Week One

Baby, you've got the sort of eyes that tell me tales

That your sort of mouth just will not say, the truth impales.

You don't need me but you won't leave me.

My love's too big for you, my love.

Ingrid Michaelson - 'Sort of'

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John extends the handle of his small suitcase and rolls it into the living room. "Sherlock, I'm going!" he calls. Sherlock has been lying on the sofa all morning and so John is justified in his assumption that the detective wouldn't discern his departure.

Instead he finds Sherlock Holmes sitting on the floor in front of the door, blocking the exit.

"John," he says, looking up at him seriously, his eyes slightly wild, "you can't go."

John sighs. "'Can't' or 'shouldn't'?" These often seem confused to Sherlock. "There isn't a case, is there?"

"Not as such, no," Sherlock admits, getting to his feet.

"We don't have any social plans?"

"Of course not."

John puts his hands on his hips and tries to look exasperated. "So what exactly is preventing me from going?" He not a sadist, but he does feel a twinge of pleasure in Sherlock needing him.

Sherlock makes a strange gargled groan and splays his hands out in frustration. "Look, I'm going to say that I can't tell you and you're going to think that's ridiculous and not true but it is true and I really can't tell you because of… reasons, so can you just trust me and stay here, please."

John laughs a short unamused laugh. "No."

"Please!" Sherlock steps forwards, making a quick movement with his arm that for a moment seems as if he's going to, what, take John's hand?

He doesn't though. He stops himself and instead does that look. This is the look for when he wants to bend John to his will. He raises his eyebrows and pouts ever so slightly, lowering his face to show John just how beautiful his cheekbones are.

John finds this look particularly frustrating because of how it effects him and because of how Sherlock must know it effects him.

"Don't."

"Please," Sherlock repeats. "It's important."

"I'll be back in a few days."

"Don't go."

Honesty, usually he doesn't even notice when John's gone.

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Ten hours earlier…

Sherlock has been knocked out before, probably an unhealthy number of times. He hates that moment between consciousness and lucidity when nothing seems to make sense in his mind. He blinks at the shapes, colours, faces in front of him.

He's in a – what – warehouse? Who is this man? What is he doing here?

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes. Do you know who I am?"

He's a man that Sherlock doesn't recognise. Tall, blond, fit, army background judging by the comfortable way in which he grips his pistol.

Sherlock rights himself in the seat. Moving makes him aware that he is bound to the wooden chair. Red vinyl cloth reinforced tape with aggressive adhesive backing. Tearable by hand. Ankles and waist, pinning arms to his side.

Sherlock twists his hands upwards. "I don't bite."

"No," the man's voice is deep and unpleasantly serious, "but this makes it easier to shoot you if I get bored."

Power issues. Sadist. "Right," Sherlock says with a tone that he thinks is appropriate to the amount of condescension he's feeling right now, "and how do you expect me to entertain you?"

"By begging me for mercy."

Sherlock can't help laughing. He really can't. It escapes him before he can think better of it.

The man had been pacing, but he comes to a stop in front of him now. "Are you not afraid of me?" he snarls, this thin moustache that hugs his top lip quivering.

"Oh, alright then," Sherlock says, composing himself. "Who are you? The big bad wolf?"

"My name is Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock shrugs as best he can with his arms taped to his sides. "What do you want, Moron?"

"Moran."

"Whatever."

"I want you to…" He takes a breath, allowing himself to become calm once again, then continues, "I'm going to make you dance."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Then you shouldn't have taped me to a chair."

There's a look of bemusement on Moran's face. It's as though this man is so far out of his comprehension that he's lost all idea of how to approach this situation. "Don't you want to know why you're here?"

"I've been reliably informed that I'm the type who tends to wind people up," Sherlock explains. "This sort of situation happens surprisingly often."

"Hm." Moran looks as though he can believe this. "I know a lot about you, Mr Holmes. I know what you're like as a person and I know what it is that you do and I know exactly what I'm going to do to make you pay for what you've done to me."

"To you?" Sherlock smiles at this delightful clue. "What have I done to you?" Not physical or monetary. Presumably emotional distress.

Moran grits his teeth and hisses, "You made him do it."

"Ohhhhh…" Sherlock laughs and shakes his head. "Moriarty. That makes sense. The drama."

"Fuck you," Moran barks, his eyes sparking with anger. He takes two steps towards Sherlock, raising his pistol and smacking it sharply down in his face, ripping Sherlock's head around, making his vision blur. "You shouldn't have killed him. He was better than you. Not because he was cleverer but because he … he was capable of so much more. Unlike you, he was capable of love. He was capable of making people love him. That's something you could never do."

Sherlock stifles a yawn. "Are you going to kill me soon?" he enquires.

