Fic: The Case of the Birthday Party (Sherlock) Part 1
Title: The Case of the Birthday Party (Part 1)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Modernised Raffles
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, AJ Raffles, 'Bunny' Manders.
Rating: G
Summary: Last time they played, Moriarty didn’t play the last round. He intend to correct this. Written for this prompt.
Warnings: Some mild drinking and language.
The gathering was stuffy and overcrowded and, in the words of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes - terribly, terribly dull.
It was tastefully over the top in that way that only the frightfully and obliviously wealthy could manage, with balloons and sparkly things and pretty lights and the tactful avoidance of actually mentioning Mycroft’s precise age or date of birth anywhere.
John felt horribly out of place here. He didn’t like dressing up and he felt strange wearing a suit, even if it was casual compared to what he had dreaded.
Sherlock looks out of place, but Sherlock looked out of place everywhere. He thrived on his ability to shrug of social convention and stick out like a sore thumb everywhere he went and it was only his petty amusement at this which gave John hope for surviving this weekend without police intervention. Sherlock was here under duress from the elusive Mummy and nothing less, but that wasn’t guaranteed to make him behave.
No. Making him behave had apparently fallen to John. He didn’t know why, no one had managed to control Sherlock thus far in life, he didn’t see why he should be expected to achieve where even his family or Scotland Yard had failed.
“John.”
Sherlock’s long finger hand plucked at the elbow of his jacket. “He’s a serial philanderer, she’s flirting with the waiter in the hopes of making him jealous. She doesn’t have the stomach to go through with an affair, even a one night stand, which means he feels free to keep up his ways.”
And as inappropriate as it was... it was still amazing what Sherlock’s sharp mind would deduce from seemingly meaningless observations. “You... never fail to amaze me.”
Sherlock looked briefly smug, turning his attention around to try and find another hapless person to dissect with his gaze.
John spotted a young man with a frightened deer in the headlights look on his face, endearing and screaming ‘victim’. John had the feeling he’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t place where.. “What about him?”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked over, gaze narrowing. “Harold Manders, more commonly referred to as ‘Bunny’ for some obscure reason that makes no sense to anyone, possibly due to his perpetually bewildered and lost expression. He’s here at the invitation of a guest, much like I have you to accompany me, Mycroft’s people would never bother letting him in otherwise.”
“Do you know him? Only, you know his name and I can’t see anything on him that has his name, or even a suggestion of it.” He was looking and while he wasn’t Sherlock, he liked to think he wasn’t so blind as to miss something that obvious.
“Oh yes, I know Bunny Manders,” Sherlock said disdainfully. “And I know who brought him to this dreadful gathering of my brother’s.” He was looking at his phone again, texting away frantically. Across the room, a phone beeped with a message.
“How do you know him? One of your cases?”
“No.” He looked over at a couple, watching them for a long moment.
John waited for a moment, until it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to explain without prompting. “Are you going to make me ask all the possible ways you know him?”
“I’m not making you do anything,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.
Giving up, John went to find a drink. He flagged down one of the wait staff and took a glass of wine, sipping at it as he looked around the room again.
He’d estimated about fifty people when they had first arrived, but now, looking around, he suspected it was closer to eighty. The massive old ‘country home’ that Sherlock had said they were going to was closer to a retired castle in truth and clearly bigger than even he had estimated if everyone here was staying for the full weekend of festivities.
These people were social elite. They were from news pages and social columns and the back halls of government, according to his flatmate, anyway. People of fame and power.
He gulped his wine a bit fast, starting to feel very, very insignificant.
Maybe leaving Sherlock hadn’t been a good idea, he pondered. He didn’t actually know anyone here except the Holmes brothers and he would take Sherlock over Mycroft any day.
And he’d take Mycroft over the mid fifties woman in the floral shirt who had just started eyeing him off like a prime cut in a butcher’s shop.
He started moving through the crowd, back towards where he had left Sherlock. He spotted him fairly quickly, his pale gaze catching John and then moving on, scanning the crowd again. He pushed back to his partner’s side, taking a breath to tell him about the woman in the floral shirt and instead spotting a very familiar face.
“Sherlock, is that AJ Raffles, the cricketer? The test player?”
“Probably,” Sherlock absently agreed, not bothering to look. “Do you think he knows his wife is having an affair?”
“Raffles isn’t married.” He looked up and sighed when he saw Sherlock wasn’t looking.
“No, I know. Give me your phone.”
“No, use yours. Do you know him?”
“Who?” He sounded absent.
“Raffles!”
“Oh, yes. Why?” He looked down at John. “Do you want to meet him? He’s a terrible bore, you know, all witticisms and pick up lines and charm.”
“Oh yes, perfect bore,” John mumbled, but suddenly a friendly hand was clapping on his shoulder, making him jump.
“Who is this dashing fellow you’re talking about, Holmes?”
Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up from John. “Raffles.”
“Holmes.” Raffles had a bright smile, all warm and slightly wolfish. “Long time no see, how are you these days? Mycroft said you’d been through a bit of a rough patch, though obviously not rough enough to stop you picking up a charmingly attentive date for this.”
“I’m not his date,” John grumbled. He didn’t know why he bothered.
“Terribly sorry, old man, I did rather presume.”
John started. No one ever listened when he protested that he wasn’t Sherlock’s date. “Oh. Well, it’s all right.”
“Where are my manners, probably vanished with the second glass of wine. Raffles, AJ Raffles, though I daresay you’ve heard of me, Mister-”
“Doctor. Doctor Watson, John Watson.” He took the offer hand and shook it, trying to ignore Sherlock’s disgusted sound at the fact that Raffles used two hands on his one. “I’m a huge fan of your bowling.”
Raffles let his hand go. “Glad to hear it. So tell me, Watson, Doctor Watson, how did you met our reclusive and frankly anti-social Holmes?”
“I’m not ‘your’ Holmes, Raffles,” Sherlock spat.
“Figure speech, old boy, BUNNY! You remember Holmes, don’t you? Holmes, you of course remember Bunny, he was my fag at school.”
John choked on his wine, hacking into his hand.
Raffles just laughed and patted him on the back. Sherlock looked more annoyed than ever. “Sorry about that, I do love the quaint old terminology. The younger boys served as manservants to the older boys at school. Except Holmes, of course, he wasn’t having anything to do with any of it. God forbid he join in and have fun with everyone else.”
John only then realised there was a hand on his arm, guiding him towards the doe eyed young man from before, the one Sherlock had identified as Bunny. He had the sweetest, most innocent face John had ever seen, a stark contrast to Raffles’ own dark, rakish looks. “Bunny, come and meet Doctor Watson, he’s here with Holmes.”
“O-Oh.” The young man gave him a shy smile, bobbing his head and offering his hand. For a moment, John feared he was going to bow or curtsy instead; it was a relief to just shake his hand. “How do you do, Doctor?”
“Nice to meet you, uh-” It didn’t seem right to call him by such a familial nick name.
“Just Bunny, it’s what everyone calls me,” he assured quickly.
“Bunny, be a good man, look after John, get him another drink, his last one ended up being inhaled rather than ingested, Karida, my darling, you look fantastic, did Mycroft buy that for you for the party?”
And suddenly Raffles was gone, leaving John standing there with Bunny.
The silence stretched for a long moment.
“Is he always like that?”
“Oh yes. That’s just Raffles for you.” Bunny rocked on his feet. “He’s just a bit forceful.”
John looked to where Sherlock was cornering a waiter and quizzing him about the sanitation of the kitchens. “I know someone like that...”
There was another pause.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Dear God, yes,” John exhaled.
*~*~*
“So, you and Raffles went to school together.”
“Yup.”
“And you were his- manservant. At this public school.”
“Yup.”
“And Sherlock also went to school with you and Raffles.”
“That’s about the sum of it,” Bunny agreed over his whiskey and soda. “They were in the same grade. I was a few years behind.”
They had retired to a quiet corner and after a bit of chatting, John had decided that watching Sherlock wasn’t his job or obligation and that he’d sooner sit and have a relatively normal conversation with Bunny instead. And take the chance to find out a bit about Sherlock when he was younger, a time that Sherlock liked to pretend didn’t exist.
“Still, you must have spent a lot of time with Raffles, at least.” He had switched to drinking soft drinks after the wine incident. An absence of Sherlock also helped curb the urge for a drink.
“Oh, rather. I was a bit at a loss when he graduated and moved onto university. It didn’t last, he went into cricketing instead, but for a while I really thought he was going to become a banker or something equally brainy and boring.”
John didn’t actually know much about Raffles, outside of his average bowling score and how much the Australian batsmen didn’t like him. And apparently, he went to the same exclusive boys’ school as the Holmes brothers. “He’s smart then?”
“Oh yes! He’s absolutely brilliant, he thinks up all kinds of things, he knows all this obscure trivia that turns up to be useful when you least expect it, and he speaks English, French, Italian and Latin fluently.” Bunny sighed a little. “I really don’t know why he keeps me around some times.”
John could take a guess though, from the adoring way Bunny spoke of the older man. he clearly hero worshipped him. “Obviously you did meet up after school, though.”
“Yes. Raffles helped me through a bad patch, he’s a real sport like that, I turned up at his door after five years and he just invited me in like I’d only seen him the night before at school dinner.” He looked over to John with that same shy smile. “How did you meet Holmes?”
John glanced to the ceiling briefly, trying to work out how much to say without sounding like a lunatic. “A university friend of mine introduced us. I was looking for a flat, Sherlock was looking for a flatmate to split the rent.” He shrugged and took another drink. “I’ve been living with him ever since. Well, we live together, we have a land lady, the flat doesn’t actually belong to either of us.”
