Chapter Text
If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes the first time he and John Watson met, he would confidently be able to tell you Lab room 2, St Bart's Hospital, London, 29th of January 2010 at 11:47 in the morning.
If you were to ask John Watson the same question, he would panic briefly, pausing for thought, before remembering that he was still in the timeline where they met at St. Barts, and tell you exactly that.
In reality, they first met at a club in Soho, 25th April 2003.
~
The dance floor was crowded with bodies, a tangle of limbs and movement as the music pulsed around them, the melody barely discernable over the chaos. Some had arrived in packs, including a group of women clearly on a hen-do, whereas others arrived in couples, who danced so close to one another that the expression 'glued by the hip' would be an understatement. Some had arrived alone, but found themselves a fellow loner, or maybe even two, to dance with. John Watson did come with a friend, another doctor, but was since left alone to drown his bitterness and loneliness in whiskey, sat at the bar while his friend was at the flat of a girl he'd managed to pull. He wondered if it was even worth staying much longer or if he should just go home and maybe watch some crap telly before falling asleep. Travelling back in time to make the choice not to come was pointless - staying at home wouldn't have been any more interesting.
Just as he was about to leave, out of the corner of his eye he saw a man freeing himself from the dancing crowd and making his way over to the bar, sighing in relief as he took his seat next to John. He was breathless and flushed, his otherwise-pale skin gleaming in the pink and purple and blue lights with sweat and his dark curls were stuck to his forehead. But he was grinning, pale eyes gleaming as his breathing steadied.
John was fairly sure that this was the most beautiful man he'd ever seen in his life, and the sign from the universe he needed to stay in the club. He leaned across so that the man could hear him properly, then spoke, half yelling:
“What was a guy handsome as you doing dancing alone?” John asked, displaying his most charming, most 'I'm harmless, come talk to me' smile. He knew it was incredibly cheesy, possibly the least original pick-up line out there, but one benefit of time travel was that the option to undo mistakes made him incredibly confident, bordering on hubris, when using pick-up lines on people. Particularly very beautiful people.
The man smiled, his flushed face becoming pinker, which delighted John no end. "I'm celebrating," he replied, his voice a low rumble with a clear public-school diction. He was clearly out of John's league, something untouchable whose legs, crossed elegantly, went on for miles. "Three months clean."
"Oh, wow." John raised his eyebrows in surprise, but his smile persisted. "Congratulations. I don't suppose I could join you in your celebrations?"
"By all means." Sherlock gestured near him, and John shuffled closer.
"I'm John Watson, by the way." He offered his hand out to the man for him to shake, which he willingly accepted, his (full, pink) lips curled upwards into a smile as his considerably larger hand enveloped his.
"Sherlock Holmes." Lord, his name was as posh and exotic as the man himself.
John's smile grew. "So. Three months. That must have been difficult."
"You don't know that. You don't even know what I am clean from," Sherlock pointed out, an eyebrow raised coolly.
"I don't need to. That's your business. Any kind of addiction is difficult to move away from."
"Cocaine."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm three months clean of cocaine." The man shrugged. "I don't care who knows. The fact is I no longer need it. I believe I have a right to boast about it in front of strangers."
John chuckled, his determination to stay and talk to this man unshaken. "That, you do. So, in celebration, may I buy you a drink?"
"Just water, please. Can't stand alcohol. Vile stuff."
John tried his luck as he gave a snort. "Seems rather ironic."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you don't like alcohol, and yet - y'know."
"And yet I would willingly inject myself with a considerably more dangerous substance?" Sherlock finished for him, seemingly unbothered, though his voice took up a defensive edge to it. "You do realise that there are ten times more alcohol-related deaths per year than cocaine?"
"Yeah, because so few people are actually stupid enough to do cocaine."
This was apparently where Sherlock drew the line. His face at first contorted into a sad frown, then as he seemed to recollect himself, he scowled, something that made ice-cold regret land heavily in the pit of John's stomach.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "
"I'd best get back out there," Sherlock muttered, then abandoned his seat to join the other dancers, and he was soon lost to the crowd.
