had no idea what they'd meant. Surely he hadn't--I mean, therosinlessbow was a beautiful man who clearly had no problem propositioning absolute strangers for sex, what could John have possibly done that would have surprised him? It had been years since John had gotten off with anyone in an alley anyway, months since he'd had sex at all; he was lucky if he had any skills left.
therosinlessbow: I'm not surprised often.
sohardtosee: Is that a good thing?
therosinlessbow: Very.
therosinlessbow: Are you up for another round tonight?
John typed oh God yes before he even thought about it. He made himself go back and change it.
sohardtosee: I can be.
therosinlessbow: Good. I think we'll need to change locations; I doubt we'll have luck again in the same area. There's a pub on Bethnal Green near Chilton Street. Meet there at 8:45?
sohardtosee: Alright then.
therosinlessbow: All right is two words, not one. It's a common mistake. I should give you my number so you can text me.
sohardtosee: Did you just correct my grammar?
therosinlessbow: Here, I'll text you now. If you have any other improvised weapons you can bring along now that the cane's gone, they'd probably be useful. Must dash, if I don't monitor this reaction half of Marlyebone will be radioactive tomorrow.
With that, therosinlessbow went from being online to offline. A moment later, John received a text from a London number, reading simply See you tonight. -SH.
What the fuck was that? Luck in the same place? Bring a weapon? John stared at his phone for a good long minute before he decided to give up. He saved the number, put his phone down, and tried to figure out what had just happened.
***
John shook off the lingering embarrassment of how long it had taken him to pick out an outfit as he walked from where he'd gotten off the bus towards the designated corner. He owned four pairs of trousers and ten shirts, and still he'd spent twenty minutes in front of his closet, and then another ten in front of the mirror trying to get his hair to look respectable--and then he'd remembered therosinlessbow explaining what his hair meant, which lead to a bunch of dreamy staring. He had thought for a minute about bringing his gun with him--therosinlessbow had asked him to come armed--but it was probably a bad idea to admit to owning an illegal firearm on the second date. If this was even a date. Anyway, he'd stuck a roll of coins in his jacket pocket in case of fists getting thrown.
The whole way over on the bus he'd thought about how to handle meeting him again, what to say, and he'd finally decided, as soon as an opportune moment presented itself, to admit that he didn't remember much of the night before, just that he was very happy to see him again. And if possibly he could remind John of his name, that would be great. He'd work up to the question about how he'd ended up getting punched quite so many times.
As he approached the pub, he glanced around. Thin, based on the picture, and pale skinned, but he didn't know hair color, or have any idea of what he was looking for. He scanned the people, and was about to resign himself to waiting pathetically against a streetlamp--
No. Wait. His eyes refocused on a tall man staring at his phone. Thin and pale-skinned, yes, and that neck--John remembered that neck. Since the man wasn't looking up, John took a moment to study him. Sharp cheekbones, wild hair, eyes that flashed as he scrolled through his phone. Lovely hands, long-fingered, strong palms. John could come up with a long list of inappropriate things he might like to do with those hands. He was odd-looking, but lovely at the same time. For a moment, he let doubt push against him--what in the world could he possibly see in John? But he'd messaged him, both times; he'd said John had surprised him like it was the best thing in the world. So John squared his shoulders and walked up to the beautiful man on his phone.
He looked up when John approached. His long face folded into a small smile. "Ah, John. You're on time. Much appreciated."
"Um, yes. Hello again," John said, not quite sure how to begin.
The man glanced at his phone and then locked it. "I'm fairly certain Rochester will try again somewhere along the next street over. There are a number of houses that are using the same upholsterer as those we already visited. He won't go back to Clerkenwell, not after last night, but he's got deadlines to meet, there's no way he won't be out tonight. I was thinking we'd monitor the situation from the corner--there's a theatre there, we can pose as patrons waiting for standing room only tickets, at least for a little while. After that we might need to come up with something else."
"Um," John said. Because, what?
The man surveyed John's body critically as he pocketed his phone. "Excellent thinking, picking a different jacket. It's no more flattering than the other one, but between that and the cane, we shouldn't be immediately recognized. Nevertheless, I've employed several other individuals to let us know if he's spotted outside of our observational zone. So, shall we?"
John didn't know what to say to this.
The man had turned to go, but then turned back when he realized John wasn't following. "John?"
"Um," John said. He had meant to find some nice way to chat pleasantly before admitting he was clueless, but all this nonsense was throwing him. "I'm sorry, what?"
The man squinted and examined his face. "Ah," he said, as if he understood. "Retrograde amnesia. You don't recall the events of last night. I should have guessed it would be a possibility, the blow he struck was rather hard."
