Chapter Text
Sherlock’s phone rang on a peaceful Saturday morning and Sherlock did not yell at it.
This was unusual.
John was well acquainted to the three different ways Sherlock might react to a phone call.
(1. the aforementioned yelling (= boring case, idiot client, Lestrade in general).
2. inappropriate but rather contagious excitement (= interesting murder).
3. ignorance and subsequent complete denial that the phone call had ever taken place (= Mycroft or Mummy))
John had never seen Sherlock smile fondly at the display of his iPhone before answering.
No, this had never happened before.
Sherlock grabbed his phone, smiled idly for a second or two, slumped down onto the sofa and said, “oh, hello. Did you catch your train? – Oh, marvellous.”
He didn’t sound irritated or inconvenienced by the mere mortal who had decided to contact him. Actually, he sounded pleased.
Sherlock never sounded pleased about people who weren’t John.
John realised he was staring, so he tried to concentrate on his toast. Who was calling Sherlock about catching a train? Were they going to have a visitor? A client?
“Oh please,” Sherlock said, “it’s a miracle. Your sense of time has always been appalling. You were late to your own graduation, I believe -- I know.” There was a pause. “Yes. Obviously.”
Not a client then. Sherlock knew this person. An old friend? Did Sherlock actually have old friends?
(John did realise, of course, that there was a pretty slim chance that Sherlock had never had a friend before. The man had been to university after all. He just didn’t like to think about it. He hadn’t really met a single friend of Sherlock’s other than Lestrade over the last seven years. Did Mycroft count? No, no he didn't. (And, most importantly, John was still Sherlock’s best friend, thank you very much.))
“Two and a half hours?” Sherlock said after another long pause, “ah. And when will you be finished with your—your meeting, yes. Will you be hungry? John and I order takeaway. We always do. Well, not always, but… Hmm. I could ask Mrs Hudson—No. Alright. Do you still like Chinese? You’ve always liked Chinese. John doesn’t believe me when I say that I can predict the fortune cookies, so I could do with someone who’s on my side.”
John could practically hear Sherlock smile at the other person’s response. “Spoilsport,” he said then. “Should I pick you up from—no. No, of course. Of course you know how to—Yes. Dinner will be ready.”
So someone was going to have dinner with them, apparently. Sherlock inviting people over was not a thing that happened, and when it did, a psychopath usually peed in their fireplace and things went downhill from that point.
The person Sherlock was on the phone with didn’t really sound like a psychopath, so far.
And, what was even stranger, Sherlock sounded eager to have dinner with this someone.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. And then he actually giggled. “Mmh. Probably. I’m really looking forward to seeing you too… Mmh. Yes. Of course I’m excited. It’s been a long time and I missed you--”
John blinked. Had he—had Sherlock just said that?
“Please, I’m being completely honest,” Sherlock added emphatically. “Yes. Obviously. I’ll see you at six.”
Sherlock remained slumped on the couch for another minute before joining John at the breakfast table. He poured himself a cup of coffee, reached for John’s newspaper and made a contented sound.
“So,” John began, because explanations were in order and Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to offer any, “care to tell me who’s joining us for dinner tonight?”
Sherlock peered at him over the newspaper. “Lucinda,” he said as if it was completely obvious.
John put down his toast that was still only half-eaten. “Who?”
“My cousin. Lucinda. Second cousin. Sort of. I told you about her.”
John was sure he’d never heard that name before. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did. Yesterday afternoon, while I was dissolving the first skin samples I collected at the morgue on Thursday. I told you that I haven’t seen her in nine years and she’s coming for a visit, all the way from Paris—“
John was positive that had never heard a single word about Sherlock’s cousin from Paris in his life.
“Are you sure you said any of this out loud?”
Sherlock frowned. “Approximately eighty per cent sure,” he said slowly.
Typical.
John smirked. “I’ll put my money on the other twenty. Either that, or you told me while I was downstairs with Mrs Hudson.”
Sherlock looked genuinely startled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
Sherlock vanished behind the newspaper again.
John cleared his throat, because explanations were still not happening. “So. Your cousin.”