Bunny nodded attentively. “I imagine it could be rather hard at times. Holmes was a bit... eccentric in school sometimes.”
“Eccentric. That’s a way you could put it.” A very nice way. Bunny was obviously well mannered or too nice for his own good. Maybe both. “What do you do, Bunny?”
“Mm? Oh, I inherited from my father, he died when I was in high school. Mostly I travel with Raffles when he goes on tour, we travel around Britain a lot when he’s not. That sort of thing. You’re a medical doctor?”
“Yes. I work at a clinic when Sherlock isn’t dragging me around the streets of London after serial killers, thieves and blackmailers.” Sherlock almost made a warzone look calm.
“Th-thieves? You work for the police?” Bunny seemed startled about that.
“Sherlock works with them. Consulting detective. He does private work as well when he’s bored enough. It’s all just a game to him.”
Bunny laughed nervously. “Raffles is just the same. He gets bored with people a lot, why I don’t really understand why he keeps me around after all this time, really.” He blushed and drained his drink. “He and Holmes used to get into terrible chess matches.”
“Chess.” Terrible chess matches?
“Oh yes. They both wanted to prove they were better. Raffles is very smart, you know. He seems like he’s all smiles and talk, but he’s awful clever.”
John suspected that some sheepdogs would seem awful clever to Bunny. It wasn’t meant to be an unkind thought; the young man was charming and sweet and good company but he wasn’t striking John as a mental giant and frankly, he suspected that Bunny would declare that Raffles made the sun rise just by asking nicely if pushed about what made it so.
“You must be terribly clever too, to be a doctor,” Bunny suddenly came up with.
“I- Well, I just worked hard,” he said quietly.
“You must’ve done more than that. I mean, you’re a doctor, that’s really, really impressive.”
John felt himself blushing slightly. After months of running around after Sherlock and feeling like the world’s class A, first prize idiot, it was refreshing to be in the situation where he was reminded that he wasn’t a mental slouch compared to the general population. “Thank you, Bunny,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome, John.” Bunny waved down another waiter and got himself another drink. John declined with a raised hand as Bunny turned back to him. “I don’t imagine you get complimented a lot. I mean, hanging around with Sherlock, no matter what you do...”
Sherlock did it better. But John didn’t mind. “I didn’t become a doctor for glory. I want to help people.”
“Have you been at your practice long?”
“Not really. I started shortly after I moved in with Sherlock.”
“And what did you do before that?”
He was quiet a moment. “I served in Afghanistan. I was sent home when I was shot twice.”
“Oh my!”
John might’ve laughed if it weren’t a somber topic. Bunny’s exclamation should have sounded so put on, but it was so incredibly genuine. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t look like a soldier.”
“You were shot? It must have been terribly painful,” he gasped.
“I don’t remember,” John said automatically. He liked to not remember whenever possible.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Bunny murmured. “I’ve just never met a real soldier before, who went and fought and everything. It’s just... very awe-inspiring, Doctor Watson, John, of course, John, it just makes me admire you more as a person that you have that sort of conviction.”
John opened his mouth to speak when a hand landed on his shoulder. “That’s because the only conviction you have is to Raffles.”
“Sherlock,” John sighed out.
“No, no, Holmes is right, I am terribly indecisive... oh, I think Mrs Bullet-Finch wants me, lovely to meet you, John, maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow at the festivities, bye.”
Unlike Raffles’ practised, easy retreat, Bunny’s came off as frightened and stumbling run for cover from the presence of John’s flatmate. John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would it kill you to be nice to people, sometimes?”
“I was just stating facts, John. Bunny Manders is indecisive, lacking conviction in anything but his servitude to that ingrate cricketer.” Sherlock sat down in the chair Bunny had just vacated, and John resigned himself to not seeing Bunny again that evening.
“Give me your phone.”
He sighed and took Bunny’s whiskey and soda for himself.
*~*~*
Sherlock had eventually taken his phone, placing a few harassing texts to Mycroft while John worked his way through the whiskey and felt a little more able to handle keeping Sherlock on a leash until they were able to retire to their rooms for the night.
“Ladies and gentlemen, drinks and dancing will be commencing on the back patio. For those of you who have had longer journeys, wait staff are available to show you to your rooms for the evening.”
Sherlock sighed. “That sounds wonderful. I have no desire to spend the rest of the evening listen to sycophantic discussions with my brother or the ever so beloved AJ Raffles.”
John wasn’t sure if he wanted to go and try and find Bunny to talk to or just make a graceful escape with Sherlock and get an early night. Or, more likely, be kept up half the night by violin playing, talking and general restlessness.
“Come on, John.” Sherlock’s hand caught his elbow, lifting him from his seat and propelling him forwards.
“Come on, where?”