"The blow?" John was very confused.
"Rochester. When he hit you with your cane." The man gestured towards the bruise on John's forehead, which he had tried in vain to hide with his hair. "You managed to disable him after that, but not before taking a few more hits. How little do you remember of last night?"
"Well. Basically nothing," John admitted.
The man's eyes kept darting all over John's face, his shoulders, his hands. "You woke up bruised and sore, knowing you'd gone out with a stranger the night before, and yet when asked to do the same thing again, you chose to do it without asking questions. Why?"
It was a good question, one that John had been wrestling with all day, but somehow now he knew the answer. "Because it was fantastic," he said. The man looked completely confused by this, so John tried to explain. "I mean, I didn't--I didn't remember the details, but I just woke up knowing that something wonderful had happened. And then I read our chat last night, and--and of course I wanted to see you again. Not just to find out the details of last night, although now I definitely want to know what happened, but--" He shook his head. "Of course I wanted to see you again."
The man looked genuinely puzzled. "That's not what people usually say."
"Well," John said. "You did say I was surprising."
"I did," the man said, and the puzzled expression became a genuine grin. He held out a hand. "Sherlock Holmes."
John took the hand. "John Watson, but you already know that."
"I do," the man--Sherlock, what a bizarre name--said. "Shall I fill you in, or do you want to guess?"
"I think you should fill me in," John said. "Particularly because I have no idea what any of the things you said a minute ago actually mean."
"Mmm, obviously," Sherlock said. "I'm a detective, a consulting detective, it's like being a private detective but less boring. I'm investigating a string of burglaries, and I've managed to identify the common thread, a major historical restoration firm that has an expanding client base. The man who is performing the burglaries is a contractor, works in period reproduction fabrics, and uses his visits with the upholstery company as a way of casing houses and identifying valuables that are improperly stored. He's going to break into one of the houses I mentioned earlier. We caught him last night trying to get into a first floor flat in Clerkenwell, but he managed to give us the slip, and, in the process, gave you the injuries you noticed this morning. Your hand-to-hand combat skills are excellent, by the way, not what I was expecting from a trained medical professional. You'll have to share with me whatever details of your military career aren't classified, though I'll probably be able to deduce some of those as well. Is that enough for the moment, or would you like to know more?"
It took John a good moment to consider this. "So, when you messaged me last night--why did you do that?"
"I joined the site a few weeks back. It seemed like an interesting opportunity to deduce facts about people's lives based on how they presented themselves toward strangers. Anyway, the results haven't been very good, people haven't been receptive to my conversations. Some good data, but very little. You were the first person to respond with interest." Sherlock shrugged. "Given your career, I assumed you would be comfortable with a bit of danger, which you most certainly are, based on last night's actions. In addition, you expressed interest in how I work. I thought it was worth the opportunity to meet you."
"So…so I was backup. That's all you wanted, when you invited me out."
"I find I think better when I have someone to explain it to." Sherlock cocked his head. "Why, is there some other reason I should have had?"
"Um." John wasn't quite certain he wanted to have this conversation on the street. "You do know what most people use Grindr for, yeah?" Sherlock looked confused. "Um. To meet people. For, um, sex, usually."
Sherlock's eyebrows quirked, and he seemed taken aback. "Oh."
"Yeah," John said, not quite sure where to go with this conversation.
"That does explain a lot," Sherlock said, almost to himself. He pressed the fingers of one hand to his mouth and appeared to think intensely. "Certainly the tone of many of the profiles makes a good deal of sense in that case. I had this problem with ChatRoulette, too."
John watched him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. Sherlock looked even more shocked, his lips parted beneath his long fingers, and if that wasn't the most accidentally suggestive thing John had seen in a while. "You're amazing," he said, still laughing. "And an idiot. How did you miss that? The whole site is full of naked people. You're naked on there, with your bloody violin."
"I…" Sherlock shook his head. "It seemed the norm. I was just trying to behave in a way that matched local customs."
John kept laughing. "And of course every bloke who messaged you because your picture is a little bit of orchestral pornography, you told his life story to him, and probably insulted his grammar, because you corrected mine, and you like me. So they all ran off scared, and probably told you where you could shove it in the process."
Sherlock's smile was returning, creeping up on him as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. "You didn't."
"Yeah, well," John said, shrugging. "I'm obviously an idiot as well in this scenario." He grinned. "So, we've got a thieving upholsterer to watch for, then?"
"If you're up for it," Sherlock said.
"Absolutely," John said, and started walking in the direction Sherlock had started off in.