Step 1: Realise you’ve buggered everything up, and decide that this buggering up is worth fixing.
Great job, Watson, he thought bitterly to himself as he chugged back the last of his drink. Of course he wanted to fix this. Why would he give up on a chance with the strangest, most beautiful man he’d ever met over a simple matter such as a conversation got wrong
Step 2: Find a dark, enclosed room. Any wardrobe or supply closet will do.
Luckily, there was a supply closet nearby, marked by a ‘staff-only door’ and thankfully free of any couples who may have wanted to use the space for less important purposes.
Step 3: Clench your fists, close your eyes, and think back to the time you want to go back to. Maybe arrive a good few minutes before, giving you plenty of time to prepare
He thought back to sitting on his stool, feeling miserable and sorry for himself, before Sherlock Holmes approached him, before he opened his mouth and drew John into the most interesting conversation of his life.
~
John came out of the supply closet and took his seat. He decided not to drink that last whiskey - the last time it had made him blunt and unthinking, which he absolutely did not need. Then Sherlock took his seat. To John’s relief, after that everything was consistent; Sherlock's dishevelled appearance, the low swoop in John's stomach as his eyes were drawn to Sherlock like a magnet, the proud flush when John used his pick up line (the same one he had used before. If it ain't broke, et cetera, et cetera...)
"So, in celebration, may I buy you a drink?"
"Just water, please. Can't stand alcohol. Vile stuff."
This time, he said, "Oh, I agree. Terrible habit, drinking." John paired this with a well-timed swig of his own drink which made Sherlock laugh (John smiled in turn, is heart skipping in triumph at getting to hear this man laugh.)
"Well, I suppose you should know, Doctor," Sherlock purred, and John couldn't tell if he was more surprised and slightly worried that this stranger knew that about him, or if he was more aroused at the way Sherlock spoke his title, his mouth shaping around the word as though savouring it.
"How - how did you - "
"Your reaction when I told you about my old addiction says you've had medical training, or at least trained to be objective when dealing with medical issues - and the ink on your hand says you do a lot of writing - probably for prescriptions."
"I could be a therapist."
"You seem like a smart man. Being a therapist would be a waste of your intellect."
John unintentionally gave a bark of laughter. "I'm sorry. Me? Smart? This coming from you, the guy who figured out what my job was just from looking at me?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Intelligence is measured in many different ways."
"And how would you measure mine?"
"I'm tolerating your company rather a lot. Either you're more intelligent than most people, whose company I abhor, or the dancing must have affected my judgement rather a lot."
John hummed in thought. "Let's hope it's the former one then."
"Indeed."
John ordered Sherlock's drink, then asked. "So can you do that with everyone?"
"What?"
"Knowing what their jobs are."
"Oh, I can do much more than that," Sherlock replied confidently. "The state of someone's marriage, for example. The addictions they've been hiding from their family. How many siblings they have. Affairs, scandals, crimes. It's surprising how common these people are. People who hide things."
Sharp fear poked at him slightly as he wondered if Sherlock could possibly know about his gift (and John’s father had been adamant that no one should ever, ever, ever find out about the gift. Ever. The Watson men had been keeping this secret for generations, and the last thing they needed was to get experimented on by some crackhead government officials or to be dishing out favours every day, as he had put it). He covered this up with a flirtatious smile, his eyes roaming up and down Sherlock’s body. “So what secrets am I hiding from you?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but then smiled when he settled on a conclusion; "You are delightfully ordinary and scandal-free. Openly bisexual. One younger sibling. Working in a hospital, though you're thinking of training to become an army doctor. And since your friend abandoned you for a girl who almost definitely has a mild STI, you are in very much need of some company."
"Well, since you're offering - wait, what's that about the STI?"
"It's fine. Your friend is a doctor too, isn't he? He'll use the necessary amount of protection. At least I'd hope so. Otherwise, I'd be very concerned about the state of the NHS."
