Baker Street Irregulars

[madimpossibledreamer]

Okay, I am very much enjoying Log Horizon, and Color Out of Space was actually a decent Lovecraft movie.  Color me impressed don't actually, that was a terrible pun

Main Points:
Sherlock AU
Summary: Like it or not, Sherlock's a hero to some.
This happens to be another not-fully-finished work from 2012.  I can't take all the credit for the ideas therein; the work Parallel by brbsoulnomming was a big inspiration (link https://archiveofourown.org/works/205389).  I like the idea of the Baker Street Irregulars, I like the idea that John was the one who accidentally formed them this time.  It's not a shipping fic (well, not for John and Sherlock, at least), which is odd.  Go read the rec instead; it's better.  (Moments of this one are cool, but still.  Overall the link is better, though it is also R-rated, so only proceed if you want to see such content.)  Among other things...this ain't casefic.
Word Count: 2420
Rating: Teen (it's lower rating than the linked work, but still for safety)

 

          Finding a reason to live was an accident.
          The thing was, John Watson had no reason to expect it.  Not for the second time.  He'd been lucky enough to find Sherlock; why should he expect that he'd be handed yet another second chance?  He'd thought his existence would consist of, well, very little, following Sherlock's death.
          He'd quit the job at the surgery.  No reason he should keep on, not when he could barely sleep and showed up distractible and unable to function.  He was putting people's lives in danger, pretending he was capable of doing this, and above all John really didn't want to do that.
          For the most part, he'd been avoiding Mrs. Hudson as much as possible.  It wasn't her fault, but he didn't really want to hear her sympathy as he had for the past three hundred times, or sample more of her delicacies.  She'd expressed again and again how sorry she was, said something about their relationship that was simply not true, but John was tired and didn't have the energy to correct her anymore.
          Honestly, he probably should have moved out of the flat by now, but after the anger and desperation had cooled, there was very little left.  He mostly spent his days staring at the skull, or maybe at the blinking cursor on the blog that was no longer updated.
          He'd been ignoring Harry, Lestrade, and Mycroft for the past month or so.  Well, with an exception.  As Sherlock would no doubt have snorted sarcastically and commented about meddling brothers, were he here, he had trouble ignoring Mycroft, who apparently had taken it into his head that he'd been appointed the protector of his little brother's flatmate.
          He was aware that at some point, he'd probably be signed up for more sessions with his therapist, but in the end it really didn't matter.  He'd either not go, or not say much if he did.  Why should he?  Nothing happened to John Watson, not now.
          Until a random day when he'd just decided he had to get out.
          It'd been a last moment thing.  A whim.  He'd gotten tired of the silence, sick of the solitude.  He needed to be around people if at all possible, even if he didn't want to talk to them or interact with them really.  After a bit of thinking, he realized that another town, where no one knew who he was or cared about Sherlock's death and its impact on him, would be perfect.  It was already autumn, and a bit blustery.  Really, he had no idea where the time had gone, but then, he hadn't really cared by that point.  He'd grabbed one of the last scarves that still smelled like Sherlock as a protection against the cold and then hurried to the train station, where he took the first train going anywhere.
          "Excuse me?" a young man's voice asked.  Probably in uni.
          "No, I don't want any tea, and no, this seat isn't taken," John stated quietly, hoping against hope that the man would go away.
          "Um, no, that's not what I was going to say.  Doctor John Watson, yes?" He sounded amused, and a bit nervous.
          At least it sounded interesting.  And despite himself, John's interest was piqued.  He glanced up.  "Yes?" he asked warily.  For all he knew, this was a trap of some kind, despite the fact that Moriarty's body had been found on that roof.  He can't have been alone, and it wasn't like Sherlock hadn't had other enemies as well that could no longer seek revenge in the way they'd planned.
          The man was wearing a coat, rather like the tenth Doctor Who, actually.  He had an apologetic, sad, majestic sort of look that made him look a lot older.  Green eyes, dark hair.  Rather tall.  And still probably a student.  He smiled slightly and held out a callused hand.  "Terrance Butler.  I just wanted to tell you that you're not the only one who still believes."
          John blinked.  "What?"
          The youth's expression didn't change.  "In Sherlock Holmes.  You're not alone.  I just thought you might want to know that.  You're probably sick of people bothering you, though, so I'll go."
          He made to leave, but there was no way he could go, not when he believed, not when he understood every breath with which John was living.
          "No, wait!  I...you're not, I dunno."  He scratched the back of his head.  He'd been too long away from people.  He was getting rusty.
          Terrance smiled reflexively.  "Of course not.  It'd be just mean to joke about a bloke who's dead."  Well, that was true enough, but it was also probably mean and cruel to laugh at crime scenes.  John didn't point out this fairly obvious fact as the student continued, taking a deep breath.  "We're sort of a club.  We call ourselves the Baker Street Irregulars."
          John had missed this.  And even when it wasn't enough to take the pain completely away, it deaden it a little.
          He wondered if this was why people (Sherlock) occasionally took drugs.

