Chapter Text
Part I
Even though he knew she wouldn’t care, likely wouldn’t even notice, John still took the time to run his fingers through his hair and straighten his jacket a bit before knocking on the door. There was no sound from inside the flat and John checked his watch again. 10:00. Maybe it was too early but John just wanted to get this over with. He knocked again.
He waited, forcing himself to stay still and almost knocked a third time when the door opened just enough for Mrs. Dobson to look him over roughly. He didn’t bother smiling at her for Mrs. Dobson was not that kind of landlady. She wasn’t the sweet old woman who didn’t mind that rent was 5 days late and who would tut and make him sit down and drink tea. She wouldn’t flinch when she saw his black eye and ask how it happened or, even worse, ask if he was okay. Instead she just scowled at him and opened the door all the way.
“Fucking Watson,” was all she said as she went over and grabbed the crusty, old notebook she used for “bookkeeping.” “You know he’s six days late, right?”
“Five,” John corrected. His own voice sounded exhausted and hollow. Given that he hadn’t slept the night before, he couldn’t be surprised by that. He fished the envelope of money out of his inside pocket, wincing a little at the movement and fighting not to jerk back as she snatched it out of his hand. He had to stop flinching when people came toward him. Wasn’t proper.
“Counting today.”
John wanted to open his mouth and ask why on earth they would count the actual day that he was paying but he doubted the argument of a 16 year old boy was really going to have an effect on this lady. She would insist that his father could come down here himself and argue and the last thing John Watson needed was his father knowing that he had somehow made enough money to pay the rent. Better to just let him assume he had somehow paid while blacked out.
“Fine,” he said, clenching his jaw and digging around his back pocket for another 10 pound note. Dobson’s daily late fee. It wasn’t much unless it was all you had. “Fine. Here.”
He stood stiffly as she counted the money. At least she was quick about it.
“All here,” she announced after a moment, seeming disappointed. And then her eyes did catch on the bruise spreading across his cheekbone and she smiled. “Still haven’t learned to mind your betters?”
John was too tired to respond to that so he just nodded and walked out of the flat, feeling a pang of relief that that was all she said. That that was all she’d ever say. So much easier to deal with than questions.
John walked the four flights of steps up to his flat and then went to unlock the door before realizing that it was already a bit ajar. Any other person who lived in this part of town would be worried about having been robbed but John knew that his father’s temper was well-known enough to keep any potential thieves away. Besides, they didn’t have anything worth stealing by this point.
Still, he pushed the door open slowly and then locked it behind him quietly, wincing at the noise. He didn’t want his father waking up, probably with a blinding hangover and demanding to know where he had been all night. He just needed to get in, get in the shower, and stand there until he felt some semblance of clean again. Then he could do the rest. Then he could pick up after his father and check where Harry was and try to sleep and see if he could stretch his last few quid into something resembling a meal. Maybe he’d even try to get his dad to show up for his job. Despite everything, he huffed a little laugh at that. It’d been three weeks. There probably wasn’t any job to go to. But first, shower.
The lounge wasn’t bad so John assumed most of the drinking had gone on in the pub last night for which he was grateful. Less work for him. He skipped past doing any closer inspection and headed for the shower. As he entered the bathroom and closed the door, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Finally alone. A bit of his self-control broke and he ripped his clothes off with more force than was necessary- angry. And when his shoulder panged in protest, aching from where it had been wrenched backwards the night before, he just got angrier. At Mrs. Dobson. At his father. At himself. At M-
He stopped that line of thinking. He didn’t think about that. He eased his trousers and pants off more slowly, controlled and then stood under the freezing water. Cold water was good for sore muscles, he assured himself. Just like runners ice their legs after a workout. Determined, he squirted some shampoo into his hands and rubbed at his hair roughly. Then he did the same with his body, trying to get the stench of cigarettes and the feel of dirt off of him. He lost track of time as he stood there, scrubbing, feeling warm despite the temperature of the water. It would be okay if he could just get clean.
He stopped abruptly when he realized he was scrubbing at his tattoo, as if he could will the black mark from his skin. And, suddenly, he was cold. His arms curled around himself for warmth and he wasn’t supposed to be thinking but he felt something loosen in his chest. A startled gasp tore from his body but he wasn’t going to cry. No reason to. It’s not like this was a new thing. It had been months. Months and it didn’t matter anymore. Over six months. It didn’t matter. He was okay. He was okay. He told himself that even as tears sprung to his eyes and mixed with the shower water and he was okay, he was, he just-
Exhaustion. An oddly clinical thought pierced his brain. Up for more than 30 hours, difficulty getting control of emotions, lightheadedness, hunger. Sleep.
It was old information, an old tone of voice, back from the days when he thought he could be a doctor. Back when he thought he could help people and fix problems. Back before he realized that being a doctor took more money than he could even dream of, and you actually had to do well in school, and that giving those with a hangover plenty of fluid did not actually count as “medical experience.” He had realized years ago that that being a doctor was never going to happen. It was just moments like this, when old information gathered by watching the latest hospital drama on the telly or gained in a low level science classroom that his brain sometimes forgot. He wasn’t going to be a doctor. He was going to go to the military. If he made it that far.
