Chapter Text
A body was found chained to the bottom of the Thames over two months after the death and only my research – prompted by the husband stumbling into 221B three days ago- had made it possible to retain it. Now, said husband had become the main suspect, spouses always are, until the Metropolitan Police start listening to me, and as they are idiots, they only do that when I present the proof on a silver plate, make it obvious even to the smallest of minds.
So, for the past half an hour, I’ve been looking at a piece of cloth taken from her blouse, to prove her last hours had been spent at her office. With her boss.
As much as I was typically able to focus on my work and shut out what went on around me, I could not fail to notice John approaching. He likes being around as I work, making tea, reading the newspaper, and has become adept at being quiet enough so I won’t yell at him to stop breathing. Over the years, he has evolved into becoming background noise, just as the traffic of London or the patter of rain, something that I miss when it isn’t there. It’s good to have John around when I need to shut out the world, I never feel unsafe when he is there and readily able to react to any outside threats. Also, I do happen to like John, which he is very aware of and constantly serves as his main argument when I do shout at him to leave.
As it is, John isn’t doing much at the moment, just standing there and staring at me, as he dries off his damp hands on his jeans - thank god he doesn’t care for fashion, it would be grave bodily harm to any kind of suit trouser to be misused as a towel.
He stops in his steps where the hallway opens up to the kitchen and I hold myself back from looking up at him. I know he’s wearing that blue jumper and checked button-down shirt underneath, looking all unassuming and middle-aged. I still suspect a trick behind that, that somehow he will reveal himself to be the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Taking a breath, I refocus on adjusting my microscope.
The silk turns into threads and the spot on it into particles as I zoom in, revealing the beauty of the small – another metaphor that can be transferred to John, even though he would call me a git for it- I should lose myself in my work, instead I find myself glancing up just a minute later, John now standing by the open fridge trying to figure out what in it is edible. He does so by resting an arm at the door, just an inch above his head, skimming the shelves one by one and pulling a few of the plastic containers out, peaking in. Even I, observant as I am, have not figured out yet which criteria he uses for that as there is no particular pattern to what he does. It fascinates me endlessly to watch him.
He apparently has come to a conclusion, he sets three containers down on the kitchen counter before closing the fridge again. I can follow his every movement, as he prepares his meal, his back is turned to me and I fight an urge to get up and wrap myself around him, nose pressed to the spot behind his ear. He would smile, and I would only be able to feel those minute muscles move. He is beautiful like that, smiling that little smile.
It should be scary, knowing how easily I would abandon The Work for him, just to get our bodies in contact.
John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve.
He is also the thing that keeps me connected to the real world. There are times, when my need for stimulation and the lack of stimuli threatens to drive me insane, something I have never been good at dealing with. Since meeting my John, I have never had a lack of things to fascinate me, and if I fall into that pit he is there to take me on a walk, or hold me, and make me tea that I won’t drink. He does that, without it being a burden to him or dampening his smile.
My John is magnificent, and I notice that most in those moments of quiet, when he makes dinner in our kitchen in practiced moves. He’d never know. Maybe, I will tell him someday. He’d think it romantic, and there is surely going to be a moment where I annoy him and have to make up for it.
I have to cut the thought short as he is about to turn, and I don’t want to be caught staring. Before we started dating I often used to watch him, pretending to look at something under my microscope, blind to the affection he already had for me then, and would wonder what the top of his head would smell like, among other, less innocent thoughts. I remember that with a smile, which I hope he misses, thinking that I have eyes for nothing but the case right now.
I wonder, if he sometimes feels alone in moments like this, when I am physically there but my mind is occupied with murder, or if he sees this as a break from who must be the world’s most demanding boyfriend and that leaves my mind so distracted I can’t seem to retain my focus.
“It’s a bit mean.” John says, and a person less trained at hiding their reactions might have jumped at how suddenly he speaks. Instead, I can redirect that surprise into a seemingly uninterested hum. He is behind me, having moved without my notice and I close my eyes when he presses three quick kisses to the nape of my neck. “How you look so beautiful in moments where me getting all hot and bothered over you is completely inappropriate.”
“We have been in less appropriate situations, John.” I say, changing the slides unnecessarily.
I hear the tiny step forward, as he presses his chest fully against my back, arms adjusting to lay on my hips where they bend on the stool and the buttons of his shirt tangible through his jumper and my shirt, as he nuzzles at my neck, lips wet from when he has kissed them prior.
He smells of the lavender hand soap and the new laundry detergent he bought a few days ago, he’s warm and it is an instinct to melt against him. I hold back, closing my eyes for a moment, before my focus returns to the particles under my microscope. They look familiar, and I adjust the slide with my right hand.
“True. Still, I’m keeping you from your work.” He noticed, then, and suddenly I no longer wish to spend an afternoon looking at a piece of cloth. How clever he is, my John.
“I’ll have to pick up a few things at Tesco’s anyway.” A lie, he went there this morning, and his shopping lists are always on point. He is giving me space to work, taking away any distraction and his consideration fills me with so much love for my John, the man whom I have made believe that I was dead for two years, leading him into the arms of a woman who broke his heart further by letting him believe her daughter was his for too long. Still, he is so kind to me, so loving, and I want to drop to my knees and ask him to marry me right now. The thought is surprising, but I can’t find it in me to regret it. I will have to revisit it in future when I am not surrounded by his smell and warmth.
“Bring back some ears, will you?” I say, just to hear him chuckle against my skin.
“I don’t think they have those at Tesco’s. But I’ll ask.” He kisses me one more time, before I hear him getting to the door, slipping into his shoes. The sound of his footsteps descends down the stairs and is swallowed by the London traffic, before the front door is fully shut.
I catch myself listening for a few more moments, before I finally find the focus to continue working.
It is simple in the end. The particles are tobacco ash, and the victim’s boss is the only one who smokes a pipe. Even Lestrade and his team of idiots can see the evidence in that. I text him, tell him to confiscate the pipe and let Anderson do a comparison.
Something so simple, and yet it took me almost two hours to solve it. My lovely John realising he was a distraction with his puttering around, leaving me to myself when I needed it, I haven’t deserved his understanding at all.
When John returns from the shops, I have relocated to the sofa. He comes in, footsteps only barely heavier than when he left, stops briefly at the door, then walks up to the kitchen. I can hear him putting away a few things, before the sound of chopping something from earlier continues. He left his half-finished supper to give me space, this wonderful, considerate man. I don’t move, listen to him, and think about how happy he makes me.
John sets a plate on the living room table- he still gets me to eat about forty percent of what he makes, then lifts my legs up and rearranges them and starts eating. I haven’t moved yet, and he must think I am still busy with the case. It’s mean to keep on pretending that I am, but the thought of marriage still has a hold on me. When it comes to John, I am not a man of quick decisions, my confidence when it comes to relationships is nil and I don’t want to scare him away by wanting too much, too soon.
There is so much knowledge I have to acquire first, research to be done, and I can’t wait for John to go to work tomorrow so I can start.
I wait for the sound of his plate against the desk, before I sit up and flop down again, face pressed into his lap. He smells of the cold air outside, still, of the food he had and of John-ness, which is my favourite. He makes one of those small sounds that is partly surprise and laughter, then his hand in my hair.
“Case solved, then, darling?”
I nod. “Ash.” I say, and he accepts that nothing follows that, just switches on the TV after a while.