"You and me both.” John shook the thought out of his head. Back to flirting. “So, what was that about company?"
"Ah yes. Well, we can stay here drinking. Or we can go up and dance, but you almost definitely lack any kind of coordination - "
"Oi!"
"- Or we can go out and have dinner."
John blinked in surprise. Apparently, it only took one travel back in time to fix the conversation completely and make Sherlock want to have dinner. Sherlock, who was far beyond his league. He smiled."Dinner?"
"Yes, Dinner. A nice little spot around the corner. Italian. A lot quieter and we can talk to each other without shouting." Sherlock explained in a nervous rush, something which John found too endearing to say no to.
"That's always a bonus. Alright.” John stood up, grabbing his coat. “Let's go and get dinner."
~
They arrived at Angelos, having walked there from the club. When they came inside, Sherlock greeted one of the staff there personally (Billy, he said his name was) before they sat down. It was true, the restaurant was a lot quieter, with clearer lighting that didn’t flash and move around the room, which overall suddenly made the whole thing more...intimate. Like whatever veil existed in the club, that gave John his confidence and Sherlock his mysterious, ethereal demeanour was suddenly gone, leaving them both exposed to the other’s sight.
John didn’t mind so much because now he could see Sherlock for who he was. A man, skinny from a history of drug abuse, barely out of university, it looked like, and - holy shit - wearing eyeliner, smudged by sweat from his dancing. Undoubtedly, reassuringly, pleasantly human.
Sherlock smirked at John’s staring from behind his menu. “Anything here that interests you?”
Just you. “Uh - well, I can’t say I’m particularly hungry for a big meal. Maybe just that prawn dish thing there?”
“Mmh. Good choice.”
“So you come here often then?”
Sherlock opened his mouth, possibly to answer, probably to point out the cliche nature of what John just said, but was interrupted as a man with long hair tied in a ponytail and a beard came out of the kitchens.
“Sherlock! Good to see you.” He shook his hand, which Sherlock returned. “Anything you want, on the house. Free, for you and for your date.”
Sherlock turned back to John. “John, this is Angelo. My...an old colleague of mine.”
“Colleague,” Angelo chuckled. Please don’t be an ex-boyfriend. “This man got me off a murder charge last year.”
“By proving that he was robbing houses at the same time as the murder took place.”
“Could’a gone to prison if it weren’t for him.”
“He did go to prison,” Sherlock said drily, which John snickered at slightly, still staring in amazement at Sherlock. “Just got out then?”
“Yup. Just waiter-ing here at the moment - it’s my dad’s business, you see. He’s the only one who seems to be willing to hire someone with a criminal record.” Angelo said lightly. “Anyway, what is it you fellas will be ordering?”
Angelo scribbled down their orders before leaving John and Sherlock alone. John spoke first. “So. What is it you do exactly for a living? Lawyer? Detective?”
“‘Lawyer’,” Sherlock repeated with a scoff. “No. I don’t have a name for what I do yet, but essentially I’m a detective.”
“Essentially? What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t work for the police. I help them out on the occasion they need it - which is almost always - and I also take private clients on occasion in exchange for money. Angelo Senior was one of them.”
“Right. Wow.” John stared in awe at Sherlock. “That’s pretty amazing. So that’s why you can do the whole reading people thing.”
“Deductions. Yes.”
“It probably makes dating pretty easy too. You can tell who’s a weirdo and who isn’t, on sight.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done dating before.”
John’s mouth fell open slightly, incredulous. “Come on. Seriously? A guy like you?”
“Many have found my personality to be abrasive,” Sherlock shrugged.
“So you don’t..?”
“Don’t what?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Sherlock did. He absolutely did. He was smirking mischievously, knowing full well what John was tiptoeing around.
“Have girlfriends. Or boyfriends.”
“Girlfriends aren’t exactly my area. I don’t think I’ve technically had a boyfriend before, unless a fellow student who gives you blowjobs in exchange for tutoring them counts?”