“To our rooms, of course. You don’t intend to go and make small talk with my brother’s guests, do you?”
“Well... no, not really,” he admitted.
“Wonderful.” Sherlock started off again towards one of the staff. “My room, please, and my companion’s.”
“This way, Mr Holmes,” the man said with a slight bow. “You’ve been put in the West tower, on the lower floor in deference to Dr Watson’s leg injury.”
“How thoughtful,” John murmured. “I’m glad to see someone doesn’t expect me to have the room at the top of the stairs.”
“Stop grumbling, John, you love your room. And your leg is generally fine.” It was a show of unusual tact that Sherlock didn’t outright tell him it was made up and thus not a genuine impediment.
They followed after the man as he led them through the house. Sherlock pointed out paintings that had been collected by the family, a hideous vase from an aunt that Mycroft was too gutless to get rid of, and that the West tower was the most heavily soundproofed, big, old, original stone that would keep the more rowdy guests from disturbing anyone else.
John could well imagine why they were being housed here.
“Your rooms, sirs.”
“Hang on.” John looked to the man as Sherlock pushed open the door and wandered in. “Did you say ‘sirs’? As in, we’re both in here?”
“Many of the guests are sharing rooms with their companions, sir. Misters Raffles and Manders are the floor above you.”
“John, stop complaining and come in. There’s accommodation for both of us.” Sherlock’s voice drifted out of the door.
John bit back the low growl that wanted voicing and stepped inside, shutting the door before taking in the room.
There was a large, four poster bed, very large, with a big, comfortable looking couch that would perfectly fit a sprawling Sherlock. They had a small television, an arm chair, coffee table, writing desk. Through a side door he could see an en suite arrangement with toilet, sink and shower. Large wardrobes with their clothes already hanging and someone had left a nicely carved wooden walking stick alongside the door, which John assumed was for him, just in case of difficulties.
“There’s only one bed.”
“I don’t sleep and even if I do, it’s large enough for both of us and two other adults to comfortably sleep in, the two of us will fit fine with no threat of inadvertent contact.”
“It’s more the implications of it that bothers me,” John grumbled, but Sherlock had a lot of valid points. It was huge, and that was even assuming that Sherlock would go to bed during this weekend and not just doze on the couch for a few hours.
Sherlock ignored his comment and flung himself into the couch, toeing off his shoes and sliding down a bit to rest his ankles up on the arm of the chair, head on the seat. “Not bad.”
“This room is amazing, Sherlock. Considering what Mycroft could have given to either of us after that last stint you pulled with him.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pouncing slightly and feeling the mattress.
“Bah.” He closed his eyes.
“Don’t bah, you sent secret service scattering all over the city just so you could chase down the criminal yourself.” He took off his shoes and tie, undoing the top of his shirt and stretching out on the bed. “This is fantastic.”
“Hm.” Sherlock reached out and turned on the small television, tuning it into BBC1.
“If you do want to take the bed for a night, the couch looks comfortable enough-”
“Don’t be more ridiculous than nature intended, John. I am quite comfortable sharing a king sized double bed with you for a couple of nights should I even desire to sleep. Undoubtedly, you will not even notice if I do so due to the fact that I sleep much less than you.” He didn’t even open his eyes as he spoke.
John held up a hand. “Okay, okay, point taken.” He got up again and went to the wardrobe. “I’m going to have a shower before bed.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, so he just went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, using the facilities and stripping down before his phone beeped from his coat pocket. Sherlock must have stuck it back at some point. He turned on the water and checked his phone.
I need nicotine patches. SH
John sighed. “I packed some in my suitcase, check the drawer in the wardrobe!” He got into the water and ignored the next two texts.
If Sherlock was too lazy to call out to him, he certainly wasn’t going to bother replying.
When he got out, dressed for bed, Sherlock was still lying on the couch, curled up under his coat and narrating Big Brother with the sound turned off the television.
“Night, Sherlock,” he said softly, getting into bed and turning off the main light.
“Good night, John.”
He relaxed into the plump matress, lulled by Sherlock’s muttering and the alcohol from the party.
He opened his eyes to find Sherlock hovering right above him, poking him in his uninjured shoulder. “John. John.”
“I’m awake.” Military habits died hard; he was sharp awake instantly. “What time is it?”
“I’m bored. Come explore the house with me.”
Oh God. “Sherlock, what time is it?”
“Bored time. Come on, everyone’s asleep, we won’t be disturbed, we can have a look around.”
“Everyone’s asleep because it’s some ungodly hour in the morning. I was asleep.”
“You can sleep later. Now we have the place to ourselves.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to almost gleam silver in the pale moonlight.
“Sherlock-”
“I’m going one way or another,” he threatened.
John sighed.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his robe, which Sherlock eagerly helped him in to. “Where are we exploring?”
Sherlock grinned at him. “The gifts room.”
