Anderson ↠ BBC Sherlock

act one; nine

It did not take long, of course, for John Watson to get absolutely plastered.

Clara kept handing him drink after drink after drink, only taking the occasional one for herself. A slight buzz would be nice, but for this to work Clara needed to be more or less sober.

"That bartender has really nice eyes," Watson mumbled into his drink. "Pretty blue eyes. Like Sherlock's. Could stare into them all day."

"Holmes' or the bartender's?" Clara asked, more for her own amusement than actual curiosity. To be fair, the bartender did have rather nice eyes, and Clara had spent her fair share of the night examining them. The man was attractive, with dark skin and a too-tight shirt. The shirt was the important part, of course; clinging to his skin and showing off his muscles as he moved.

"Sherlock's," Watson decided, after a moment of deliberation. "But he's fit, the bartender, isn't he? Mm. Sherlock's better, but, you know. He isn't here right now. I wish he was. I miss him." The army doctor frowned, draining half a pint in one swift motion. Clara would probably have to cut him off soon. "Sherlock is... not a hugger, but he gives good ones. After I left Mary. It was nice. He's nice. I think he'd be a good kisser."

Clara stilled. "Watson," she said, gently. "Are you— I mean. You're drunk, but people tend to be more honest when they're drunk, even if it's just with themselves. It's... a thing. Scientifically." When he looked away, Clara sighed. "You don't have to talk about it, of course, but you can, if you want. I've been there. I understand."

Watson quieted. "I was in the army," he told her, looking more tired than drunk. "It's more of a don't ask, don't tell sorta deal nowadays, but... it wasn't, before. It wouldn't have mattered either way, I guess, because I didn't even think about it until people kept insinuating we were together, but. I don't know. It's hard. It's really hard."

She reached out, slowly, and placed her hand on his shoulder. "It is," she agreed.

"I can see why Moriarty likes him," he confessed. "I get it, and that... it hurts, because if I wasn't so ordinary, if I wasn't so me, then maybe— but I am. I'm me, and Sherlock's Sherlock, and," he drained the rest of the pint, cutting himself off. Watson was silent for a second, two, before starting again. "I told Sherlock, once, that he would be happy with Moriarty. And he would be. He would. Sherlock would love being in love with him, and... and I hate it. I hate it, Clara. I hate it so much but I can't do anything about it, cause he's my friend, not my... well. Not my boyfriend."

"You really," Clara began, and then stopped. She had wanted to find out more about his investigation, not help him through a realization of this magnitude, but... as mean as Clara was, not even she was cruel enough to change the topic. She sighed. "If it comes down to it, if he has to pick between you and Moriarty... Moriarty doesn't have a chance. You've always been there for him, you've killed for him, you've thrown your entire life away for him— and he's done the same for you, just a little. He committed treason for you and only for you, regardless of whether or not your ex-wife also benefitted. It's— look, at the end of the day, it's going to be you. Because you're his. And he's yours." She shrugged. "Like I said, the two of you, Johnlock? That's endgame. It's just up to you if it's platonic or not. Because it doesn't have to be. Won't be, as soon as one of you decide to act on it."

"Johnlock," repeated Watson.

"It's your couple name," Clara explained. "'John' from your first name and 'lock' from his. It's what people on the internet call you two. People that want Holmes and Moriarty together call them Sheriarty, I think. It's just... a thing people do." She grimaced. "And the fact that I even know that is mortifying."