John blushed and cleared his throat. “No. That doesn’t count.”
“Yes, I thought so,” Sherlock said this as though John had just confirmed a minor rule detail on Monopoly, not as though they just talked about blowjobs. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ever the British man, John Watson.”
“Excuse me for wanting to have an appropriate conversation in public.”
“Well, what would you have us talk about instead?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Politics? The weather?”
“Why don’t we start with you, instead. You seem to know everything about me.”
“Hardly everything. You’re not an entirely open book you know.”
“Thank god,” John grinned, only half-joking. “So. How old are you?”
“25. You’re a little older than me, aren’t you?”
“I’m 29, so yeah. Did you go to uni?”
“Yes. Cambridge, studying chemistry.” Of course. “You studied medicine in…” Sherlock’s blue-green eyes darted across his face. “London?”
“Yes, exactly. Any siblings?”
“One pain in the arse older brother.”
“Ah. I have a pain in the arse younger sister,” he chuckled. “She’s a playwright.”
“Written any good ones?”
He pressed his lips together, contemplative. “The first ones were successful. Good reviews, got in quite a bit of cash. She’s been a bit down on her luck lately, mostly living off her wife’s salary.” John brightened up a bit. “But she actually has a show open now. Critics are there, so hopefully, if she gets a good review, everything will turn around.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
John exhaled. “It’s back to square one. Drinking every morning while she sits struggling at her typewriter, with a temper that could scare the Queen.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Who the hell has a typewriter nowadays?”
“My sister apparently. She says it inspires her. I think it’s just her splashing out spare cash on unnecessary shit.”
Sherlock shrugged. “Understandable. My brother tends to buy unnecessary things too. Umbrellas. Three-piece suits that all look the same.” Sherlock pulled a face in disdain. “The difference is he isn’t a struggling playwright and can actually afford all those things.”
“Right. Though that’s a bit hypocritical of you, Mr Dolce and Gabbana shirt.” John nodded at the purple shirt straining across Sherlock’s chest. (John wanted to send roses to whoever designed that shirt)
“It’s Westwood,” Sherlock protested haughtily, which made John laugh.
“Wrong thing to be focusing on, but sure. Relax. You suit it.”
Sherlock smiled. “Good. I was rather hoping it did when I bought it.”
“You’re a bit cocky, aren’t you?”
Sherlock’s smile fell for the second time that evening, but he nodded, feigning carelessness. (John in equal parts wanted to pull him in for a hug and punch anyone who dared to insult Sherlock before then. Including himself, as a result of his first fuck up, but such is the way life is when you have experienced a million scenarios with a million embarrassing mistakes.) “You can probably see why I don’t date, can’t you?”
John shook his head, honestly, reassuringly. “Actually, I can’t.”
~
Many hours later, long after the food was cleared away, they were still sitting and chatting without pause, sipping on their drinks (water for both. John needed to sober up after drinking the same glass of whiskey twice), the restaurant kept open just for those two. John could only assume that it was out of the favour Angelo owed Sherlock they were allowed to stay there for so long. Even so, John didn’t want to push his luck. As he was laughing at another one of Sherlock’s anecdotes (a failed chemistry experiment from when he was ten), he made a show of looking at his watch and widening his eyes.
“Christ, it’s late. I have work tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Sherlock seemed as disappointed as John. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Where are you heading? We could share a cab. If there are any.”
“It’s just a fifteen-minute walk from here.”
“Oh, that’s good. I’ll walk you home, then?”
Sherlock agreed. John got his coat, discreetly leaving a ten-pound note as a tip to make up for their inconvenience, and walked out of the restaurant with Sherlock in front of him, leading the way.
Sure enough, there weren’t any cabs passing them. The streets were pretty much silent, with the exception of some distant cars and sirens, and Sherlock and John’s own voices, pitched low to save neighbours from disturbances as their giggles came out like whispers.