"I'm not going to kill you," Moran spits. "I'm here to do what Jim always said he'd do."

"Mow the lawn?"

"Burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock nods with a sad smile on his face. "I'll be honest, it was more intimidating when he said it."

"I have people a phone call away with their sights trained on Dr John Watson at this very moment." The man's face has lit into a victorious grin

Perhaps it is this smile or perhaps it is just the shiver of fear that runs through Sherlock's limbs that suddenly makes him feel impossibly angry. "Bad idea," he says.

"How is that a bad idea?"

"Well, perhaps now would be a good time to consider," Sherlock says, ever so slowly in case Moran misses anything, "what happened to the last person who threatened to kill him."

The broad fingers tightened barely perceptibly around his gun. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

"Know," Sherlock corrects.

"No?"

"No, know. I know I'm smarter than average. Much smarter in fact."

Moran sneers at him. "That won't help you in the end though. Clever quips and smart reasoning will not save you."

"Perhaps you should've given that advice to your boyfriend."

"You -!" Moran pauses without hitting Sherlock again and tries to reign in his anger. "Are you determined to make me want to hurt you more?"

"I figured I was beyond the tipping point."

Moran leans over Sherlock, a menacing glint in his emerald eyes. "You think I wouldn't kill him?"

"If you'd wanted him dead, he already would be. So I think there must be something more to this. Something else is at play. Am I right?"

Moran nods slowly, a smile on his face. "I won't kill him."

"Changeable."

"I won't kill him," Moran repeats, "if you can prove that he loves you."

The comment ricochets around Sherlock mind, meaning everything but nothing. "What? Why?" he demands.

The sneer turns into a brief laugh then Moran says, "Because he doesn't. I want you to know he died because of you and because he didn't love you, because no one could ever love you."

"You've been practicing this conversation, haven't you?"

"I know how you feel about him. Jim knew he was the way to get to you. But what about him?"

Sherlock sighs heavily. There are so many flaws to this plot that he finds it impossible for a moment to isolate just one. "And how exactly will it be proven?" he starts, with a tone of utter disbelief. "The kiss of true love?"

"He has to say it."

"Come and say, 'I love Sherlock Holmes'?"

"Of course not," Moran responds irritably. "He can't know, he can't even suspect of this, or he'll be killed instantly. He has to tell you, honestly, privately."

"Presumably not entirely privately. You've bugged the flat."

Moran nods. "All he has to do is tell you he loves you."

"Oh please. He's a soldier, not a hormonal teenage girl." Sherlock's pulse is elevated. He can't think about John. He can't imagine him at home now in the flat without wanting to have his hands around Moran's throat. How dare he?

"The very fact you think soldier's can't say 'I love you' shows how little you know about people."

"I may not know 'people'" – he spits the wordas though it disgusts him – "but I know John Watson."

"Then you had better hope you're wrong, for his sake. You have six weeks."

Sherlock's heart plummets. "Seven."

"No, six."

"John's going away for a week."

"Not my problem." And Moran starts to walk away. One step is all it takes. In the time it takes for Moran to move one step away, Sherlock's mind has explored all possible scenarios and knows that John will not do it. He will not say 'I love you' to Sherlock Holmes, that's a dream, not a possibility.

This leaves Sherlock with the ache painful enough to make him want to hurt Sebastian Moran. "You're wrong by the way," he calls. "He didn't love you. Moriarty didn't know love."

Moran's leather boots pause. "You know nothing about him."

"I know enough. I know he laughed at you. I know he found you funny."

The looks in Moran's eyes as he turns to look at Sherlock is enough to show that a nerve has been hit. Somewhere inside, this is Moran's fear; this is what he always half believed was true.

"He didn't love you." Sherlock says, ramming a knife into the wound. "Not a chance in hell."

Moran walks back to Sherlock and leans slowly over him, until their faces are almost touching. "Mr Holmes, you know nothing of hell," he breathes. "But you will."

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Sherlock is really pouting now and when he turns to walk away, John notices the angry bruise on his pale cheekbone for the first time.

"How did you do that?" he asks with a spark of concern. Is this what wanting him to stay is about? Is Sherlock in danger?

"What?"

"Your cheek. That looks really bad." He reaches up to it but Sherlock jerks his head away with a slight frown.

"Oh, I tripped," he mumbles.

John raises his eyebrows to acknowledge that this is a preposterous lie. "Tripped?" It looks like severe bruising, most commonly associated with being hit by a blunt object.

"I fell into the door."

"Right." John lets this slide, as he usually does with these hints of mini-adventures that he wasn't invited to. "Do you want me to look at it?"

"No, it's fine." Sherlock looks momentarily flustered by this offer of assistance. Then he meets John eyes and says with fatalistic seriousness, "Can you just stay?"