Sherlock grabbed his arm and stopped him. "But the, um. The sex thing. If I had intended something along those lines?"
"Yeah?" John said.
"Would you have been, um. Amenable?"
"God, yes," John said, before he could really think.
"Ah," Sherlock said. "Um. Me too. Definitely."
"Well then, John said. "Let's try to get this wrapped up in good time, then. Hopefully without more head trauma."
"No promises," Sherlock said, and winked.
***
John explained to the paramedics how he'd splinted Rochester's arm as they worked on him. It hadn't been easy, but Sherlock had apparently had a long roll of gauze in one of the inside pockets of his ridiculous coat--he'd have to have a talk with him about that, by the way, because John might have changed his coat but Rochester had recognized Sherlock's, and they wouldn't have had to vault that car if they'd been able to get a little closer without being seen--and they'd pulled two of Rochester's own wooden shims from his repair kit to brace it. It would heal fine; John had broken it cleanly when he'd grabbed Rochester to stop him from stabbing Sherlock, and getting it splinted so quickly would aid recovery. Two uniformed officers from the Met were going with him to the hospital; he'd agreed, when Sherlock had laid everything out for him, to cooperate with the investigation and implicate several other people at the restoration place in the scheme to steal valuable antiques from clients. He supposed that, in Sherlock's world, this was a good day.
He felt bloody fantastic.
Sherlock, meanwhile, was arguing with a gray-haired man and a black woman, both of whom looked like they wanted to rip his head off. The wound on his forehead was bleeding sluggishly, because he kept pulling away the handkerchief he had pressed to it so that he could flap his arms around in explanation of some fine point of the case. John shook his head and asked the paramedic for some sterile wipes, latex gloves, and butterfly bandages, and crossed over to wear Sherlock was ranting.
"Oi," he said, when he got there. The gray-haired man had just left, but the woman had stayed. "Stop ripping the scab off before it can form. Here, sit." He pushed him down onto the hood of the car they were standing near. "Keep your hands out of the way and I'll clean it for you. Wouldn't want your idiot head getting scars on it."
"And then there's him!" the woman said, gesturing towards John, though she was talking to Sherlock. "It's bad enough you getting involved with cases, Sherlock, but now you're dragging civilians into it?"
"Oh, come now, Sally," Sherlock said. His voice had turned from the excited babble that he had used when explaining things to a slower, deeper purr. John didn't like admitting precisely what that purr did to him. He focused on cleaning the wound. "Surely even you can see you aren't dealing with a civilian in this case. Lieutenant Watson here--"
"Captain," John corrected, taking the backing off one of the butterfly bandages.
"Really," Sherlock said, and threw him an appreciative glance. "You'll have to show me your medals later. Captain Watson, here, then, is just continuing to serve Queen and Country, now that he has been repatriated. A natural progression."
"It is not natural," Sally said. "Nothing that happens in a ten meter radius of you is natural." She turned to John. "Where did you even find him?"
"Um," John said, and glanced down at Sherlock. Sherlock's expression was curiously blank. John realized at that moment precisely why he had been so taken aback to find someone who was actually interested in what he did, rather than wary or offended. And he was going to be damned if he'd tell him otherwise. "Online dating site, actually." Sherlock's surprised little smile creeped back into his face, and his eyes crinkled. An odd kind of giggly affection poured through John. "Hold your face still," he said chidingly, hoping it wasn't visible to anyone but Sherlock. "I don't want to bandage this crooked."
"A date?" Sally said. "Sherlock!" She reached out and walloped him on the arm, and he jumped slightly and made a face. "You do not take a date on a stakeout with you, Sherlock! You take him to the cinema, or to dinner, or maybe an art gallery or something. No crime on dates! It's a rule!"
"Mmm," Sherlock said, and checked his phone for the time. "Well, it's a bit late to catch a film, but what do you think about dinner, John?"
"I could handle dinner," he said, and pulled off his gloves.
"There's a good Chinese right down the street from my place that's open late," Sherlock said, still grinning.
"Perfect," John said, and he hoped his smile suggested exactly what he was looking forward to after dinner.
"Oh my God," Sally said. "The world is not bloody fair."
***
The Chinese had been good. The flirting had been better. Sherlock hadn't even been the tiniest bit coy about asking John back to his place, and they'd somehow ended up kissing their way up the stairs to his first floor apartment, stumbling over each others' feet in an effort to stay joined at the mouth. "You were so quick," Sherlock said breathlessly as he pushed the jacket off John's shoulders and dropped it, unceremoniously, on the floor. "I hadn't even realized he was drawing a knife."