They came up to the door outside Sherlock’s flat, and they just stood there, Sherlock not moving to unlock the door, and John hovering.
“Well. I really enjoyed spending time with you,” John spoke eventually.
“Me too,” Sherlock smiled.
“I was wondering if I could get your numb - “
“Would you like to come up?” Sherlock asked at the same time, before they both paused, both equally surprised and giddy.
“Oh, yes. My number. I can - “
“How about we save that until later.”
“Later. Yes,” Sherlock said breathlessly, as flushed as he was when they first met as he opened the door to his apartment. “Wait, what about your work tomorrow?”
“Fuck work,” John murmured, as he crowded Sherlock against the wall, closing the door behind him. "I was planning on calling in sick anyway."
~
The next morning John woke to the sound of his phone ringing, the weight of Sherlock’s arm thrown across his stomach. He groaned as he reached blindly for the floor, trying to find his trousers where he kept his phone. He found it soon enough and answered it. “Hello?” He croaked.
“Johnny!” John immediately sat up at the sound of his sister’s voice, which was hysterical and hoarse, as though she had been crying. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been sleeping. You okay?”
“No. Have you seen the paper this morning? They’ve published reviews already.”
“Oh god. What did they say?”
Harry sobbed. “They came on a bad day. Mark forgot his lines. You know how stubborn he was in rehearsal, how he kept saying shit like ‘I’m the experienced actor among us, you just focus on your own lines before worrying about mine’. Like doing soap operas gives him any more credibility.”
“Arsehole.”
“I know! And normally I let it slide because he did remember his lines, despite turning up to half the rehearsals. But nooooo, today he had to fucking forget! There were ten minutes of complete silence. Ten minutes!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry.”
“And the props were in the wrong place. We had to have a stage fight with pens. Pens!”
“But they liked the writing, right?”
“Nope. The audience was so focused on the cock-ups they couldn’t care less about the semantic field of water running throughout the play, or the subtext on discrimination against immigrants, or even the twist at the end that the main character’s best friend was actually a ghost all along.”
“But you worked so hard on that part!”
“I know,” Harry sniffed. “Back to the drawing boards, I guess. There’ll probably be five, six more performances. Fuck, what am I going to do? I can’t live off my wife’s money my whole life. Shit, we’ll have to sell the house, won’t we?”
“Harry, no, stop. I’ll fix this.”
“How? What are you going to do, bribe the critics into being nice? Offer them a handjob to undo the damage? It’s too late. The bloody Times were there. I’m ruined.”
“Sssh, it’s fine. Just...sit tight, okay?”
“Okay. I have to go. Clara’s come back from the shop with ice cream. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Harry hung up and John put down his phone, sighing while a plan was already forming in his head. He turned to Sherlock next to him, who was wide awake as he lay facing John, his hair wild and fluffy against the pillow.
“Who was that?” He asked softly.
“My sister. The critics - well, she’s upset about what they said. I have to - she’ll need me with her.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Harry would want John there. Just because he wasn’t technically going to be with her in that moment, it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
Sherlock looked disappointed, but he gave an encouraging smile. “Go.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to just - and after last night - “
“Relax, I gave you my phone number shortly before you fell asleep. It’s not like we won’t see each other again, or it was just a one night stand.”
John smiled and leaned over to kiss Sherlock gratefully, which he eagerly accepted. Sherlock was right, they will see each other again. It’s just that only John would be aware that this would be a do-over of their first meeting. He didn’t mind too much: as long as he could get back from the theatre in time to meet Sherlock at the club, chat him up again, take him to dinner, and have another round of spectacular sex, everything would be back on track. He pulled away before he could become too distracted and started gathering up his clothes. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“See you soon.” As John left to use the bathroom, he saw out of the corner of his eye Sherlock settle back down to sleep, his eyeliner smudged around his eyes. His heart melted a little at the sight.
Once dressed and clean and prepared with a plan, he went home, climbed into his wardrobe, and cast himself back to yesterday evening, a couple of hours before the play would have started.