“Oh. Goody,” John deadpanned.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Modernised Raffles
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, AJ Raffles, 'Bunny' Manders.
Rating: G
Summary: Last time they played, Moriarty didn’t play the last round. He intend to correct this. Written for this prompt.
Warnings: Some mild drinking and language.
The gathering was stuffy and overcrowded and, in the words of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes - terribly, terribly dull.
It was tastefully over the top in that way that only the frightfully and obliviously wealthy could manage, with balloons and sparkly things and pretty lights and the tactful avoidance of actually mentioning Mycroft’s precise age or date of birth anywhere.
John felt horribly out of place here. He didn’t like dressing up and he felt strange wearing a suit, even if it was casual compared to what he had dreaded.
Sherlock looks out of place, but Sherlock looked out of place everywhere. He thrived on his ability to shrug of social convention and stick out like a sore thumb everywhere he went and it was only his petty amusement at this which gave John hope for surviving this weekend without police intervention. Sherlock was here under duress from the elusive Mummy and nothing less, but that wasn’t guaranteed to make him behave.
No. Making him behave had apparently fallen to John. He didn’t know why, no one had managed to control Sherlock thus far in life, he didn’t see why he should be expected to achieve where even his family or Scotland Yard had failed.
“John.”
Sherlock’s long finger hand plucked at the elbow of his jacket. “He’s a serial philanderer, she’s flirting with the waiter in the hopes of making him jealous. She doesn’t have the stomach to go through with an affair, even a one night stand, which means he feels free to keep up his ways.”
And as inappropriate as it was... it was still amazing what Sherlock’s sharp mind would deduce from seemingly meaningless observations. “You... never fail to amaze me.”
Sherlock looked briefly smug, turning his attention around to try and find another hapless person to dissect with his gaze.
John spotted a young man with a frightened deer in the headlights look on his face, endearing and screaming ‘victim’. John had the feeling he’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t place where.. “What about him?”
“Hm?” Sherlock looked over, gaze narrowing. “Harold Manders, more commonly referred to as ‘Bunny’ for some obscure reason that makes no sense to anyone, possibly due to his perpetually bewildered and lost expression. He’s here at the invitation of a guest, much like I have you to accompany me, Mycroft’s people would never bother letting him in otherwise.”
“Do you know him? Only, you know his name and I can’t see anything on him that has his name, or even a suggestion of it.” He was looking and while he wasn’t Sherlock, he liked to think he wasn’t so blind as to miss something that obvious.
“Oh yes, I know Bunny Manders,” Sherlock said disdainfully. “And I know who brought him to this dreadful gathering of my brother’s.” He was looking at his phone again, texting away frantically. Across the room, a phone beeped with a message.
“How do you know him? One of your cases?”
“No.” He looked over at a couple, watching them for a long moment.
John waited for a moment, until it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to explain without prompting. “Are you going to make me ask all the possible ways you know him?”
“I’m not making you do anything,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.
Giving up, John went to find a drink. He flagged down one of the wait staff and took a glass of wine, sipping at it as he looked around the room again.
He’d estimated about fifty people when they had first arrived, but now, looking around, he suspected it was closer to eighty. The massive old ‘country home’ that Sherlock had said they were going to was closer to a retired castle in truth and clearly bigger than even he had estimated if everyone here was staying for the full weekend of festivities.
These people were social elite. They were from news pages and social columns and the back halls of government, according to his flatmate, anyway. People of fame and power.
He gulped his wine a bit fast, starting to feel very, very insignificant.
Maybe leaving Sherlock hadn’t been a good idea, he pondered. He didn’t actually know anyone here except the Holmes brothers and he would take Sherlock over Mycroft any day.
And he’d take Mycroft over the mid fifties woman in the floral shirt who had just started eyeing him off like a prime cut in a butcher’s shop.
He started moving through the crowd, back towards where he had left Sherlock. He spotted him fairly quickly, his pale gaze catching John and then moving on, scanning the crowd again. He pushed back to his partner’s side, taking a breath to tell him about the woman in the floral shirt and instead spotting a very familiar face.
“Sherlock, is that AJ Raffles, the cricketer? The test player?”
“Probably,” Sherlock absently agreed, not bothering to look. “Do you think he knows his wife is having an affair?”
“Raffles isn’t married.” He looked up and sighed when he saw Sherlock wasn’t looking.
“No, I know. Give me your phone.”
“No, use yours. Do you know him?”
“Who?” He sounded absent.
“Raffles!”
“Oh, yes. Why?” He looked down at John. “Do you want to meet him? He’s a terrible bore, you know, all witticisms and pick up lines and charm.”
“Oh yes, perfect bore,” John mumbled, but suddenly a friendly hand was clapping on his shoulder, making him jump.
“Who is this dashing fellow you’re talking about, Holmes?”
Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up from John. “Raffles.”
