AN: Hello friends! Here is the first chapter of this brand new installment! And guess what? Tis the 32nd of October, or as most of you know it as: NaNoWriMo! I have high hopes on finishing this by the end of the month but we shall see. And I really have to tell you guys how stupendous you've been with the lovely comments and encouragement. I hold all of your feedback to high esteem, and try my best to not let you guys down. Much love to you all, xxHoney.
Usual disclaimers apply: Cred belongs to Moff, Gat, the BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Pursuit of a Greater Thrill
Sherlock lets the scalding hot water of the shower pound down on his back and shoulders as he presses his forehead to the tile. He kneads the back of his neck as the tension of the past nine hours on an aeroplane crammed in between a man (early fifties, traveling salesman, has two wives that neither are aware of) who snored incessantly, and a woman (mid forties, dental hygienist, used to be a man) with entirely too much perfume, swirls down the drain.
Belarus. What a useless country. (Republic, actually. Semantics. Hardly mattered, although best not delete it; god forbid he ended up back there by accident.)
Although he had seen it coming. He could tell by the email that the case of one Barry 'Bezza' Berwick was simply an open and shut domestic murder, (crime of passion, even, which was equally dull) but he jumped at it simply for the excuse to leave London for a few days. He needed the space in order to…clear his head.
It had nearly been a week since…since Jane and he…
He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips and closes his eyes.
Kissing. He had never wanted to, never cared for it, and after his first experience deemed it boring and superfluous. But that night, kissing Jane— well that was something entirely different. Never had he felt so consumed with immediate need before. It was like a conflagration, engulfing his synapses on an utterly primal level, demanding he push logic aside for once and simply take.
It was a disturbing thought to say the least. (Or what should have been disturbing under the thrilling pulse of adrenaline.)
However, what was perhaps more disturbing was the fact that the next morning as he watched Jane sleep peacefully against him, his was compelled to kiss her again. (And ironically unrepentant of the fact.) It was this when he realised how foolish of him it was to think that one night would ever be enough. He really was a spectacular idiot sometimes.
He booked the flight for Minsk that morning and left two days after.
The thing of it was, though, his distance from her didn't help in the slightest, and he hadn't realised the full force of it until he walked into their flat and found it empty. He had vacillated in the sitting room for a moment, his hand already half way to his mobile before he abandoned the idea of immediately texting Jane and demanding to know where she was. (Even now he has a sinking feeling he knows exactly where she is, and the thought irritates him.)
The shower starts to run cold, and he shuts it off before stepping out and wrapping a towel around his hips. With no Jane in the flat, and no clients, and absolutely no shred of Lestrade's good graces remaining, Sherlock could feel the weight of languor dragging him down with every step he took towards his bedroom. It took all of his strength not to simply collapse in a half-naked heap on his bed and beg for death before the encroaching black mood could take full effect. The only thing that gave him pause was Jane's nattering voice in the back of his head saying'Don't be so dramatic.'
It almost makes him smile despite himself, until he remembers that she's still gone and he flops on his bed face first anyway.
He would have been content to wallow miserably, completely starkers for the rest of the night if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson's trademark 'yoo-hoo' drifting in from the sitting room. Sherlock groans.
"Sherlock? Is that you, love?"
Sherlock drags himself up from his bed and snatches some discarded sleep trousers from the floor and a ratty t-shirt from the hamper. He shoves his arms through his blue dressing gown, affronted it was inside out to begin with, and pulls open the door.
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says bypassing her and throwing himself on the sofa.
"I thought that was you! Jane said you wouldn't be home for at least another few hours, or I would have had some supper ready for you."
"Not hungry," comes his immediate reply.
"Oh pish. I'll let the kettle boil and you can make some tea while I pop to the shops," she says. "You'll be a lot less stroppy with some decent tea in you. I should know."
Sherlock twists to look at her at this, an eyebrow arched. "Mrs. Hudson…have you even been to Belarus?"
Mrs. Hudson turns around from where she was hanging up Sherlock's coat and gives him a sly half-smile, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I'm off out, dear. Anything special you would like me to pick up?" she says by way of an answer.
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "No. I'm not hungry," he says again and flops back down on the sofa.
"Oh Sherlock," she titters and makes her way out of the flat.
Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and glares around the room. He spots the can of yellow spray paint on the desk that Jane gave him as a joke, and he gets an idea.
…
BANG!
Bloody smiley face. It was a good idea at the time, but it only distracted him for all of eight seconds, and now it was just sitting there on the wall mocking him.
BANG!
BANG!
"What the HELL are you doing?" Jane shouts running into the sitting room. Her hair is in disarray, down for once and tousled about her face, and her cheeks pink from the night air. (Took the Tube on her way back from…oh interesting. She didn't go to that Stephen person after all.)
He sighs. "Bored."
"What?" she asks, incredulous.
"Bored!" he says and jumps up from his chair. He aims the gun in his hand at the wall again.
"No! Wait!" Jane clamps her hands over her ears.
BANG!
BANG!
"Bored! Bored!"
"Bloody, stop!" Jane yells and snatches the gun (her gun) from him and disassembles it in record time. Sherlock sighs again and collapses on the sofa.
"I don't know what's got into the criminal classes lately. Lestrade's lucky I'm not one of them. How is Greg anyway?" he sneers.
Jane looks up from locking the gun in the small safe sat on the desk. "How…? Never mind. He's fine." She does a double take at the smiley on the wall. "I see you've…decorated."
"Mm."
She sighs in exasperation, but Sherlock doesn't miss the almost proud smirk she tries to repress. "How was Russia?"
"Belarus," Sherlock corrects, and Jane rolls her eyes. "Open and shut domestic murder. Hardly worth my time." He stretches his legs out, digging his toes into the leather arm rest to dispel his restless energy.
"So you took it out on the wall, did you?"
"Ah, the wall had it coming."
Jane shakes her head ruefully, and makes her way to stand over him. She folds her arms and regards him for a moment before sitting on the edge of the sofa by his hip.
"When did you get in?" she asks softly.
"A few hours ago," he says.
She scrutinises his face, and reaches a hand out and gently sweeps her fingers along the dark circles under his eyes. Her touch is electrifying, and he forces his breathing to remain steady. It's funny how this seemingly innocent touch holds so much more meaning now, and he fights the urge to lean in to her caress.
"You should sleep, then. I know you probably didn't on the plane," she says, concern creasing her careworn face. Her agile fingers rove up and begin to tenderly massage his forehead and around his temples. "I can tell you've got a headache."
Sherlock hums, his eyes falling closed almost instantly. He didn't realise how right she was until her ministrations began to ease the vice in his head. It was a relief to be close to her again even though the voice in the back of his mind reminded him relentlessly why he tried to leave in the first place. His trip to Minsk was meant to bring the walls back up between them, and so far he was failing. It was rather pathetic, actually.
"Any clients on your blog?" Jane asks. Sherlock peers at her through his lashes.
"It's not a blog, Jane. It's a website."
"You use the same platform as mine, so technically it's a blog," Jane says.
"Please," he scoffs. "As if that inane drabble you chatter on about could even compare to what I do." She glares and drops her hands.
"So you've read it," she says getting to her feet and heading to the kitchen.
"Mm, on the plane. 'A Study in Pink.' Yes. I needed something to do to pass the time, even if it was something as prosaic as your blog," he mumbles snatching a magazine from the coffee table and idly flipping through the pages.
"Well, you know: pink lady, pink suit case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. It's got quite a few readers, if I do say so myself," she preens.
Sherlock snarls wordlessly and flings the magazine back onto the table.
"Hang on…" Jane says and walks back out into the sitting room. "That's what's got your knickers in a twist, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock sniffs.
"You're jealous that I have more readers on that one post than you do on your entire 'website!'" she crows triumphantly.
"Am not!" Sherlock says and pulls himself upright in a huff.
"Oh yes you are!" she says jabbing a finger at him. "You're upset that people like 'A Study in Pink' more than your encyclopaedia on tobacco ash."
Sherlock glares at her. "It just shows you that the masses are mindless idiots that can be taken in with just a few lines of flowery prose."
"So you didn't like it, I take it?" Jane says.
"No as a matter of fact, I did not!"
"Why? The whole thing is mostly about you. I thought you'd be flattered."
"Flattered? Let's see… 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"
Jane rolls her eyes. "Now hang on, I didn't mean —"
"Oh you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way? Look it doesn't matter to me who's prime minister…"
"Yeah," she guffaws.
