As we enter the flat, I find myself gazing forlornly at the hand which held a gun less than an hour ago. It seems to mock me in it's emptiness as I shuffle into the sitting room. A bullet could be obliterating my frontal lobe and with it all the awkwardness of the present situation. John walks in behind me as the survivor's high wears off and I'm stuck with grim reality.
"Uh, do you have any mouthwash I could borrow?" John asks the normally innocent question with a slight blush. I've skipped through Embarrassment and now I'm firmly in the land of Utter Humiliation.
"Unfortunately, no," I answer, hiding my face behind the coat I'm engaged in hanging up. God, I want to disappear through the cracks in the wall, the floorboards, anywhere. Turning around, I'm praying I don't meet his gaze. Please, John, do me a favour and be looking out the window or something.
"Oh, that's okay. I can manage." Nope, he's staring straight at me with a dopey smile plastered on his face. "I'll just go brush my teeth."
Vanishing up the stairs, he takes all of my composure with him as I start to pace around. I'm going to explode, and I swear the feeling is so real my flatmate's going to be picking bits of grey matter out of the carpet when he returns.
Wait…can I even refer to him as my flatmate after that? What kind of status does forced oral sex confer upon the relationship? Does it do anything? Fuck you, Moriarity. You just made me waste precious moments on a completely stupid chain of thought. Alright, I have to get over this, preferably before John gets back. He's obviously going to forget it ever happened, so I should just do the same.
Right.
To celebrate this burgeoning rationality, I scream at the top of my lungs into one of the couch cushions. At that exact moment, John comes back into the room.
"Are you alright?" He's clearly confused to see a man clutching a pillow to his face in the middle of the sitting room. Well, at least he can't see me flushing profusely….as long as I don't remove the cushion.
"Fine."
"Then, what are you doing?"
"Nothing. This upholstery should be cleaned soon."
"I see." He stares. Why is he staring? Fuck, John, you could be considerate and leave me to my mortification.
Yes, the man who has just given me a blow job should be more considerate.
I think it's a full minute before I realize firstly, that I'm laughing uncontrollably at the joke I've told myself in my head and secondly, that John is trying to guide me to sit down. Unbelievably, he actually seems concerned. I'd expect him to be packing his stuff and calling the police.
"Sherlock, I know we almost died. You have to get a hold of yourself." He manages to get me to sit down on the couch and he's next to me, eyes not leaving my face. I laugh again, this time at the absurdity of his words.
"Really, John. You should know that I've almost been murdered several times by now, by several different interested parties. I'm not exactly popular."
"Then what's - " The phrase dies quietly on his lips as the realization dawns on him. Seriously, where is that gun? I need it now.
Awkwardly, John opens and closes his mouth several times to talk. Searching for the right thing to say, I can actually track where his mind is going. A look to the mantelpiece; should he compare this with other cases? A glance to the kitchen; maybe he could say we're special and unique people and this is nothing in the ocean of our lives? A glare to the union jack on the chair: perhaps this is war and things happen that we all regret?
Finally, he sighs and shrugs his shoulders, giving up on all those options and going for what he's actually thinking. This might go very badly.
"Listen, it was nothing really. I mean, it was that or death and I did what needed to be done." Not bad, but I'm going to have to point out the obvious.
"Except it didn't have to be you."
John isn't quick to answer, and for the first time since I met him, I can't read his face. Then he laughs and I'm just confused. "No offence, but I can't picture you doing that, not even then."
"What do you mean?" Come on, Sherlock, for once stop now before this goes to hell. You don't have to know, everything, do you?
"I don't know." John doesn't seem taken aback by the question, as amusement still plays across his face, "it's just not in you, I guess. Or at least, that's what it seems like."
"But you thought I was gay when you moved in."
Now, I've embarrassed him and colour rises to his face, "Yes well, I didn't really know you then, did I? I didn't realize you were so repressed."
"I am NOT repressed." I snap, unable to control it.
"I'm sorry. I'm just saying that because…you didn't exactly take…ummm…plus after -"
"Stop, that's enough. I didn't need that kind of detail."
"Why are you getting cross? YOU'RE the one that asked."
"I didn't ask for THAT."
The last exchange is made with sneers and raised voices. John moves to get up, but pauses. Once again, I brace myself for a punch, instead I get grabbed by the collar and pulled closer. We're eye to eye and this is extremely uncomfortable. My gaze drifts everywhere as my stomach clenches, and I start to shake. What the fuck is wrong? I've been in worse situations, so why am I acting like a scared little girl? I wasn't even the one who got the worse part of the deal.
"This time, Sherlock, you are not going to be flippant and you are going to believe me." John's breath is on my face, hot despite the minty sharpness of toothpaste. "What happened was not your fault, and I am fine. We both did what we had to and I refuse to let some bastard wreck my life or yours. Agreed?"
Strange things are going on in me, and I'm sick with fear and other emotions I'm not even going to give the consideration of labelling. I'm struggling with a sudden speechlessness, that John notices and addresses by shaking me slightly.
"Agreed?" Impatient, and still too close for any kind of relief, he's not going to let go until he gets an answer. I'm trying to stammer something out, but my mouth is dry and my tongue is thick and this is wrong. There's something really wrong going on here, and I don't know what it is.
"Agreed." Managing to get that out, I lean back from John, attempting to get away. He doesn't let go. Why is he not letting go? Why am I not punching his head to a bloody pulp?
"Sherlock, you need to relax. It's alright."
I'm more actively struggling, but still he's got his hands on me and he's holding me in place. My heart starts pounding. My God, I can't breathe. What exactly is going on? I try to scream it at John, but all that comes out is a hoarse croak. The room starts spinning, my eyes go blind while wide open.
It's Moriarty he's back, he's clawing at me, he's trying to take me. I can't get him off, I can't talk, please, John, get him off.
I can't do it.
"Sherlock!"
My name reverberates in my ears, out of John's lips…Moriarity's…my brother's…Lestrade's. I'm kicking, and tearing, but he's there and he's holding me down with a strength I couldn't begin to imagine. I'm helpless and I'm pinned on the hard ground. My heart beats in my ears.
Then it stops.
And I stop with it.
