"Sherlock, I'm home. Not that you care or anything, but…" John muttered begrudgingly, pocketing his keys and kicking the front door shut with his heel. "Also, on the off-chance there's anything in at all, what are we having f- what the fu-" John is cut off mid-question by a suspiciously loud crunching underfoot. Glancing down, the tattered remains of the flat's crockery stare back at him in helpless fragments. To the far left and right of the rubble a few bowls are still intact and stacked in precarious towers but a path of shattered plates weaves between them.
"Sherlock? Jesus, what the hell is this?!"
"What the hell is what?" comes the somewhat distracted reply from the kitchen beyond the wreckage.
"The plates, what did you do?!"
"Oh. Not important."
"Not important?! Bloody hell Sherlock what the hell goes on in your head-"
"Oh numerous things, far more than you could ever understand and if something isn't crucial, interesting or relevant then it is deleted so please, as your voice is currently not of importance please cease from making me listen to it"
John makes a noise of indignation deep in his throat as he widens his eyes in disbelief, making his way over broken pottery to the kitchen. The sight which greets him is not unfamiliar: his flatmate, brow furrowed and fingers steepled, sits rigidly at the table; a labyrinth of photographs, diagrams and microscope slides drown the tabletop; however, the crucial difference this time is that the room is in a state of utter disarray – all the possible cupboards have been opened, contents removes and 'decorated' with irregular patterns inside them.
"Sherlock. Seriously. I can't deal with this, I've have a hard day so please, just… oh god I don't know, at least an explanation…"
"I will comply if you will stop talking. In short, there has been a murder. Shot through the head, or so it would seem, in the middle of a robbery – jewellery kept in a safe. When the deceased was shot, her blood was spattered directly into the safe. I need to know at what angle it was shot but the interior angles of a cuboid make it difficult to calculate so I have been attempting to replicate the results using the closest possible match for a safe I could find without leaving the house."
"Hold on, back up," John sputters, raising a hand in warning "You're telling me that you not only obliterated the only crockery we own – I'm assuming by pacing over it, judging by the state of your shoes – but also decorated my kitchen cupboards with blood stains?"
"Our kitchen cupboards"
"I think I've earned the right to call them mine, seeing as you never eat anything and when you do I'm the one who has to bloody cook it for you!"
"John, stop talking. You are a distraction and I simply cannot be dealing with such things." Sherlock waves an irritated hand in dismissal, closing his eyes once more and resuming his composure. John resists the urge to punch that smug, motionless face, but only just. Instead he lets rip verbally.
Sherlock, still trying to unpick the problem at hand, cold only pick up on a few phrases fired like missiles at his unmoving face from John's mouth – "heartless", "after all I've done for you", "you sicken me". Each of these bullets, though appearing to merely annoy him, make a deep impact on Sherlock. He felt so many things – guilt, primarily; sorrow; frustration. Yet it was only when the doctor's red face had left his peripheral vision and the slamming of his bedroom door could be heard that he let the pain of his friend's outburst show on his face. His face crumples, lips quivering. He had not known. This was a problem that needed fixing. Now.
ClinkJohn grimaces, rearing his face up from out of his pillow to glare at the source of the unwelcome noise. Tea. More specifically, piping hot tea, appearing as if of its own accord in his favourite mug on his bedside table.
"Mmph," John mumbles, blearily trying to locate the source of the beverage whilst rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Eventually, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom John could make out a lanky figure in dark attire at the foot of his bed. It stood awkwardly, slightly bent at the waist as if unsure whether to sit or stand, but even in this unfamiliar position John knew a Sherlock when he saw one. Sighing, he slumped back down to the bedcovers.
"Sherlock, I really haven't got time to be one of your test subjects right now. Does body language mean nothing to you? Perhaps I should get a door sign? Piss. Off."
"John, I'm sorry"
"Seriously, just get the hell ou- wait, what?"
"I said I'm sorry. The socially accepted form of an apology, I believe." Though attempting to use a little of his usual sarcasm, Sherlock was a little… off. Something about the rapid eye movement or perhaps the nervous hand gestures. Sherlock didn't get nervous.
"What's this about?" John enquires tentatively, shuffling to sit upright in the bed. His expression softens; something is clearly puzzling this complex man and that must be quite some puzzle. Drawing a shaky breath, Sherlock finally sits on the bed, draping his angular appendages awkwardly over the edge. Finally comfortable, he opens his mouth:
"I realise that I haven't been very… considerate towards you, especially recently. Not very… appreciative of what you do for me. That's not right. So… I want to let you know how… appreciative… I really am underneath."
"Oka-a-a-ay…" John ventures, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"Please, try not to interrupt. I've never been great at this, I need to concentrate."
"Fine. Sorry. Do continue, I'm intrigued"
"Right. Umm," there it is again, that hesitation. What could Sherlock have possibly kept pent up for so long to cause such as change in him? "John, it has recently become apparent to me that I've become rather… fond. Of you. And I know that perhaps the links that brought us together initially are rather… tenuous. I've never been a believer in the ludicrous hypotheses of fate or destiny but I'm just saying, I suppose, that although we have been brought together through a succession of peculiar circumstances and I … like that we have, I don't believe we were destined to be together. Do you follow?"
"Ugh, it's far too early for this," John drags his fingertips through his rumpled bed-hair, crinkling his face up to loosen the muscles "Sort of, Sherlock. Keep talking, I'm sure I'll catch up."
"Fine. All I'm really saying is that it's just mathematically unlikely that of the billions of possible… candidates on Earth that I happened to stumble across the one person with which I was compatible. True, the vast majority of humans I encounter irritate and bore me to the point of depression but of the millions I have yet to meet in this country alone, some might not want to make me slam doors in their faces."
