Archive of Our Own ^beta

°1°

When Stephen opened his eyes, he noticed how dry and raw his throat and mouth was. He smacked his lips and winced at the discomfort. “Oh, god,” his head pounded. “Jooooooohn,” he called out. 

The blond stuck his head into the bedroom, a bowl of soup and a bottle of paracetamol in hand. “How are you feeling, Stephen?” He asked softly, and Stephen went to answer, then paused. 

Wait. How the hell does John know it's Stephen? Was it how he said John's name? Was it how he looked? Did Sherlock teach John to be a master of the art of deduction since he's last fronted? (Which was a week ago, so unless John is a fast learner there isn't much of a chance that's what's happening here.)

He blinked his bleary eyes at John for a moment before he decided the body was way too sick and his mind way too foggy to even care, and he answered, “like shit.” 

John smiled sympathetically at Stephen, and came to sit on the edge of the bed, setting the soup on the side table and opening the bottle of paracetamol, giving two pills to Stephen and handing him the water on the side table. “I told Sherlock not to jump in the river and to take at least one nap, he even front-locked himself so Shelley and Arthur wouldn't make him rest. Sorry, buddy.” 

“Where's Archie, and Mrs. Hudson?” He asked, before swallowing the pills and sipping the water. His stomach turned even at the small amount of liquid, but he knew better than to take the pills dry. 

“Archie's taking a nap, and Mariana went back to the shops to get more cough medicine. I want you to eat some of that soup, alright? It'll help.” John said, standing. 

“Alright, mom,” Stephen replied, and John faked a laugh. 

“Ha, funny, but I mean it. And get some more rest, Stephen. I'm just down the hall if you need me.” And he promptly left. Stephen stared up at the ceiling, debating whether he should go to sleep or eat some of the soup, but he decided he really did want to stop being sick, and sat up, taking some sips of it. It was actually quite good, good enough for Stephen to completely forget that John had known Stephen was fronting. 

°2°

Frédéric was finishing the dishes, humming a composition he wrote some months ago to himself, when John came through the door, carrying bags of groceries. “Evening, doctor.” He said to him. 

John sat the groceries on the island, nodding back to Frédéric. “Evening, Freddie,” he said, and began pulling things out of bags. Frédéric paused his actions, turning to look at John in confusion. 

How in the world has this man deduced who he was talking to? Sherlock stopped employing the use of those ghastly name tags two decades ago, and even that wouldn't explain how John knew of his presence if he did have one, since he hadn't even looked at Frédéric when he entered. 

“Mind helping me with these?” He asked, and Frédéric came out of stupor, drying his hands with a dish towel and coming to John's aid. “Ooh, not that bag,” John said, snatching away a bag in front of Frédéric. When Frédéric tilted his head in confusion, John said, “Surprise, for Shelley.” 

“Ah,” Frédéric replied. 

“Alright,” John said after they finished with the groceries. “I'm gonna go do some shout outs, I'll be in my room if you need me.” Then he promptly left. 

Frédéric watched the doctor go before he went to dry the dishes, confusion etched in his face. 

°3°

“Mariana,” Shelley said quietly. “Do you know how John does it?” 

Mariana looked up at her from her crossword puzzle, tilting her head in confusion. “Does… what?” 

Shelley furrowed her brows. “Do you know who I am?” 

“Eh… Sherlock?” Mariana guesses, and Shelley shook her head. 

“John?” She called the podcaster, and he shouted back from the kitchen. “Do you know who's fronting right now?”

“Shelley?” He replied instantly. She frowned further. She rubbed her chin in thought. 

“Thank you, John,” she called, then turned back in her chair, steepling her hands under her chin.

“What is it?” Mariana asked. 

“He always knows who's fronting. Every time.” Shelley replied. “Even when we don't know who's fronting, he can figure it out. How?”  

“Well,” Mariana shrugs. “Maybe he's just good at picking up clues?” 

“Mm,” Shelley hummed. “How about now, John?” 