          Meeting Rowen Fletcher was an experience in itself.
          After he'd expressed an interest in meeting the Baker Street Irregulars (well, demanded, but Terrance had acted like they were the same thing, so it didn't matter in the end), they'd taken the train back up to London.  They'd ended up going to student housing near Queen Mary, University of London.  If John was any good (read: impossibly, remarkably, impressively brilliant like he was sure a certain flatmate had been) all these facts that he'd been collecting by living with the world's only and missed consulting detective would be put to some good use, but he simply couldn't do it, so the facts Sherlock had deemed worthy of the 'useful and therefore not to be deleted' label simply languished in his brain like bored detectives.
          They'd rung the doorbell and been let in by the landlady (who wasn't half as nice as Mrs. Hudson and glared at them as if they were both criminals, suspiciously eyeing them as she went back to whatever she'd been doing down the hall).  John then followed the young student as he treaded up the stairs and then knocked on the door of one of the flats.
          The door was opened by a young woman who was barely dressed.  She wore shorts (which actually looked suspiciously like boxers, but then, John wouldn't have been altogether surprised if they were), a bra, and a silky dressing gown that looked like it had been bought from the men's department.  Her feet were comfortably bare.
          For the first time in a long while, John's hand stopped trembling, and his inner Sherlock voice, which he wasn't entirely certain that he had and/or had thought he had lost long ago whispered in his ear, Interesting.  He couldn't have agreed more.
          Terrance went pink and looked at the floor.  "Rowen!" he yelped, scandalized.
          She was pretty, John would give her that, but she looked so much like Sherlock Holmes if Sherlock had been born a woman that he didn't bother to ogle.  Instead, he held out his hand to shake.  "John Watson."
          She rolled her knowing green eyes at the reaction of the student, but looked ridiculously pleased by the fact that John looked her in the eyes without acting like there was anything out of the ordinary.  Her handshake was firm, strong, and a touch respectful.  "Rowen Fletcher.  I read your blog."  She paused, then added, with a slight wince.  "I...I'm sorry for your loss.  Although, really, it's not just your loss.  It's the world's.  And they're stupid enough not to get it.  I weep for humanity."  Her voice was lower than your average woman's, but then, she wasn't your average woman.  Obviously.  "I really wasn't expecting anyone.  Which goes to show that one must be prepared for the most unlikely of events.  I'll hunt down a shirt if it stops you trying to outcompete a fresh tomato for color, Butler."  She rolled her eyes again and disappeared into a bedroom.
          She returned with a shirt that proclaimed her a 'Wiseguy'.  John had to snort at that, then began to cry, chuckling all the way.
          For the first time, Rowen looked younger, her confidence gone.  "Um....John.  Is it polite to call you John?  Is this a bad...?"
          He smiled through his tears, shaking his head.  "Sorry, no.  I just haven't..."  He tried to breathe, realizing that he'd forgotten to do so since the funeral.  "You're a lot like him."
          She paused, an unreadable expression crossing her face before she grinned the grin that had been labeled in his head 'fascinating dead body'.  "That's quite a compliment.  He was...He set quite the example."  Familiar with this kind of scooting around the point, John guessed that Sherlock had been a hero to this young woman.  See, Sherlock, he wanted to say.  Heroes do exist, and some people do in fact count you among them.  At least two people do.  Maybe he'd mention it if he went back to the grave.  Talk to Sherlock, because at least Sherlock would understand even if he was sort of dead.
          Terrance rubbed at the back of his neck, looking between the two of them like he was at a particularly exciting tennis match.  "She was sort of elected as the president, but declined.  Because of the similarity, you know."
          "I'm not good with that sort of position," she stated lightly, in a tone that said it bothered her but she was going to act like it didn't.  "Dealing with people.  I'd rather stay out of the spotlight."  She shifted uncomfortably on her feet before vaulting over the back of the couch and landing in a comfortable position, putting her feet up.  "I have the feeling that you don't particularly want to leave just yet, so I believe I'm supposed to say something along the lines of make yourselves at home.  Ignore the mess.  Alis was in the middle of a cleaning spree."  She can't quite decide what to do with her hands, he notices, finally examining her fingernails exaggeratedly for lack of anything else to do.  "Talking to Dr. John Watson, though, is an honor.  And from your reaction to how I answered the door, you won't care if I'm not one hundred percent perfect with regards to social norms.  I have homework I should probably do because it's worth a lot of points, but seriously!"  She flung out her arms and whacked one of them against the side of the couch, but it didn't look like she noticed.  "It's just busy work.  Why do they assign it?  It doesn't help us in the slightest, and it just gives them more work to do.  Are they masochists?"  She stared out the window fixedly.  "Alis-that is, Alisyn-I say her name differently than everyone else does.  It sounds more interesting my way anyway.  She had a test already.  She always gets nervous and makes herself busy.  I wouldn't like to go into business classes.  It seems like a lot of work for very little payoff, since most businesses don't seem to be interested in making intelligent decisions these days.  She's also wondering whether Thomas is interested in dating her, when the answer is quite obviously yes.  Mrs. Russell downstairs has yet another questionable suitor.  I don't know how she could carry on with an art thief and then look down on perfectly functioning relationships, such as Evelin and Peter's a few doors down, I don't know, but then, normal people are often hypocrites, aren't they?"  She paused, then grinned.  "I'm coming off as wired, aren't I?  Perhaps a lack of sleep is not wisely combined with caffeine and sugar."