“Yes. Technically she’s not my cousin, she’s the step daughter of my oldest cousin, who happens to be older than my father. Lucinda and I are not properly related, as a matter of fact. I call her my cousin because it’s easier. Don’t overthink my family background, John, it’s for your own good.”
“Ah,” said John.
“Lucinda and I used to spend the summer months with my grandmother, at her mansion in Essex. Awful woman.” Sherlock reached for his coffee and eyed it. “My grandmother, that is. For some odd reason, she decided to offer her guest rooms to the two grandchildren she despised the most. Granted, Lucinda is not her granddaughter, but you get the idea. It was presumably an attempt to turn us into respectable members of her family, she was very keen on being respectable, and Lucinda and I didn’t really… fit the bill, in this regard.”
Sherlock frowned, and for a second John thought he might be remembering something. Something unpleasant, perhaps.
John didn’t know much about Sherlock’s extended family. Sherlock’s parents were lovely, and Mycroft was Mycroft, but according to bits and pieces of Holmes family history he’d picked up over the years, every single one of them was an exception to the rule.
“Lucinda and I spent a lot of time together,” Sherlock continued, “until she quit university and moved to France. She’s coming to London for the first time in years, to meet a client and to catch up with… things.”
Sherlock’s nose appeared above the newspaper. He gave John a look. “John, she’s my only relative who’s not completely insufferable. I’ve always enjoyed spending time with her. Actually, she has made several months of my life entirely… bearable, which really can’t be said about the rest of my family. She’s –“ Sherlock cut himself off and blinked exactly three times. “She’s very smart.”
That was pretty much the highest compliment Sherlock had ever paid anyone in John’s presence.
“Alright,” John said.
Sherlock hummed contentedly, as if he was at complete and utter peace with the world, now that his cousin was coming for a visit.
John swallowed. “She’s coming for dinner? Today?”
“She’s staying for three days.”
John sucked in a sharp breath. Well, that was a surprise, then. He wasn’t sure he liked it. “What, here?”
Sherlock gulped down an admirable amount of coffee in one go. “Of course here, John. Where else am I supposed to put her?”
John shrugged. He had no idea, to be honest.
“The only other place I own that has a bed in it,” said Sherlock thoughtfully, “is the hotel room where the Lewisham Reaper murdered thirteen women. I can’t make her sleep there, can I?” He seemed to contemplate this for a second. “No, she says she finds this sort of thing creepy. She’s strange like that.” He took another sip of his coffee. “So, Baker Street it is.”
John didn’t mention that every single person in the world other than Sherlock found murder rooms creepy. “You own a hotel room?” he asked instead, because this was news to him. After all these years, things like that were still news to him. That was sort of comical if you thought about it.
“Yes,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “I won a bet. Long story. I don’t really know what to do with it, though. I use it to store Lestrade’s cold case files.”
“The ones you steal because he won’t give them to you voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
John considered this and decided that he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised. It made perfect sense for Sherlock to own a crime scene, really.
“Where is your cousin going to sleep, though? You can’t offer her the sofa, you know that, right? It’s uncomfortable, and there are still those acid stains, and I guess your cousin doesn’t fancy having holes burned through her skin in the middle of the night—“
“She’s going to sleep in my bed,” Sherlock said.
“She’s—what?”
“She’s sleeping in my bed,” Sherlock repeated slowly. He eyed John for a second, then added, “Do relax, John. I’m going to sleep on the sofa. Obviously. I don’t mind the sofa, and I know how to avoid the acid stains.”
John felt something akin to relief for a second or two. Then, however, he remembered the last time he’d found a woman in Sherlock’s bed, and something entirely unpleasant started to boil in his lower abdomen.
The fact that Sherlock was offering his bed to someone was a bizarre concept, even after everything that had happened with Irene Adler. And Janine. Oh god. John really had to stop thinking about women who’d been in Sherlock’s bed before he lost his mind.
When he’d moved back into 221B after the whole ordeal wit Mary, he’d never expected that women in Sherlock’s bed was a thing that was ever going to happen again.
And now he was about to add a third name to the list of women who'd been in Sherlock's stupid bed, and he really, really hated the prospect.
