Hello everyone! This is the first one shot I've ever written. This is also a first attempt at writing fanfiction after a long, long time. I'm inspired by all the lovely and wonderful writers on this amazing website. Thank you for your stories and your vivid imagination. Please review this one shot as it is my first and excuse any grammatical mistakes (even though that is a terrible request to make on a website that's home to millions of writer) because English isn't my first language.
-Sam
Unattached
Silences were never uneasy for Sherlock. In fact, he would have preferred- if only he could- to mute the entire world around him if it meant that he could think loudly. Right now, his brain was running like a smooth machine, churning out possibility after possibility, about the identity and motive of the murderer. Everyone believed that they were suicides. Everyone was in idiot. Narrow-minded and utterly blind to the truth and devoid of logic and reasoning. Even after he'd told them that these "suicides" had provided a recent splurge in the number of people killing themselves and they were all found to have ingested the very same drug, the police were skeptical. Typical. He ignored them, he was used to not being believed at first. It was the price of genius.
Yet, even as he sat here in this dingy restaurant, staring out of the window something tugged at the back of his mind. This man, whom he'd met this very morning had believed him without a single question. There was no lingering silence. There was no awkward stuttering followed by exclamations of disbelief. In fact, Sherlock was quite taken aback when his new flatmate was in awe of his skills. It was perhaps, the only time that Sherlock had heard someone describe his work as "Fantastic!". But then Sherlock has upset him. Or it maybe it was his reputation at Scotland Yard. Sherlock didn't care what people thought about him. He had learned to numb the pain long, long ago but, somehow, John mattered. He mattered enough to make Mycroft seek him out. Mycroft never wasted his time. Sherlock stole a glance at who was bent over his plate of spaghetti, trying his best to make their dinner seem as less like a date as he could. Sherlock suppressed a little smile and went back to staring out of the window. It was only a matter of time before the murderer showed up. Sherlock brought back his attention to Northumberland Street. There were so many people, anyone could be the murderer, yet no one was. This criminal would show up doing what he was best at; staying invisible. One would have to look deep into the shadows to find this murderer. So lost he was his observations and deductions that Sherlock barely heard John speak.
"I'm sorry?", Sherlock asked.
"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen.", John repeated.
Sherlock knew this was bound to happen. He lost interest and went back to the window. His own extraordinaire was enough to tick anyone off. John had had to deal with Mycroft and the Sherlock's associations with the Scotland Yard all in the same day. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull.", Sherlock replied, not really thinking about the question.
"So who did I meet?", asked John, trying to make some sense of his own day.
The outside was filled with nothing but the ordinary people completely unaware of the genius who his eye on their every move yet was blatantly unaware of their way of living.
Thank "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?", Sherlock questioned. The lesser John knew about Sherlock's brother and their relationship, the better.
"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ...", explained John, now sounding slightly surprised.
Still nothing. There was absolutely nothing. It was getting a little frustrating.
"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull.", Sherlock maintained.
"You don't have a girlfriend, then?", John asked
Would the murderer be looking for Jennifer? Or did he know that she wasn't alive and the text was a bait? A million questions raced through Sherlock's mind.
"Girlfriend? No, not really my area.", Sherlock answered John without considering the implications of the statement.
"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?", John tried to appear casual.
Maybe he's already here. Maybe he's biding his time. Waiting for me to show myself before - WHAT? The question finally registered with Sherlock and he snapped back to reality.
"Which is fine, by the way.", John defended himself.
"I know it's fine.", Sherlock said. I haven't even considered this possibility. What is he trying to imply?
John smiled, trying to clear the tension up.
"So you've got a boyfriend then?", John continued.
"No.", Sherlock denied, a little too flatly. These were uncharted waters for Sherlock. He hadn't expected the conversation to lead here. John was trying too hard to keep thing normal and his smile had turned awkward.
"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me.", John went back to his dinner. Apparently, running out of things to say.
"Fine", he cleared his throat and stared at his plate. "Good"
Sherlock was still looking at John, or rather his hair. It was gold. But not the kind that looked like a dirty frozen puddle. The kind that looked like sunlight through the leaves in the morning. Sherlock snapped himself back to reality. Hair is a redundant topic.A light shone through the window and he turned back at it again.
Sherlock replayed John's words in his head, his eyes fixed out of the window but for once, not observing anything. No one but Mycroft knew what he felt like. Unattached. Technically, that's exactly what he was. But he wasn't like John. No, John had a different relationship with his sister. They probably fought and made up all the time when they were kids. Sherlock knew that John wouldn't know what it was like to be truly unattached because John wasn't what others called a freak. John felt and empathised. Sherlock didn't have the time or the capacity to do so. For Sherlock, love, was a foreign concept, or perhaps not a concept at all. But, the itch at the back of Sherlock's brain made him glance once more at the man who now sat opposite him.
John had identified himself with Sherlock. John hadn't said that he was smarter than him. Or better in any way. Or that Sherlock was a freak. He had just brought the two of them together with a single word. Into a single place. Together. They were unattached together. Sherlock looked around, startled.
" John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ...", Sherlock started slowly.
"No. No, I'm not asking", John interrupted trying, once again to diffuse the situation.
John looked at Sherlock with sincerely. He hadn't meant to push him up against a wall. Sherlock fixed his gaze onto John's and noticed that his eyes were warm. And safe. Sherlock hardly noticed that about eyes.
"I'm just saying, it's all fine." John assured Sherlock.
"Good. Thank you.", Sherlock nodded and his mind decided to return to Northumberland Street just in time.
A taxi had pulled up across the street. No one got in or out.
Sherlock got to his feet, grabbed his coat and scarf and ran outside. John soon followed suit. It was just the two them, still very much unattached, but also very much together.