“Holmes.” Raffles had a bright smile, all warm and slightly wolfish. “Long time no see, how are you these days? Mycroft said you’d been through a bit of a rough patch, though obviously not rough enough to stop you picking up a charmingly attentive date for this.”
“I’m not his date,” John grumbled. He didn’t know why he bothered.
“Terribly sorry, old man, I did rather presume.”
John started. No one ever listened when he protested that he wasn’t Sherlock’s date. “Oh. Well, it’s all right.”
“Where are my manners, probably vanished with the second glass of wine. Raffles, AJ Raffles, though I daresay you’ve heard of me, Mister-”
“Doctor. Doctor Watson, John Watson.” He took the offer hand and shook it, trying to ignore Sherlock’s disgusted sound at the fact that Raffles used two hands on his one. “I’m a huge fan of your bowling.”
Raffles let his hand go. “Glad to hear it. So tell me, Watson, Doctor Watson, how did you met our reclusive and frankly anti-social Holmes?”
“I’m not ‘your’ Holmes, Raffles,” Sherlock spat.
“Figure speech, old boy, BUNNY! You remember Holmes, don’t you? Holmes, you of course remember Bunny, he was my fag at school.”
John choked on his wine, hacking into his hand.
Raffles just laughed and patted him on the back. Sherlock looked more annoyed than ever. “Sorry about that, I do love the quaint old terminology. The younger boys served as manservants to the older boys at school. Except Holmes, of course, he wasn’t having anything to do with any of it. God forbid he join in and have fun with everyone else.”
John only then realised there was a hand on his arm, guiding him towards the doe eyed young man from before, the one Sherlock had identified as Bunny. He had the sweetest, most innocent face John had ever seen, a stark contrast to Raffles’ own dark, rakish looks. “Bunny, come and meet Doctor Watson, he’s here with Holmes.”
“O-Oh.” The young man gave him a shy smile, bobbing his head and offering his hand. For a moment, John feared he was going to bow or curtsy instead; it was a relief to just shake his hand. “How do you do, Doctor?”
“Nice to meet you, uh-” It didn’t seem right to call him by such a familial nick name.
“Just Bunny, it’s what everyone calls me,” he assured quickly.
“Bunny, be a good man, look after John, get him another drink, his last one ended up being inhaled rather than ingested, Karida, my darling, you look fantastic, did Mycroft buy that for you for the party?”
And suddenly Raffles was gone, leaving John standing there with Bunny.
The silence stretched for a long moment.
“Is he always like that?”
“Oh yes. That’s just Raffles for you.” Bunny rocked on his feet. “He’s just a bit forceful.”
John looked to where Sherlock was cornering a waiter and quizzing him about the sanitation of the kitchens. “I know someone like that...”
There was another pause.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Dear God, yes,” John exhaled.
*~*~*
“So, you and Raffles went to school together.”
“Yup.”
“And you were his- manservant. At this public school.”
“Yup.”
“And Sherlock also went to school with you and Raffles.”
“That’s about the sum of it,” Bunny agreed over his whiskey and soda. “They were in the same grade. I was a few years behind.”
They had retired to a quiet corner and after a bit of chatting, John had decided that watching Sherlock wasn’t his job or obligation and that he’d sooner sit and have a relatively normal conversation with Bunny instead. And take the chance to find out a bit about Sherlock when he was younger, a time that Sherlock liked to pretend didn’t exist.
“Still, you must have spent a lot of time with Raffles, at least.” He had switched to drinking soft drinks after the wine incident. An absence of Sherlock also helped curb the urge for a drink.
“Oh, rather. I was a bit at a loss when he graduated and moved onto university. It didn’t last, he went into cricketing instead, but for a while I really thought he was going to become a banker or something equally brainy and boring.”
John didn’t actually know much about Raffles, outside of his average bowling score and how much the Australian batsmen didn’t like him. And apparently, he went to the same exclusive boys’ school as the Holmes brothers. “He’s smart then?”
“Oh yes! He’s absolutely brilliant, he thinks up all kinds of things, he knows all this obscure trivia that turns up to be useful when you least expect it, and he speaks English, French, Italian and Latin fluently.” Bunny sighed a little. “I really don’t know why he keeps me around some times.”
John could take a guess though, from the adoring way Bunny spoke of the older man. he clearly hero worshipped him. “Obviously you did meet up after school, though.”
“Yes. Raffles helped me through a bad patch, he’s a real sport like that, I turned up at his door after five years and he just invited me in like I’d only seen him the night before at school dinner.” He looked over to John with that same shy smile. “How did you meet Holmes?”
John glanced to the ceiling briefly, trying to work out how much to say without sounding like a lunatic. “A university friend of mine introduced us. I was looking for a flat, Sherlock was looking for a flatmate to split the rent.” He shrugged and took another drink. “I’ve been living with him ever since. Well, we live together, we have a land lady, the flat doesn’t actually belong to either of us.”