Sherlock finally put the newspaper down. “John,” he said slowly, “I want Lucinda to have a good time in London. I really do. Her job is stressful and she’ll mostly want to relax once she’s done with her business meetings… or whatever it is she’s doing today, I didn’t listen. It’s business… something. You’re not allowed to upset her.”
John snorted. “Why would I upset her?”
Sherlock made an exasperated hand gesture. “I don’t know!” he exclaimed, “just don’t— don’t—“ Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible and peered at his coffee mug.
“Come again?” said John slowly.
“Nothing.” Sherlock vanished behind the newspaper once more. “I just—“ he cut himself off, “I really missed her.”
Sherlock looked as startled about his own statement as John felt, but that didn’t really help. John felt something in his chest tighten.
God, he hoped this didn’t mean what he thought it meant. He wasn’t sure what he thought it meant, and he was even less sure why he didn’t like the idea he wasn’t sure he was having.
What?
“I’ll order takeaway at six-ish,” Sherlock announced before starting to clear the table, “You’re having roasted chicken with mushrooms, judging by your shirt. Don’t be late for dinner.” He frowned. “On the other hand, do be late for dinner. Lucinda will most certainly be. She always is. Late, I mean.” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. “I’ll try to finish the skin sample analysis until then. Tell Mrs Hudson not to bother me with food.”
John gaped at him for a second (mostly because he really fancied roasted chicken with mushrooms and for once he had no idea how Sherlock had worked that out), then he walked downstairs to do just that.
---
Mrs Hudson did not only promise to absolutely bother Sherlock with food, she also affectionately coerced John into having a second breakfast and told him in detail about her last bingo evening and the fact that Mrs Turner next door was now dating a retired butcher. John escaped after an hour, claiming that he had to pick up groceries. Mrs Hudson was delighted about the fact and handed him an exhaustive shopping list that contained things like ‘extra soft lavender laundry dream’, which was most certainly not sold at Tesco. Or was it? Why did emergency lies never work out?
John heard muffled rattling noises from upstairs when he left.
He contemplated checking on Sherlock for a second, but then he decided that skin samples were neither flammable nor explosive and he really had no reason to be worried.
At least not about the experiment.
---
John returned home several hours later. He hadn’t been able to find Extra Soft Lavender Laundry Dream and had bought Super Peachy Laundry Delight instead. Mrs Hudson would have to deal with that.
He had taken a long walk first, then he’d picked up all every single item on Mrs Hudson’s list (even the purple knee socks, John would never forget the look the cashier had given him), and taken another long walk.
He felt… good, actually. A lot less confused. He really had needed a bit of fresh air to be able to face the woman who was going to sleep in Sherlock’s bed and who had also spent several months of his teenage years (and early twenties, presumably) with him. In the guest room of a pompous mansion in Essex, of all places.
Why had Sherlock never told him about her, anyway? Was there something he didn’t want John to know?
John wasn’t sure why, but the prospect of meeting Sherlock’s cousin made him deeply uncomfortable.
It was not that he was jealous, of course. Obviously, spending the summer with a girl your age didn’t have to mean anything (although sometimes it did, especially when you were a teenager and your hormones were going rogue). And being excited to meet the girl you’d spent your summers with when you were a teenager didn’t have to mean anything either.
And even if it did, John wouldn’t mind. Sherlock was an adult, of course there were people he’d been… close to before. At some point, he must have been young and curious and less… less Sherlock, less the way he was now, claiming his body was just transport and everything.
And, clearly, Sherlock did have some sort of soft spot for certain women. Irene had… happened. And John distinctly remembered the day he’d found Janine half-naked in their flat. It had taken John around half a year to fully realise that that had actually happened as well, it hadn’t been a hallucination of some sort. The engagement might have been fake, but other things most probably weren’t. He shivered involuntarily.
There was no reason to be upset about any of this. Or uncomfortable. Obviously not.
Also, John’s worries might have been completely unfounded. Sherlock valued Lucinda’s intelligence, he had made that very clear. Their relationship was probably purely intellectual and always had been. Maybe they were just distant relatives who enjoyed a deep conversation from time to time. Yes, that was probably it. Sherlock was not a physically affectionate person, and he probably liked Lucinda because she wasn’t either. She was probably the most buttoned-up person in the world.