John can't help feeling frustrated with himself for now feeling bad for Sherlock. How does Sherlock deserve sympathy? John spends weeks on end in this tiny flat with him. What is a few days? "Can I just go to my friends wedding?" he asks.

"Why?" Sherlock demands, "Why do you want to do that?"

"I'll add that to the list of things to explain to you, will I? Along with public displays of affection, the desire to have children and why some people talk to you on the tube."

"Yes, alright," Sherlock sighs, "human nature, I get it, boring."

"Look, can this mysteriously important thing wait until I get back?"

Sherlock falters. "Well, technically, yes. But there's less chance of it being successful."

"So when you say you 'need' me to stay, it is more of a 'want'," John points out.

Sherlock's face dips into a scowl. "John, don't try to apply logic to the situation. It's really not your forte."

This is just enough for John to take hold of his suitcase and open the door. "And on that note," he says, "I'm off."

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John is getting the drinks in, but the bar is packed. The groom, Frank, had insisted it wouldn't be a heavy night, what with the whole marriage thing he had to do the next day, but not going out had seemed unthinkable. John checks his phone while the barman ignores him. There's one message from Sherlock.

I hope you're coming home now. SH

John smiles to himself and texts back:

The wedding's not until tomorrow.

"Excuse me!" he tries calling to the barman, but he still serves the attractive girl first, obviously. John's phone vibrates in his hand.

Tomorrow night then. SH

Sherlock isn't the needy type. Actually, he's quite the opposite. He shows nothing but distain towards those who show affection to him or others. John realises there must be something going on with his friend, but isn't sure yet how much he should play along.

I'll come home when I'm no longer hung over.

The response is almost instantaneous:

Don't drink. Come after the wedding. SH

Fuck off! JW

"Is that Bertie?"

John turns to see Frank behind him. Frank is an army buddy who has not been shot, so frustratingly fit still.

"Oh, no, Bertie and I broke up ages ago. It's just my flatmate."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

The phone vibrates again in John's hand and Frank leans over to read it.

John, I need you. So much more than you need ten jagerbombs. SH

"He doesn't mean to sound so gay," John finds himself explaining. "He doesn't really 'get' social interactions."

Frank is smiling with amiable surprise. "Oh, so you're not together? Because I read this article in the newspaper -"

"No!" John interrupts. He really doesn't want to know. "We're not gay. We're friends."

"I was wondering why you didn't bring him."

John shudders at the thought of introducing Sherlock to his friends from the army. "This isn't exactly his scene anyway; lots of people mingling. Sherlock isn't the person to invite to a wedding you want to go smoothly." He'd no doubt deduce some uncomfortable truths about most of the wedding party.

"You do talk like he's your husband," Frank points out with a laugh, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"God, I don't mean to."

"That's what's so funny. Are you sure you're not in love with him?"

John knows he's being teased but he's not really in the mood for it. The truth is painful and terrifying. The truth is that he misses Sherlock, more than is acceptable for someone to miss their friend after less than twelve hours.

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At home, Sherlock is researching. This is something he's never had practical or theoretical experience of. He knows he can make people trust him, he can make people believe he likes them, but he's never had to make people love him before. And worse still, have them admit it.

How do you make someone say they love you?

Google provides some disappointing results on this subject, which flips Sherlock's mind back to the other alternative to this problem – kill Moran. This is almost as challenging, however. It is particularly hard to hunt down and kill someone who is watching and listening to your every move and has a gun's sight permanently fixed on the one person you care about most.

In a burst of frustration, Sherlock picks up his phone again.

Your friends are kidding themselves if they think marriage will 'complete' them. Love is nothing but a chemical designed to enslave you into taking care of others. Its only outcome is pain. SH

After sending the text he jumps to his feet and paces the room aimlessly. It annoys him that John doesn't text back within the next two minutes. Sherlock wants to know what he's doing and that he's safe. Eventually, his phone alert goes off on the desk.

Frank says hi.

For the next two hours, Sherlock lies on the sofa and thinks. About John. If John does love him already, Sherlock decides, then it would be a simpler step to just have him admit it. Does John love him? In that way?

Thinking is what Sherlock does best, but thinking about John has always been difficult. It's as though there's a fog of uncertainty shrouding the man. And whenever Sherlock tries to peer through the mist, a strange tightness grips his chest and he can feel the rapid thump of his blood through his veins.

Thus, after two hours the best plan Sherlock has been able to concoct is executed with a simple text:

There's an armed gang in the flat. I'm under the bed. Please come. SH

An agonising ten minutes later, he gets the response.

Missing you to. JW

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To be continued…

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Hello! Long time no see! It took me a while to get my head around how this scenario could work. Hope it's a good idea in reality and not just in my brain ;) Let me know what you think!