Bunny nodded attentively. “I imagine it could be rather hard at times. Holmes was a bit... eccentric in school sometimes.”
“Eccentric. That’s a way you could put it.” A very nice way. Bunny was obviously well mannered or too nice for his own good. Maybe both. “What do you do, Bunny?”
“Mm? Oh, I inherited from my father, he died when I was in high school. Mostly I travel with Raffles when he goes on tour, we travel around Britain a lot when he’s not. That sort of thing. You’re a medical doctor?”
“Yes. I work at a clinic when Sherlock isn’t dragging me around the streets of London after serial killers, thieves and blackmailers.” Sherlock almost made a warzone look calm.
“Th-thieves? You work for the police?” Bunny seemed startled about that.
“Sherlock works with them. Consulting detective. He does private work as well when he’s bored enough. It’s all just a game to him.”
Bunny laughed nervously. “Raffles is just the same. He gets bored with people a lot, why I don’t really understand why he keeps me around after all this time, really.” He blushed and drained his drink. “He and Holmes used to get into terrible chess matches.”
“Chess.” Terrible chess matches?
“Oh yes. They both wanted to prove they were better. Raffles is very smart, you know. He seems like he’s all smiles and talk, but he’s awful clever.”
John suspected that some sheepdogs would seem awful clever to Bunny. It wasn’t meant to be an unkind thought; the young man was charming and sweet and good company but he wasn’t striking John as a mental giant and frankly, he suspected that Bunny would declare that Raffles made the sun rise just by asking nicely if pushed about what made it so.
“You must be terribly clever too, to be a doctor,” Bunny suddenly came up with.
“I- Well, I just worked hard,” he said quietly.
“You must’ve done more than that. I mean, you’re a doctor, that’s really, really impressive.”
John felt himself blushing slightly. After months of running around after Sherlock and feeling like the world’s class A, first prize idiot, it was refreshing to be in the situation where he was reminded that he wasn’t a mental slouch compared to the general population. “Thank you, Bunny,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome, John.” Bunny waved down another waiter and got himself another drink. John declined with a raised hand as Bunny turned back to him. “I don’t imagine you get complimented a lot. I mean, hanging around with Sherlock, no matter what you do...”
Sherlock did it better. But John didn’t mind. “I didn’t become a doctor for glory. I want to help people.”
“Have you been at your practice long?”
“Not really. I started shortly after I moved in with Sherlock.”
“And what did you do before that?”
He was quiet a moment. “I served in Afghanistan. I was sent home when I was shot twice.”
“Oh my!”
John might’ve laughed if it weren’t a somber topic. Bunny’s exclamation should have sounded so put on, but it was so incredibly genuine. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t look like a soldier.”
“You were shot? It must have been terribly painful,” he gasped.
“I don’t remember,” John said automatically. He liked to not remember whenever possible.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Bunny murmured. “I’ve just never met a real soldier before, who went and fought and everything. It’s just... very awe-inspiring, Doctor Watson, John, of course, John, it just makes me admire you more as a person that you have that sort of conviction.”
John opened his mouth to speak when a hand landed on his shoulder. “That’s because the only conviction you have is to Raffles.”
“Sherlock,” John sighed out.
“No, no, Holmes is right, I am terribly indecisive... oh, I think Mrs Bullet-Finch wants me, lovely to meet you, John, maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow at the festivities, bye.”
Unlike Raffles’ practised, easy retreat, Bunny’s came off as frightened and stumbling run for cover from the presence of John’s flatmate. John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would it kill you to be nice to people, sometimes?”
“I was just stating facts, John. Bunny Manders is indecisive, lacking conviction in anything but his servitude to that ingrate cricketer.” Sherlock sat down in the chair Bunny had just vacated, and John resigned himself to not seeing Bunny again that evening.
“Give me your phone.”
He sighed and took Bunny’s whiskey and soda for himself.
*~*~*
Sherlock had eventually taken his phone, placing a few harassing texts to Mycroft while John worked his way through the whiskey and felt a little more able to handle keeping Sherlock on a leash until they were able to retire to their rooms for the night.
“Ladies and gentlemen, drinks and dancing will be commencing on the back patio. For those of you who have had longer journeys, wait staff are available to show you to your rooms for the evening.”
Sherlock sighed. “That sounds wonderful. I have no desire to spend the rest of the evening listen to sycophantic discussions with my brother or the ever so beloved AJ Raffles.”
John wasn’t sure if he wanted to go and try and find Bunny to talk to or just make a graceful escape with Sherlock and get an early night. Or, more likely, be kept up half the night by violin playing, talking and general restlessness.
“Come on, John.” Sherlock’s hand caught his elbow, lifting him from his seat and propelling him forwards.
“Come on, where?”