John rather like this idea.
John was jolted out of his thoughts as he walked upstairs.
Sherlock was laughing. His deep, rumbly, genuine laugh that was not forced or an act -- and there was another voice, distinctly female, not Mrs Hudson’s.
John glanced at his watch. It was only half past three. Sherlock’s cousin wasn’t late, she had arrived early.
Into battle, then. John took a deep breath and entered the flat.
John wasn’t sure what kind of person he had expected when Sherlock told him about his not-actually-second-cousin Lucinda. The name was old-fashioned and posh and, no matter how distant a not-actually-relative she was, the woman was a member of a family that had spawned both Sherlock and Mycroft. An environment like that had to leave a mark on a person. Nature and nurture and everything.
John clearly hadn’t imagined a posh, buttoned-up, socially awkward middle-aged aristocrat with expensive reading glasses on her nose. What a ridiculous cliché.
No actually, that was precisely what he had imagined.
Lucinda was in her thirties, maybe two or three years younger than Sherlock; She was tall and slim, taller than John by at least two inches, though it was hard to tell since she was wearing high heels. Probably the highest heels John had ever seen in his life, in fact.
She was standing next to the kitchen table where Sherlock was sat in front of his skin samples, and she was talking rather agitatedly, running her hand through her short, platinum blonde hair that was in complete disarray.
“—so I told him to go fuck himself and left. Colette won’t be happy, actually she might break into my apartment and kill me in my sleep, because apparently this piece of crap is sort of important, I mean, I’ve been told he basically runs the British branch of her company, but to tell you the truth, I don’t care. It’s not the first deal I blew, and she knows how I react to those chauvinists she like to hire, it’s hardly my fault it didn’t work out. She shouldn’t have sent me in the first place. Serves her right. The best part is that I got out of there after less than ten minutes, and now I’m here with my nutjob of a cousin who’s boiling leather on the kitchen table because he hasn’t changed at all. And that’s the whole story. What a day, honestly.”
“Mmh.” Sherlock switched off his Bunsen burner, then seemed to realise that he was still wearing his science goggles, so he removed them. “It’s good to see you too.”
“Yeah,” said Lucinda, “and I’ve been here for ten minutes, you have finished your disgusting experiment and yet you haven’t hugged me. You’re not getting out of this.”
Sherlock chuckled, put his goggles down on the table and got up to wrap his arms around her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Lucinda hugged him back, buried her face in his neck and hummed contentedly.
“My God,” she mumbled, “you have no idea how nice it is to hug you now that you’re no longer skinny as a bloody rake. I could count your ribs last time I saw you. No, screw that, it’s always nice to hug you, no matter what. Your hugs are the best.”
“Shut up,” grumbled Sherlock who didn’t seem uncomfortable, or annoyed, or… or planning on flipping her over in some sort of martial arts move to get out of her embrace.
Actually he seemed to enjoy being hugged by this woman.
John kind of wanted to smash something.
He didn’t, though. He cleared his throat audibly instead. Partly because Sherlock and Lucinda still hadn’t noticed his presence and he felt like he was invading a private moment, partly because his heart clenched in his chest and he felt like he might just actually die if this woman didn’t step away from Sherlock within the next ten seconds.
Sherlock and Lucinda broke apart, and seemed somehow unwilling to do so, which made the unpleasant something in John’s chest do a backflip.
“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking surprised (delighted?) to see him. He gestured at John, then at Lucinda, “this is my flatmate, John,” he said stiffly, as if introducing John to his cousin was very important business.
“Um, hello,” said John helplessly.
Lucinda eyed John for a second, then her lips curled into an amiable smile. Her bright green eyes sparkled in a mixture of interest and amusement, and that alone made John feel exposed.
She took a few steps towards him, moving gracefully in her ridiculously high heels. She was wearing a short, figure-hugging blue dress that had clearly been tailored individually for her. It managed to accentuate just the right spots, in a way that looked effortless but still intentional, and it looked more expensive than John’s entire wardrobe. Given that the woman was sort of related to Sherlock, John figured he shouldn’t be surprised by the fact.