Still, the information helped settled his nerves. He wasn’t spiraling out of control, he was just exhausted. He just needed sleep. He shut off the shower and got out, shivering as his body tried to warm itself. Luckily, his room was right next to the washroom. Though, admittedly it was more like a small laundry closet than a bedroom. Since they didn’t have a washer-dryer, he had space for a twin size bed and a small dresser. He threw on clothes and made a half-hearted attempt to dry his hair before giving in and lying down. He would find Harry in a bit.
Should set an alarm, he thought groggily but despite the cold and the hunger in his gut, he fell asleep before he could reach for the clock.
At least he was too exhausted for nightmares.
*^*^*^
The worst part about Mycroft going to university, Sherlock thought, not for the first time, was that his dear older brother had picked up the habit of arriving home unexpectedly. When Mycroft was living at the house full-time, Sherlock had been able to studies his habits easily enough to be able to avoid him almost entirely. Interactions between the two were brief and usually expected: Mummy’s home and we all must eat dinner together, or I can hear him eating something in the kitchen but I have to check on my experiment so might as well get it over with, or Goddammit all, it’s Christmas again.
However, once Mycroft went off to uni, it had been harder to predict his brother’s movements. While Sherlock obviously memorized the schedule available online for breaks every year and had his brother’s class schedule deduced within a week or so, Mycroft seemed to make it a habit to randomly interrupt their daily life with a visit, demanding food, kissing-up to Mummy, and smirking that horrid smirk.
This particular afternoon, on his way home from the lake where he had been working with algae samples, he had thought about turning around when he saw the tell-tale signs of Mycroft’s arrival. But he hadn’t planned for this visit and thus was similarly unprepared to spend an additional three or four hours outside. Besides, he wasn’t going to go avoiding his own house just because his elder brother was incapable of letting go of his past adolescence.
Also, because he suspected Mycroft visited purposefully to annoy him.
Nevertheless, Sherlock had entered his house confidently. Now, a mere thirty minutes later, he thought that he would have been better off hiding in the back garden or arranging his own kidnapping.
“Oh, of course, Sherlock. We are all quite aware that you know everything.”
Mycroft’s voice made Sherlock believe that thoughtless crimes of passion were possible.
The argument had started as it always did: with a “discussion” on Sherlock’s refusal to participate in traditional schooling. Of course, it actually started with their father’s death and Mycroft’s delusional belief that being the last remaining male in the house and seven years Sherlock’s senior meant that he was somehow “head” of the household. Barbaric and old-fashioned, Sherlock thought, but Mummy wasn’t nearly interested enough to put a stop to it. It was even worse when, like now, she wasn’t even there to tut and insist that Sherlock was fine.
“I do know everything,” Sherlock replied, hoping he sounded as bored with the conversation as he felt.
“I’m not talking about academics,” Mycroft said, huffing. Sherlock was just glad that at least Mycroft acknowledged Sherlock did know everything technically taught in school. Depending on Mycroft’s mood, he had been known to try to argue that point as well. “I’m talking about people.”
Sherlock sighed. They had had this conversation twice already. Both times Sherlock had walked away at this point out of sheer frustration. Seeing as this was becoming truly bothersome, he decided to put a stop to it.
“I can tell you a man’s occupation by his tie, whether or not a woman is having an affair by her tablecloths, and I know that the cafeteria, which you still insist on going to because you are convinced it is the best way to identify possible interns for the government job that I’m not supposed to know you already have, is using too much garlic in their recipes as you have taken to chewing gum frequently. I know everything I need to know about people.” Sherlock cast his brother a look. “And the gum isn’t working. I would suggest smoking.”
“Replacing one foul odor with another is not what I would call a solution,” Mycroft said, still looking infuriatingly unruffled. “And what about if they don’t have ties or tablecloths?”
Sherlock blinked. Mycroft took that as a sign to continue. “You are well-versed in one type of person, that of the upper class background that you are accustomed. However, if your goal still remains to be some kind of ‘consulting detective’-” Sherlock heard the sneer in Mycroft’s voice at those words-- “Then I would note that most crimes are committed by those less fortunate that yourself. I therefore postulate that you not only do not know everything about people, as you put it, but in fact are lacking in knowledge in areas which you will need it most.”
Sherlock felt a flood of irritation. At the tone of Mycroft’s voice, at Mycroft’s ability to stick his nose in literally everything, and, most of all, at the awful thought that flitted across his mind that Mycroft had a point.
“Oh, and I suppose pretending to be an idiot and actually taking classes with Britain’s best and brightest at Oxford will rectify the situation. The diversity there is staggering, I’m sure.” He stood up, done with this conversation and done with Mycroft.
“I go to Cambridge,” Mycroft called after him, self-satisfied. Sherlock clamped his mouth shut and didn’t stop walking.
Alone in his room, Sherlock made a point not to slam anything around, knowing Mycroft would be listening for it. Instead, he laid on his bed and clenched his hands together.
People were idiots, Sherlock knew. Even the ones who were supposed to be smart were often offensively slow-minded. They were easy to deduce, easy to embarrass, and easy to manipulate. Mycroft’s theory, that working class people were somehow beyond Sherlock’s grasp of understanding was completely unmerited.
However… Sherlock did tend to make a habit of testing unmerited theories. Obviously, Mycroft was most likely incorrect, but it should still be tested. For science.
He needed an experiment. That was good. Sherlock liked experiments.