All is Fair in Love and War

Subterfuge

JOHN WATSON

The cab ride to the Whitehall district was nothing if not uncomfortable. Sherlock maintained a silence that, while perhaps not characterizable as stony, was unquestionably one that forbade interruption. The detective’s silhouette framed in the window, John could see with his peripheral vision that Sherlock had forgone his usual practice of watching the London cityscape blur past, but rather had his gaze fixed on the cabbie’s headrest in front of him. John was also staring straight ahead, though he suspected Sherlock was not having to exercise so much restraint to keep himself from turning to look at the cab's other passenger.

When they arrived at the expensive flat, Sherlock paused momentarily to check that his disguise remained immaculate, which, of course, it was. John moved to climb out behind him, but Sherlock held up his hand.

"You never know who might be watching," he said, holding his cell phone to his mouth as though addressing someone on the other line. "Take the cab around the block, then get out and wait at the café across the street. If I need you, I'll send a text."

He shut the door in the doctor's face and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Sir?" the cabbie asked, turning slightly in his chair.

John sighed, aggravated, and said, "Around the block once, and then pull up by that café."

The driver nodded and started the engine. "I know it's none of my business," he said, "but that's kinda sketchy-like. You folks with the police or something?"

"You could say that," John replied, watching Sherlock in the cab's side-view mirror. Mrs. Larkin had by this time met him on the doorstep, sweeping him into an embrace. Sherlock bent over and kissed her soundly; as the cab pulled away from the curb, she ushered Sherlock inside, probably chattering about her day and what she was fixing for dinner.

John glowered, sinking angrily into the black pleather seat. Sherlock hadn't needed to kiss him - how hard was it to just press your lips up to someone else's? Apparently, the high-functioning sociopath found it difficult - or had he just been saying that? It would be so like Sherlock to humiliate him for his own amusement. John scoffed to himself. Well, if that had been his intent, the doctor had seen to it that it flashed in the pan. He'd definitely one-uped the detective when he snogged him. Indeed, Sherlock's moment of astonishment was the silver lining on an otherwise dismal rain cloud.

The cab, having completed its circuit around the block, came to a stop outside the small coffee shop. John thanked the driver, tucking into his wallet (again) to pay for the combined fare. He ducked under the red and white striped awning, ordered a cup of English Breakfast from the bored-looking girl at the counter, and sat at a booth next to the window where he could watch the flat where even now Sherlock was presumably doing his thing.

John rubbed his forehead, nodding to the girl when she set the cup and saucer next to his elbow. Sipping the strong tea, the doctor peered over the cup's rim. Across the street, a shadow passed in front of a window; was that Sherlock?

Holding the warm cup between his fingers, John frowned. It shouldn't have been such an issue, kissing the bloody detective. He'd kissed Mike Stamford once, when they were both totally smashed. Nearly everyone had a story like that - at least one. Granted, both he and Sherlock had been sober, but it was for a case. The problem, John decided, was that he had enjoyed it. The doctor grimaced and swirled his tea.

He could be objective about this. Taking a deep breath, John gave himself a moment to sort out his jumbled feelings. Five minutes later, he hung his head in despair, feeling just as confused as he had before.

Fact: Sherlock was attractive.

Everyone knew that. Even Lestrade had commented on it once. Women could tell each other when they looked good, so there was definitely nothing inherently bent about John recognizing the fact that his flat mate was unsettlingly good-looking.