“Hello, John,” she said.
The smile she gave him was genuine, but under her jovial façade was clearly a layer of sharp, calculating competence and intellectuality. Her self-confidence was almost palpable and she was genuinely one of the most attractive women John had ever seen.
He did his best not to admit to himself that he was, maybe, not only surprised but also a tiny bit intimidated.
“You must be Lucinda,” he said somewhat awkwardly, offering her his hand, “heard a lot about you, nice to meet you.”
She took his hand and shook it forcefully. “Call me Luce, please. Lucinda was my great-grandmother.” She gave him a wide smile, just for a second, revealing flawless, blazingly white teeth. “Ghastly old woman,” she added, “god bless her. All that’s left of her is her awful name, and I’m stuck with it, but I’m making the best of it.”
Sherlock actually chuckled in response to this.
John blinked.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, too, John,” Lucinda, no, Luce, said emphatically, “Sherlock doesn’t shut up about you. Just so you know.”
John had no idea what to say to that.
Luce broke the silence after a few agonizing seconds. “So. I rambled about my stupid job for a decade before you came home, John. Now it’s your turn.”
John raised both eyebrows. “My turn?”
“Yeah. Both of you, in fact. I move to Paris and my cousin becomes an internet-famous detective. You’re the celebrities in this room, and I have a VIP ticket.” She beamed at John, as if she was expecting him to laugh at her joke. “I’ve been reading your blog religiously, John, but I’m dying to hear your newest stories. So why don’t we order food and I bloody sit down for once, because my feet hurt. And I’m starving. And Sherlock hasn’t even offered me a drink yet because he’s a terrible host.” She gave Sherlock and affectionate grin.
Sherlock immediately jumped into action. “I’ll clear the kitchen table,” he announced, “it’s just that the skin needs to stay in the water for another hour and seven minutes, but then—“
“We could take the coffee table instead,” John suggested.
Luce beamed at him. “Splendid.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down. “Now, gentlemen,” she said, “get me some food.”
---
Half an hour later, the three of them were sitting on the couch, far away from the kitchen table in order not to disturb Sherlock’s skin samples. Sherlock was in the middle, with Luce to his right and basically pressed up against him.
Luce’s hand was on Sherlock’s thigh almost the entire time.
John occupied the left third of the sofa, feeling like the figurative third wheel. He was getting increasingly angry, and he wasn’t even sure about what.
Sherlock had finished telling Luce about the case of the stolen mirror they’d solved last week. He went into great detail about the code they’d found on the wall, which interested Luce greatly.
“Oooh, codes,” she exclaimed, “I’m rusty but I used to be... kind of good at this sort of stuff.”
“I’ll show you the photographs later.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Lucinda studied maths and computer science,” Sherlock explained.
“Yeah, and then I got tired of variables and numerals and bloody England and gave it all up to become a famous fashion designer. In Paris of all places. Cliché, I know, but it sort of worked. Except for the famous part, I’m still working on that.” Luce tucked into her vegetables. “Still love a good code,” she added.
John raised both eyebrows at his chicken with mushrooms. Another hyper-intelligent puzzle solver. Of course Sherlock found her fascinating.
“You’re considerably famous in certain circles, Lucinda” Sherlock said calmly.
“Stop calling me Lucinda.”
Sherlock bit his lip. “No.”
“If you call me that one more time,” Luce said dangerously, “I’ll start calling you William and treat you like we’re 14 again, and I’ll never stop. And you won’t get rid of me until Tuesday morning, so consider this a threat.”
A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “You’ll treat me like we’re 14 again?”
“Yes.”
“Including the hair-pulling?”
“Absolutely.”
“And the kicking?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock put down his noodles, braced himself and said, “Lucinda Eugenie Victoria.”
Luce’s mouth dropped open in a fake-display of absolute outrage. “Don’t you dare.”
“Lucinda Eugenie Victoria Harrington-Holmes.”
Luce turned to John and exclaimed, “can you believe that?” before tossing her chopsticks aside. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she said after a perfectly timed dramatic pause, “your name is so much more ridiculous than mine, honestly.”