“Still Shelley!” John replied. 

“Dammit,” Shelley muttered. 

“Maybe it's the way you act around him,” Mariana replied. 

“How do you mean?” Shelley asked. 

“Well, I've noticed at least different parts act differently around us. I haven't really connected what actions to who but I can tell.” Mariana says. “He may not pick up small clues but he knows social cues.” 

Shelley hummed. “Perhaps.” 

°4° 

Shelley introduced an experiment to her system, to see if they can dupe John. Shelley would pretend to be Stephen, Stephen would pretend to be Sherlock, Sherlock would be Scotty, and so on. Stephen and Scotty were against it for differing reasons (“You know I'm not as good at masking as Arthur,” “it feels wrong to lie to John!” Respectively) but they all agreed and the experiment began. 

“Watson,” Stephen said, taking on the posh accent of his host. “Do we have to watch another Bond marathon?” 

John came back into the living room, a bowl of popcorn and cotton candy in his hands, and sat down next to Stephen. “I mean, we don't have to, but you know I really like them, and we already watched all the Alien movies last week, remember?”

Stephen huffed. “Alien has an actually interesting plot and study on human nature.” 

“I'm not disagreeing on that point, Stephen,” John put his hands up in surrender. “But it's my turn to watch my favorite franchise.”

Stephen was so mad he got caught that he didn't even reply. 

After the first movie, Scotty switched in for him, and Scotty was to pretend to be Arthur, so he nodded to John. “Hey, man.” 

“Hey, Scotty. Just switch in? The second movie's just started.” John said, and Scotty resisted frowning in disappointment. “Popcorn?” 

Halfway through the movie, he made Sherlock front, and before he even said anything, John put a hand on his shoulder, “Jeez, you're switchy today, you doing okay, Sherlock?” and Sherlock knew the experiment was a bust. 

°5° 

“I-I don't know-know-” Blackbeard was hyperventilating, his eyes blurring from tears. It was a bad day, a very bad day. It was the date, the weather, the smells- it all reminded him, it all brought him back there. “Oh God oh God oh God-” he sobbed. 

“Shh, it's okay, it's okay,” John was kneeling next to him, rocking Blackbeard in his arms. “I'm right here, Edward, you're not there. You're here. With me, 221b Baker Street, remember?” 

Blackbeard clutched his head, shaking. “T-the presents, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean it-” 

“It's over,” John whispered in his ear. “She's not here. She's gone.” 

Somehow, knowing that she was dead made him sob harder. She was vile, vicious, cruel, but he still felt love for his mother. “Mummy…” 

“Breathe with me, Edward,” he whispered, and began breathing in, and breathing out slowly  “C'mon.” 

Blackbeard shakily breathed with John, trying to get his heart under control. It was hard. It was so hard. But John was there, John was there and he knew and he helped and he cared. He clung to John's T-shirt, and eventually let time slip away. 

°+1°

“Ah, shit,” John looked down at his phone. “My phone's dead. Mariana, do you have your phone on you?” 

Mariana checked her purse, and nodded. “Yes, but it's pretty low battery as well.”

John turned to Shelley, who was rummaging through trash bins. Sherlock needed clues to a recent disappearance of their client, but didn't want to deal with the rather vile trash by himself, it seems. “Who's fronting?” 

Shelley paused, and turned up to John. “You don't know?” 

“My phone's dead, and you guys have been switchy all day,” John explained, like it made any sense. 

She frowned and blinked at him. “What?” 

John waved his phone in front of her face. “My phone? It's dead, I can't see your Simply Plural now.” 

Shelley looked down, then back up at John. “You have our Simply Plural?”

John tilts his head. “Yeah, ‘course I do. Arthur gave it to me.” 

Shelley looked back into the trash bins, then up at the sky, and laughed. 

John and Mariana watched as she laughed in confusion. 

“Do you know what this means?” John asked Mariana. 

“No idea.” She replied.