You are the hole in my head
You're the space in my bed
You are the silence in between
What I thought and what I said
- Florence Welch
Tuesday is always crap telly night at Baker Street. It is the only one of their new traditions that has stuck. Monday dinners at the Watsons were ruined in equal measure by the demands made by baby Benjamin and Sherlock being clearly uncomfortable engaging in social interaction outside familiar surroundings such as their former bachelor pad. John's suggestion of a Friday pub night was never even tested in practice.
Sherlock was not an advocate for routine nor had John been prior to becoming a father. Benjamin had demonstrated that unless there was some sort of a framework in place, hours and days and weeks would just pass unnoticed and important things would be left undone. Such as John spending time with Sherlock.
On the outside, things had remained much the same when it came to The Work and how John was a part of it. Still, for Sherlock nothing was the same. He'd been forced to reveal his cards by Mary, for which he was both thankful and furious.
John had not exactly returned his admission of… fondness. But he hadn't rejected him either. After realizing John could suspend him in such a limbo practically forever, he had tried to behave like before, as though the conversation initiated by Mary had not ever even happened.
John had become more difficult to read after The Fall.
John's phone beeps right after he has turned the sound back on after bidding farewell to the last of the day's patients.
WHAT TIME SHOULD YOU BE EXPECTED TO ARRIVE? SH
THE USUAL? John replies. Sherlock knows full well he always arrives at around six, takeaway containers in hand. Then they do their little dance of Sherlock complaining about the selection and John pointing out that Sherlock had just hours earlier clearly stated that selecting food was dull and he had no desire in involving himself in such a useless activity. Surely Sherlock wouldn't have deleted all that.
VERY WELL. BRING PLYWOOD. SH
? John sends back, knowing this to be futile. Sherlock would know he'd obey even if no explanation was provided. There is no reply.
Styrofoam containers adorn the table and the only light in the room is from the television. Neither John nor Sherlock have bothered to get up to switch on the lights as twilight gives way to darkness.
John has brought the food and a large slab of plywood that stands against the foyer wall, seemingly forgotten. John is certain Sherlock will get to it eventually and he is no hurry to inquire as to its use.
At the moment, though, Sherlock seems to have forgotten all about it. He has been a ball of nervous energy ever since John arrived some hours earlier, pacing back and forth mumbling about in comprehensive details. This is not unusual in itself.
Now he is perched on the sofa backrest, fingers crossed beneath his chin as he stares absent-mindedly at the screen.
John shifts in his chair. They're watching The Wheel of Fortune, one of Sherlock's favorites in terms of verbal massacre of on-screen imbeciles. Tonight, however, he has refrained from his usual commentary.
"Sherlock?" John asks, not really expecting an answer on the first try. "Hey?"
"Mmh?" comes a reply. No eye contact, though. Sherlock's eyes remain towards the flickering images.
"Are you alright?"
Finally, there's a reaction. Sherlock carefully folds his hands onto his laps and slides down onto the cushions. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Let's see. There's only three letters left, even I can guess the answers and you still haven't pointed out what idiots the competitors are."
Sherlock shoots him a nasty look. "I am quite alright."
"Despite what Mary might think, I do at least sometimes know when you're fibbing. Anyway, you haven't said a word all night. Sorta makes me feel like my company isn't welcome."
Sherlock looks almost startled. He looks at John carefully but avoids full eye contact. "I assure you, it's quite the contrary."
"Thanks, I guess." John decides to drop the questioning. "What's with the plywood?"
Sherlock stands up. "Come along," he remarks dryly and disappears into the hallway leading to his bedroom. John joins him after standing up and stretching his legs, which feel a bit prickly after their gameshow session.
He joins Sherlock in his bedroom. John has rarely been inside but has delivered in enough laundry to know that it is usually kept in immaculate condition.
Sherlock is holding the plywood against a hole in the window. A hole that is leaking in rainwater. A couple of glass shards are scattered on the floor. John grabs a tissue from a packet on the nightstand and picks two of them up. "You should vacuum this, you know, there might be smaller ones that are hard to spot."
Sherlock doesn't reply. He's sticking his hand through the hole in the window and John winces - he might cut himself on the spiky shards still attached to the window frame. It's as though he's attempting to measure something.
"What happened here, then?"
"That is what I have been attempting to discern. However, the window is not the main problem."
John takes a look around the room. It smells like it usually does - of dust and old papers with a faint undertone of Sherlock's aftershave - and the rain is adding a damp edge to it. There doesn't seem to be anything amiss with the spartan furniture collection. The bed us unmade, which is unusual but could just be because Sherlock has woken up with something urgent in mind. "I don't see anything else wrong." He steps to the window, carefully sidestepping the area where most of the glass was, and helps Sherlock duct tape the plywood onto the hole. The draft stops but it's still chilly. Sherlock seems to be shivering in his shirtsleeves and John has a sudden urge to circle him and rub his arms to bring a little warmth.
He doesn't.
Mary is usually very tactile when in the presence of them both. As a woman it is somehow more socially acceptable to pat, to ruffle, to hug or nudge. John used to do some of that but after the conversation skirting around certain feelings experienced by certain consulting detectives John doesn't really know where the limits are. Suddenly even the faintest and most innocent of touches seem to carry an air of something else, something yet undefined.
It's not as though John wants to keep away. He just doesn't really know what he wants. Or what Sherlock wants. Or what Mary wants, permits or hopes for. John still doesn't trust her fully enough to expect complete emotional honesty on what she is willing to witness.
John does not know if Sherlock senses this invisible wall between them as well. Nor does he know if Sherlock would want him to breach it or not.
Sherlock sighs. "As usual, John, you - -"
"Yeah, yeah. Spare me the lecture."
Sherlock straightens his shoulders. "On Friday morning the dust on top of the cupboard had a line, as though someone had been running their fingers along it. The next night I woke up to something and only in the morning I realized a book had fallen from the table. It was in the middle of it. On Monday morning I realized the window latch was broken - cut with bolt cutters, to be precise. I had it repaired. And last night I stayed out later than I had anticipated, and when I returned I found the window smashed. The glass shard pattern fit a round object being thrown through but said object was nowhere to be found."
"Maybe someone just smashed it by holding something in their hand?" John suggests.
Sherlock crosses his arms. "The pattern doesn't fit. Quite elementary physics, really. Did they not require at least grade school level science knowledge for medical school?"
"Haven't had much use for that after my GCSEs." Sherlock looks at him with wonderment.
"Anything missing, I mean stolen?"
"Nothing. I have gone through all of my belongings. Nothing is missing, nothing has been damaged beyond the window."
"Are you sure the book and the dust aren't your own doing, like waking up in the middle of the night, a bit disoriented, bumping against things?"
Sherlock looks indignant, like he is offended at John's suggestion that he might sometimes be tired or disoriented.
"Alright, then. Let's say you're being visited at night by someone with an interest in your cleaning habits and yours reading selections. How would they get in? You mentioned the latch?"
"I would have noticed it the first time I went through this room. It seems like someone is trying to stage themselves to be worse at burglary than they actually are. Why do all the subtle things first, and then resort to window-smashing?"
"Maybe they wanted to scout out the place first and then start intimidating you?"
"They're not interested in this apartment. Otherwise I don't think they would have followed me around town as much as they have. They've done a much better job of that than the burglary, very subtle. Still, I think we can safely rule out Moriarty."
John raises his eyebrows. "How'd you leap to that?"
"He should know better than that. I cannot be intimidated by such childish antics."