“I beg to differ,” Sherlock said calmly, “it has a ring to it. So does yours, by the way. Also, considering our extended family’s approach to baby names, I think we were both lucky. Given the circumstances, I mean.”
“Oh.” Luce considered this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Remember grand aunt Kriemhilda?”
“How could I not?”
“Mmh. She still alive?”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, “104 years and not tired at all. She does have problems with her lungs, though. At least that’s what my mother told me when I last talked to her.” Sherlock frowned. “Actually, she might have told me that over seven months ago. Or years. John, when was the last time Mummy called?”
“Um,” said John, frowning at his mushrooms, “I have no idea.” (He didn’t mention that seven months ago, he hadn’t even been living at Baker Street. Sherlock had probably forgotten he’d ever left. Actually, Sherlock was in such a good mood and so preoccupied with Luce, he’d probably forgotten John existed, or that he was more than a convenience. He stabbed his next mushroom with considerable force.)
“Hmm.” Sherlock, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes to slits and peered at Luce as if he was concentrating hard. “You know what,” he said then, “taking all factors into account, grand aunt Kriemhilda might just actually be dead.”
Luce snorted. “A great hypothetical loss for the world. Anyway, didn’t Kriemhilda have a daughter called--.”
“—Gradulantia?” Sherlock offered.
“Yes! Yes, that was it. Jesus, imagine being called Gradulantia.”
Sherlock managed to keep a straight face. “Imagine being called Mycroft Winston Reginald.”
Luce snorted again, so hard this time that she effectively blew her noodle off of her fork. It hit the table. “Oh my god,” she squealed, “Mycroft! How’s Mycroft? Tell me, Sherlock, has he changed at all?”
“No,” Sherlock said promptly, “he hasn’t. Never has, never will. He just got fat.”
“I bet he’d love to see me. We should pay him a visit. Surprise him.”
“Over my dead body,” Sherlock said, “I’m not exposing you to his hideous three-piece suits and the nuclear wars he starts over breakfast. Apart from that, he probably hasn’t forgotten about… the thing… you did in 1993. The one with the swim shorts. He’s terribly resentful.”
“Still?”
“He bears grudges for a living now.”
“And I bet it makes him very happy.”
Sherlock hummed contemplatively. “Mmmh. Not sure if there’s anything that makes him very happy.”
“Oh,” said Luce slowly, “so he really hasn’t changed.”
“Mmh.”
It was silent for around two minutes. They all finished their food and then just sort of sat there in silence. Sherlock and Luce seemed rather comfortable, even without the bickering and joking like a married couple. It was unbelievable that they hadn’t seen each other in nine years. They could have been best friends who barely spent a day apart.
John just felt awkward.
“Do you have any plans for the evening?” Sherlock asked, aimlessly picking at what was left of his chicken.
“Nah. I’ll honour the rest of the city with my presence when I’m less tired. So tomorrow. I rather fancy a night in. Is there something bearable on the telly?”
“No idea,” Sherlock said, “but feel free to check. I think the remote is in Mrs Hudson’s vase downstairs.”
Luce burst out laughing. “Why is the remote in a vase?”
“It was making a noise,” Sherlock said.
“The remote was making a noise?”
“The television was making a noise because someone had touched the remote.”
“Yeah,” Luce said, extremely amused, “that tends to happen.”
“I was trying to concentrate on--”
“—an experiment?”
Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. “Obviously,” he said.
Luce giggled and wrapped his arm around him, and this was the moment John decided he had to escape in order to preserve a minimum of his sanity.
Sherlock perked his head up. “Where are you going, John?” he asked, apparently startled by the fact that John was leaving.
“I, uh, don’t really feel like watching telly,” John lied, “I’m going upstairs to… finish the book I’m reading.”
Luce gave him a cheerful smile. “See you later then. Or tomorrow, because I’m going to bed early.”
“Yeah. Well. Good night, then,” John said helplessly, and fled.
---
John had a rather agonizing evening.
He wasn’t sure when he had lost the ability to occupy himself with things that had nothing to do with Sherlock.