          Alis, when she comes home, looks a bit startled to find the three of them in the kitchenette laughing over tea and biscuits.  She's a bit on the shy side-at least that's John's initial assumption.  When she settles down in front of the telly and begins playing one of the latest video games-something with the requisite amount of explosions, colors, and over-the-top mechanics, though, he thinks that perhaps there's something more to it than that.
          Well, of course there is, his inner Sherlock voice, stronger than ever, replies.  Pay attention, John.  The details are what's important.
          She wears her discomfort like an old and beloved shirt, he realizes.  She's been uncomfortable for a while.  And then when he sees a quick glance the friendly but quiet girl makes towards Rowen, it all makes perfect sense.
          Alisyn wants a romantic relationship with Rowen, but is too nervous to ask, his inner Sherlock voice supplies helpfully.
          Shut up, John replies silently, without heat, and to his surprise for once Sherlock actually listens to him.  It'd be a day for celebration, if the man was actually alive.

Rowen boxes, rolls dice when thinking, and rolls her eyes a lot.

          One day when John comes down, yawning, Sherlock's sitting there staring at his mail.
          John rolls his eyes and gets tea ready, pointedly ignoring that and the fact that opening someone else's mail is illegal, even if it's a bored Sherlock.
          "Who's Rowen?" he asks, frustrated.  He's probably analyzed the entire envelope, and isn't coming up with the correct answers.  "I don't remember you dating a girl of that name, and in any case she seems far too young for you.  Was it during the period you believe me to be dead?"
          "You're flattering yourself again," John muttered.  No matter what anyone said, he was a master of non sequiturs when he was half asleep.
          Sherlock's eyebrows draw together, and he states, annoyed, "You're not making sense again.  Please attempt to string together coherent thought patterns this time."
          John, having picked up a habit from said student, rolls his eyes as he drinks from his mug.  "I'm occasionally normal and need sleep.  When not getting enough of said sleep my brain doesn't tend to function.  Happy?"
          Sherlock's expression answers for him.  He's not.  "You're evading the question.  Who is she?"
          For a second, John feels the unworthy, vicious impulse to keep Sherlock hanging, as a sort of revenge for one Miss Irene Adler, but instead he takes another sip of tea and feels slightly more normal.  "She's one of the Baker Street Irregulars.  And it's likely she's writing about something interesting, which is good, because I don't think I nor the flat could survive another day of your boredom."
          Sherlock's speechless, shocked look is quite enough for John.