Both men give a soft snort of laughter, recalling the disgruntled expression plastered over Anderson's face when Sherlock had not been able to contain himself and had done just that.
"Suppose there had been a different turn of events in our lives. Perhaps if you had chosen to take your daily walk a different route, you would have never bumped into Stanson, hence we would never have met. If that had been the case, I might still be living alone, or even with someone else, Watson mark 2 if you will. Maybe someone in better physical condition or someone more accepting of my tendency of experimenting on household objects."
"I feel as if you're just pointing out my flaws again" John begins, yet Sherlock ploughs on regardless.
"Yet maybe this companion wouldn't have your dry sense of humour, could be lazy or untidy or… married. Or a female. But it's not possible to deduce whether I would feel the same way about them that I do about you. Is it really your personality I connect with or just that the circumstances in which we find ourselves happen to be convenient?"
Throughout this rapid succession of curious confessions Sherlock had sped up exponentially and was even acquiring a faint blush across his defined cheekbones. Resisting the desperate urge to smirk, John finds that he is rather enjoying seeing Sherlock squirm like this. True, what he was saying was a shock and would clearly have consequences but currently he didn't care. He decides to have some fun with this little conundrum.
"So… what was your initial impression of me then? I'm assuming 'mutual connection at first sight' is out of the question."
"Obviously. As I previously iterated, the very notion of fate is inherently flawed. Any connection, romantic or otherwise, strengthens through the ongoing drama of shared experiences and grows over time. You are already aware of my first impression of you – an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan-"
"No, I know what you were able to deduce about me, not what you thought about me."
"I don't follow…"
"Your emotional reaction to me, your feelings. You seem to want to get in touch with them at the moment so try dredging some up from back then."
"Ah. Well. I suppose… I did, contrary to my previous statement about immediate attraction, sense some… appealing aspects about you straight away. Your face: slight smile, inclined head and relaxed muscles around the eyes – accepting, approving, not judging. It's not often I find someone who accepts me and my… traits. Quirks, if you will."
Ah, John muses, this is getting a little intense. A little personal. Yet I feel comfortable. I'm – I'm enjoying this. This isn't right.
"So" he says aloud, trying to steer the conversation into safer territory, "this other life you could have led – any better than this one?"
"Hypothetically yes. Also, hypothetically no. Similar to the infamous works of one Erwin Schrodinger, some believe there are currently an infinite number of parallel worlds which alter at my every decision, my every movement, so at any one time there are an infinite number of worlds you may deem 'better' or 'worse' than the one in which we currently reside."
"Uh, right. Could you give me an example?" the perplexed doctor asks, head already beginning to reel.
"Fine. It could be that for example if Mycroft hadn't always been Mummy's favourite then she might have preferred to spend her evenings talking with me rather than engaging in chess games with my brother. In one such conversation she might have encouraged me to become a neuroscientist after her Uncle Arthur whom she so admired. Then I have my have complied with her wishes and gone to work in a laboratory full-time. My life might be quieter, more people in my field might respect me and I would have no need for human interaction whatsoever, save cadavers."
"What about replacement me?"
"Again unknowable, but say, in this hypothetical life you did in fact die in Afghanistan, I wouldn't even be aware of this. If I were richer in this new line of work I might employ someone to be my paid sycophant,"
John snorts "A psychopath's sycophant, that's quite a mouthful."
"Sociopath," Sherlock corrects out of habit, "but I feel we may have gone on a tangent somewhat. The point I was attempting to make originally was that I'm fond… very fond of you, but you shouldn't think you're special because you're not. I-I mean you're special to me but you're not… unique."
"I'm 'special' to you; you feel a 'connection' with me; you've grown 'fond' of me – I think we may have bypassed the underlying message you have actually been trying to convey, Sherlock." John says shakily – this is dangerous territory but he now feels there is no turning back.
"Fine," Sherlock relents. He leans forward slightly and locks eye contact with his flatmate. John's breath hitches; Sherlock swallows dryly, furrows his brow slightly, "John… I… I'm sorry about the crockery."
John blinks, leaning forward slightly. Fuck it, this has gone too far to stop at the last hurdle.
"Close enough," he says and, with reckless abandon, inclines his head to close the gap between them.
Both men freeze, the only movement the closing of their eyelids. This contact is so alien to both participants – to Sherlock, at all; to John, with another man. The warmth that spreads over them calms them both, gives them confidence to lengthen the kiss. Tentative movement of facial muscles moving together; the accumulation of the last hour of conversation resulting in a beautiful moment of unity. Strange, unfamiliar patterns emerge as their lips entwine, which John cherishes and Sherlock memorises simultaneously. Eventually, Sherlock moves his head back so to break the contact, exhaling slowly. Neither can meet the other's eye, both ducking their heads and blushing.
"Ah- umm.." Sherlock stutters, the words catching in his throat, "You should – uh – drink your tea"
"Yeah – yeah I should" John agrees, clearing his throat and still marvelling over what had just happened.
"I'll just be – ah – out here." Unfolding his angular legs, Sherlock walks slowly towards the door, trying to ignore the wobbling of his legs. John averts his eyes, reaching over his shoulder to bring the still warm mug from the bedside table to his lips. Blowing over the surface, he lets his eyes slip shut to try and calm himself.
"Oh and John," comes a voice from the doorway; John's eyes flutter open and meet his flatmate's "forty five."
"What?" John questions
"Forty five degrees – the bullet to the burglar's head. I'll… go clean out the cupboards." Twisting his lip in an endearing smirk, Sherlock ducks his head out of the door.