It must have happened gradually over the last three months. He and Sherlock had barely spent a day apart since John had moved back in, and after everything that had happened with Mary and the child that wasn’t his, the divorce and the rather ugly last meeting with Mary, John finally felt like he’d come home. Every minute he spent around Sherlock felt like pure relief, like he’d found the place where he was supposed to be. God, he had become so sentimental, it was unbearable. John slumped down onto his bed and groaned.
John rarely worked at the surgery now, in fact he only took occasional shifts when a colleague was sick or there was a staff shortage during flu season. It was better this way. The surgery reminded him of a very dark time, and of a woman who had invaded his life when he was at his most vulnerable, so he was sort of eager to spend as little time there as possible.
He concentrated on Sherlock’s cases and the blog again, and it felt right. They worked and lived together. It really was like the old times, and John appreciated their peaceful domesticity very much.
He had no idea what to do with himself, now that Sherlock was busy with his awfully nice and disgustingly attractive not-actually-cousin.
John read a few pages of his (boring) book, tried to write something about the (boring) mirror case for the (boring) blog, but eventually gave up and aimlessly searched the internet for all sorts of things that came to his mind.
Like Luce’s full name, for example.
The internet didn’t offer much information about Sherlock’s cousin, except that she was a senior fashion designer for ready-to-wear collections for one Colette Verdain in Paris. There was also an Instagram profile with rather tasteful photos, mostly of clothes and healthy looking food. All the captions were in French, and John didn’t bother to attempt to translate them.
Well, this was inconclusive.
Why did he even care? It was not as if stalking Luce’s social media profiles was going to make her stop touching Sherlock downstairs.
Was she still touching Sherlock downstairs?
Was her hand still on his thigh?
It probably was.
Actually, it didn’t matter, because John didn’t even care that she was touching Sherlock. He didn’t care that she was downstairs practically embracing him on their couch. (Their couch. Sherlock and John's couch. Theirs.) Sherlock and Luce were old friends and sort of… family, and clearly comfortable with one another. John wasn’t even the smallest bit interested in that. It was none of his business. It probably didn’t mean anything at all.
The picture of Sherlock and Luce arm in arm on the couch had burned itself into John’s brain, and it wasn’t pleasant.
The worst part was that they looked so… nice together. Both tall and gorgeous, both dressed in those posh, expensive clothes that were probably genetically determined Holmes clothes or something, looking like they'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine; Sherlock’s pale skin and dark curls a sharp contrast against Luce’s tan skin and short, platinum blonde hair. They fit together like fucking puzzle pieces and it all made John want to vomit.
Here he was, short, stocky, with greying hair and a pile of cable-knit jumpers in his closet, hiding in his bedroom because he couldn’t bear to face a woman his best friend presumably… loved, in one way or another.
God knew John Watson didn’t have self-confidence issues, but right now he felt… extremely confused.
---
When John walked downstairs to go brush his teeth, Luce had thankfully retired to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, tapping away on his phone.
“Lestrade is sending some socks over tomorrow morning,” he announced.
“Socks?”
“Mmh.”
John frowned. “Why? Is someone abducting people and leaving only their socks behind?”
Sherlock sat up abruptly, ran one hand through his curls and eyed John suspiciously. “Yes,” he said slowly, “how did you know? Lestrade said the media haven’t got their hands on the case yet. Nobody should know about it except me.”
“I guessed.”
“What?”
“I guessed,” John repeated slowly, “I -- I’m not even surprised. It’s just, if living with you has taught me anything, it’s that the most ludicrous theory I can come up with is usually true.”
Sherlock eyed him for another five seconds. “Fascinating,” he said then, and slumped back onto the couch, “I need to tell Luce about this.”
Of course.
John scowled.
Of course Sherlock had to make this about Luce as well. If Luce wasn’t here, they would be giggling like idiots about John guessing correctly, and the crime itself, because it was a case about bloody socks, and it should have been hilarious. But it wasn’t because Sherlock’s cousin (who was not actually fucking related to him, John remembered) was more important.
It had only been a few hours, and every mention of Luce’s name made John want to rip his own hair out.
He marched into the bathroom and brushed his teeth angrily.