John bit Sherlock's neck, which must have been why he remembered it so well, because if he'd been wanting to do it since he saw him on the corner this evening he'd probably wanted to do it since he saw him last night. "You were too distracted by that statue. Not terribly impressive, I thought."
"Worth a half a million pounds, though," Sherlock panted. Neither of them had properly been looking where they were going, and so Sherlock had ended up pinned to a desk on one side of the room, one hand in John's hair, the other grabbing his arse fairly desperately.
John insinuated a leg between Sherlock's, and rocked his hip against the firm length of his cock through his trousers. "That was brilliant. The whole night." Sherlock's eyes had shuddered closed, and he was gasping as John pressed into him. "I've never done anything like that before."
"Really?" Sherlock said, giving him a seductive look from under his eyelashes as he pushed back. "Because it rather seems like your style, Captain."
Christ. No one had ever tried to turn John's title sexy before, which struck him now as a terrible lack. He rubbed his thumbs against the skin just above Sherlock's waistband, where his shirt had come untucked in their tangle. "I assume there's a bedroom in this place? Because I think the best way I could show you my style involves you being horizontal."
The face Sherlock made at that seemed vaguely displeased, and John would have backed off except that it was coupled with the hand on his arse pulling him closer. "I don't think there are sheets on the spare bed. And mine is--well, the less said, the better. Will the couch do?"
John spent a moment looking around the room, which was a disaster of half-unpacked boxes and chaotic unmatched furniture. Sherlock used this as an opportunity to unfasten John's trousers and steer him towards the ugly green couch. "You're not the most organized housekeeper in the world, are you?"
"I'm told I'm miserable at it," Sherlock said as he shoved his hands into John's trousers and vibrated the length of those long, firm fingers down his cock. "Mostly by landlords. I may actually have set my last flat on fire, a little bit."
There was absolutely no reason John should find that arousing, so he was going to assume the spike in lust that ran up his spine was due to Sherlock's thumb pushing into the fly of his pants, and only that. "Can I please take my clothes off? Because I don't particularly want to have to take the tube home with evidence all over me."
Sherlock released John and threw himself backward onto the couch. "Ugh, if you insist. Propriety is tedious. As is talking about leaving before we've gotten started. I'd have thought you had manners." Despite the carping, he watched appreciatively as John slid his trousers off and then started on the buttons of his shirt.
"Trust me," John said, dropping his shirt on the floor and pulling off his t-shirt. (He'll realize, hours from now, that he didn't even think about showing his scar to someone other than a medical professional for the first time. He will think this while Sherlock is inquiring whether he knows which brand of sutures were used in its stitching, because there are a few idiosyncrasies that he believed might be useful for future reference.) "I have no intention of leaving any time soon. But I do have to go home eventually. You could get undressed too, you know."
Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt, but then his eyes went wide and he sat straight up. "Oh! John, that's exactly it. You should move in."
Three hours ago, John might have freaked out at this, but the time spent in Sherlock's company had prepared him for a certain level of oddity. He crawled in between Sherlock's spread legs and took over the unbuttoning. "It's a bit early for that."
"No, I don't mean it like that. Well, I do, rather, but that's not the point." He let John pull his hands out of the sleeves and flopped back to raise his hips while John undid his trousers. "It's obvious you hate your bedsit, and for good reason. I've a spare room upstairs that I didn't know what I was going to do with. Had been contemplating getting a flatmate. You can't deny it's in a wonderful location. And it does--" Here he rolled his hips for show as John pulled off his trousers, his cock an obscene and beautiful line in his black pants-- "have certain advantages."
John leaned down and breathed on that beautiful cock through the cotton, and then hooked his fingers into the waistband to pull it off as well. "Let me think about it," he said, as if his mind weren't already made up.
Sherlock pulled him up so they were face to face and wrapped his legs around him. "Tuesday is a good day to move," he said, and kissed him.
***
Text to Bill Murray: Got a new flat. Address 221B Baker Street. Same phone though, obviously. Sent 12:34 pm
Text from Bill Murray: Nice location. Need help moving? Sent 3:49 pm
Text to Bill Murray: Thanks, I think I've got it covered. Still owe you that drink. Sent 4:47 pm.
Text from Bill Murray: Had any luck since then? Sent 4:50 pm.
Text to Bill Murray: It's a long story. Have to go, think my flatmate just learned why you put a shirt on when you've got boiling oil around. Sent 4:55 pm.
Text from Bill Murray: ????? Sent 4:56 pm.
Text to Bill Murray: Like I said, long story. Sent 5:05 pm.