"…or which celebrity is sleeping with who —"
"— or that the Earth goes 'round the Sun?" she says smirking.
"Oh god, not that again," Sherlock says and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"It's primary school stuff, how can you not know that?"
"Deleted it probably."
"Like you did the airing cupboard?"
"…What?"
"God, stop deleting necessary rooms in our flat!" Jane says in exasperation. "And it's the bloody solar system, for crying out loud!"
"Hell what does it matter?" he groans and puts his head in his hands. "So the Earth revolves around the Sun! If we went around the Moon or 'round and round the garden like a teddy bear,' it wouldn't make any difference! People fill their heads with rubbish, Jane. My mind is like a hard drive, if I clutter it with useless information I can't achieve maximum efficiency when it comes to the Work. That's all that matters in the end. Put that in your blog. Or better yet, stop inflicting your useless opinions on the world," he sneers and flings himself sideways, curling into a ball with his back to the rest of the room.
"You deleted the solar system, but you still managed to keep a child's nursery rhyme rattling around in your skull?" Jane says from behind him trying to sound non-fazed, but he can hear the hurt edge in her voice. (Damn. Damn it. Of course he would hurt her. It's inevitable even on his best days. She should know this by now. Damn.) He turns to look at her, but before he can say anything the shrill whistle of the kettle can be heard from the kitchen. Jane grits her teeth, and goes to fetch it.
"You need to get us a new electric by the way," she says trying to smooth over the abrasive edges of their argument. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wants hers back at some point. And don't think I don't know about where our blender went. I bought the last one, so now it's your turn to —gahh!" Jane yelps. Sherlock leaps up and makes his way into the kitchen where he sees Jane with her hand on the fridge door, her head bowed and breathing hard.
"What? What happened?"
She doesn't answer, but opens the fridge instead and presents it to him. He looks up at her, confused at her irritation.
"Do I really -? A head, Sherlock!" she cries, incredulous. "A bloody severed head!"
"Yes," he states and walks over to pour him a mug of water for tea.
"In our fridge!" she says again.
"I picked it up from Molly. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death. You don't mind do you?"
"Why would I mind?" she say weakly.
"Oh. Good," he says and reaches for the sugar and tea bags.
"That was sarcasm Sherlock," she deadpans.
"So you do mind?"
"Argh!" Jane shouts, at her wit's end. She storms past him and grabs her jacket.
"Where are you going?" he says following her.
"Out! I need some air!" She throws her hair messily into a ponytail and slams the door. A moment later she comes back in and points an accusing finger at him. "Eat something, will you? There's left over risotto in the fridge. And for god's sake sleep so I can stand to be in the same room as you."
And with that she turns on her heel and bangs down the stairs. Sherlock crosses the sitting room so he can watch her cross the street from the window.
"Oh, dear. It's quite nippy out," Mrs. Hudson's voice comes in from behind him. "She should have wrapped herself up more."
Sherlock sighs deeply through his nose and thunks his head against the glass. "Quiet."
"What's that, love?" she says bustling about the kitchen.
"It's too quiet," he says.
"Well. Maybe you'll think next time before you run your young Jane out of the building," Mrs. Hudson says knowingly, and Sherlock turns to face her looking abashed. "Don't look at me like that. You really are a fright when you get growly."
"Growl-y?" he says disdainfully arching an eyebrow.
"Yes. Now I picked you up some biscuits and more tea, the good kind mind, not the cheap stuff Jane insists on," she says and sets the carrier bag on the only available space on the counter. "I'm making a roast which will be ready in one hour. I expect you to come down stairs and eat it with me."
Sherlock goes to protest for the third time that is isn't hungry when she cuts him off.
"You'll be there, Sherlock. Especially if you don't want me adding that," she points to the defaced wall, "to your rent, young man!" She tuts and makes her way downstairs.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose, but smirks when he looks at his handy work. He steps up and over the coffee table and pokes a finger in one of the bullet holes, and sighs again. He lets his arm fall to his side and huffs indignantly.
"Quiet!" he complains to no one in particular.
Then, as if on cue, the building across from 221 explodes.
Like always, bold words will be updated in 'Afters' periodically, so be checking that one too!