~
John managed to sneak into the backstage area (and by sneak in, he actually played the ‘brother of the playwright card’ so he could walk in backstage with the guard’s willing permission), making his way down corridors until he found the dressing room with Mark’s name on it. He knocked on the door.
“Come in,” an impatient voice demanded from within, which John obeyed. When he entered, the actor in question was sat at his dressing room table, spiking his hair up with gel into a style he seemed at least ten years too old for.
“Excuse me, sorry. I know you’re very busy with preparation - “
“Yes, I am, what is it?” John pressed his lips together, deciding to power through and ignore the man’s temper.
“I was wondering if you’d looked at your script lately?”
“Script? Pah!” Mark gave a short burst of laughter, like a gunshot. “I’m a professional actor. I don’t need to look at my script.”
“I know, I know. But there are some rather long monologues in there, and there are critics in the audience, so I thought you’d want to be on the safe side - “
“Bugger off. I know my lines plenty. Go harass Cassandra if you want to bother someone who doesn’t know their lines.”
“Right. Sorry.”
John closed the door slightly, but left it ajar enough to hear the rustle of paper and a muttered: “oh, that’s when I come in”. He gave a satisfied grin before going off to look for the props department. It turned out that the person in charge of the swords was at home in bed with the stomach flu, so John took it upon himself to move them just before the play started.
He stayed backstage as he made sure that the play went exactly as it was supposed to, referring only to his dim memory of the dress rehearsals he was invited to. So far, everything was going well.
And then it got to Mark’s monologue.
John waited with baited breath as Mark started speaking. Sure enough, he said his line perfectly, without so much as an awkward pause or a stutter or a filler. Still, John didn’t release his breath until he said the very last word with a final flourish, a fake tear rolling down his cheek as the audience watched on in silent awe and empathy for the character.
But then came Cassandra.
She was suddenly silent. Pacing the stage in an attempt to seem like she was in control of the situation for far longer than John could remember in the rehearsals. Quickly grabbing a bit of cardboard next to him and the pen from an earlier scene, he scribbled down a few keywords he remembered her saying in her speech: butterfly, bend, sprinkle, tomato, easy, river. He didn’t even know what the speech was actually about, but somehow it encouraged Cassandra, as she launched into her own monologue.
When the play finished, John breathed a sigh of relief as the cheers flooded the theatre and all the actors bowed on the stage. He escaped quickly into the foyer, walking past the audience members who were still wiping away tears and the critics, who stood in a circle murmuring praise for the subtle semantic fields and subtexts and ‘quality of the prose’. But there wasn’t time for John to celebrate.
Running outside, he caught the first taxi, spurting out the name and address of the club. Unfortunately, in his plan to arrange a third-first meeting with Sherlock, he didn’t take into account little things like traffic, or being stuck with the oldest, slowest, most cautious taxi driver in the history of taxi drivers. By the time the cab pulled up, John was already pulling out noted from his wallets, chucking enough to pay for the ride up and with change he didn’t stop to collect. He ran out, and joined the back of the queue (he may have been in a rush, but damn it, he was British, and would always respect the queue system.)
When he finally, finally entered the club, the crowd of dancers were still there. He wove his way through, trying to look for a tall, lean body, for a dark curl at the nape of a neck, for muscles straining under a purple shirt, but he could find none of these, no sign of Sherlock being there at all.
He finally approached the bartender. “I’m looking for a friend. Sherlock Holmes. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, cheekbones, eyeliner. You seen him?”
The bartender nodded. “Yeah, he was here earlier. Left with someone a few minutes ago, though.”
“Who?”
The bartender shrugged. “Some guy, about his age. Probably went home with him, I’d say. Sorry, mate.”
John’s plan absolutely did not account for anyone else taking interest in Sherlock, or him taking interest back. He sat down, half collapsed with exhaustion and frustration, onto the stool. “One whiskey, please.”
When he checked his phone, Sherlock’s number was gone, along with any hope of finding him again.