“To our rooms, of course. You don’t intend to go and make small talk with my brother’s guests, do you?”
“Well... no, not really,” he admitted.
“Wonderful.” Sherlock started off again towards one of the staff. “My room, please, and my companion’s.”
“This way, Mr Holmes,” the man said with a slight bow. “You’ve been put in the West tower, on the lower floor in deference to Dr Watson’s leg injury.”
“How thoughtful,” John murmured. “I’m glad to see someone doesn’t expect me to have the room at the top of the stairs.”
“Stop grumbling, John, you love your room. And your leg is generally fine.” It was a show of unusual tact that Sherlock didn’t outright tell him it was made up and thus not a genuine impediment.
They followed after the man as he led them through the house. Sherlock pointed out paintings that had been collected by the family, a hideous vase from an aunt that Mycroft was too gutless to get rid of, and that the West tower was the most heavily soundproofed, big, old, original stone that would keep the more rowdy guests from disturbing anyone else.
John could well imagine why they were being housed here.
“Your rooms, sirs.”
“Hang on.” John looked to the man as Sherlock pushed open the door and wandered in. “Did you say ‘sirs’? As in, we’re both in here?”
“Many of the guests are sharing rooms with their companions, sir. Misters Raffles and Manders are the floor above you.”
“John, stop complaining and come in. There’s accommodation for both of us.” Sherlock’s voice drifted out of the door.
John bit back the low growl that wanted voicing and stepped inside, shutting the door before taking in the room.
There was a large, four poster bed, very large, with a big, comfortable looking couch that would perfectly fit a sprawling Sherlock. They had a small television, an arm chair, coffee table, writing desk. Through a side door he could see an en suite arrangement with toilet, sink and shower. Large wardrobes with their clothes already hanging and someone had left a nicely carved wooden walking stick alongside the door, which John assumed was for him, just in case of difficulties.
“There’s only one bed.”
“I don’t sleep and even if I do, it’s large enough for both of us and two other adults to comfortably sleep in, the two of us will fit fine with no threat of inadvertent contact.”
“It’s more the implications of it that bothers me,” John grumbled, but Sherlock had a lot of valid points. It was huge, and that was even assuming that Sherlock would go to bed during this weekend and not just doze on the couch for a few hours.
Sherlock ignored his comment and flung himself into the couch, toeing off his shoes and sliding down a bit to rest his ankles up on the arm of the chair, head on the seat. “Not bad.”
“This room is amazing, Sherlock. Considering what Mycroft could have given to either of us after that last stint you pulled with him.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pouncing slightly and feeling the mattress.
“Bah.” He closed his eyes.
“Don’t bah, you sent secret service scattering all over the city just so you could chase down the criminal yourself.” He took off his shoes and tie, undoing the top of his shirt and stretching out on the bed. “This is fantastic.”
“Hm.” Sherlock reached out and turned on the small television, tuning it into BBC1.
“If you do want to take the bed for a night, the couch looks comfortable enough-”
“Don’t be more ridiculous than nature intended, John. I am quite comfortable sharing a king sized double bed with you for a couple of nights should I even desire to sleep. Undoubtedly, you will not even notice if I do so due to the fact that I sleep much less than you.” He didn’t even open his eyes as he spoke.
John held up a hand. “Okay, okay, point taken.” He got up again and went to the wardrobe. “I’m going to have a shower before bed.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, so he just went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, using the facilities and stripping down before his phone beeped from his coat pocket. Sherlock must have stuck it back at some point. He turned on the water and checked his phone.
I need nicotine patches. SH
John sighed. “I packed some in my suitcase, check the drawer in the wardrobe!” He got into the water and ignored the next two texts.
If Sherlock was too lazy to call out to him, he certainly wasn’t going to bother replying.
When he got out, dressed for bed, Sherlock was still lying on the couch, curled up under his coat and narrating Big Brother with the sound turned off the television.
“Night, Sherlock,” he said softly, getting into bed and turning off the main light.
“Good night, John.”
He relaxed into the plump matress, lulled by Sherlock’s muttering and the alcohol from the party.
He opened his eyes to find Sherlock hovering right above him, poking him in his uninjured shoulder. “John. John.”
“I’m awake.” Military habits died hard; he was sharp awake instantly. “What time is it?”
“I’m bored. Come explore the house with me.”
Oh God. “Sherlock, what time is it?”
“Bored time. Come on, everyone’s asleep, we won’t be disturbed, we can have a look around.”
“Everyone’s asleep because it’s some ungodly hour in the morning. I was asleep.”
“You can sleep later. Now we have the place to ourselves.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to almost gleam silver in the pale moonlight.
“Sherlock-”
“I’m going one way or another,” he threatened.
John sighed.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his robe, which Sherlock eagerly helped him in to. “Where are we exploring?”
Sherlock grinned at him. “The gifts room.”
“Oh. Goody,” John deadpanned.