Occasionally, when he lies down for bed, John hears Something rolling across the carpet. It's not a loud sound, if one would call the almost-animalistic sliding of a body knocking into his closet door and bedside table loud. Most nights, John sleeps through the ruckus; and then, there are nights when he's wide awake and staring at the ceiling, damp from a shower or a nightmare, breathing through his nose with a harsh intensity that suggests he's gone for a lengthy jog or has a terrible head cold. Normally, it's the latter (either his flat is susceptible to mold, or he's susceptible to germs), but the reaction to his late-night-early-morning arousal is always the same.
Tonight, while he's lying in bed, damp from a shower and wrestling a terrible head cold, the voice that itches his eardrum is familiar and deep and menacing. "Why aren't you asleep?"
And because John is damp from a shower that was too cold and is wrestling a terrible head cold without any medication in his system, he retorts, "Piss off."
The Something crawls underneath his bed. "You piss off."
"You need more books," the Something muses, its eyes resembling two coals as it turns a page in the small novel in its hands. Its nails are twin bells when they tap-tap along the spine, its hips a merry-go-round when it turns to John. The Something glances across the plastic bag from Tesco in his hand, the mud caking his boots, the wind-licked strands of blond hair at the top of his head. It squints.
"You need a name," John says, switching his weight from foot to foot. "And I have books in the bedroom, books in the sitting room… books in the kitchen, no doubt—you can't possibly tell me you've read them all."
The Something smiles and tosses the trite object onto the tile flooring before sinking deeper into the tub of porcelain, lukewarm water caressing its elbows. "On the subject of names, how about Sarah?" It cocks its head. "You seem rather fond of that name while you're dreaming." John snorts and starts to the bathtub, feet skidding. He steps on the book, curses. The bag in his hand is old, recycled. "Obvious," murmurs the Something, as it tries to get comfortable. The odor of not-so-fresh fish is radiating from the carrier, and the Something is blind to not notice it prior.
"Here," John says, after collecting the book under his arm. He hands the bag to the Something, who takes it and allows the contents to fall into the water with it—fish, fish, pounds of fish. It gracelessly tosses the plastic back to John and devours one of the blue-scaled animals to a mere carcass in seconds. "You're such a charmer," chuckles John, pocketing the filthy pouch in his pocket. (His coat has traces of mud on it.) "Manners," he reminds, but is supplied with no "thank you". Redirecting his attention to the book previously disowned by the Something, John sits down on the toilet, flipping through the piece of literature, remarking on the wrinkled pages. Clearing his throat, he gazes at the Something, still eating, and asks, "So, what's your favorite?"
"Everything"—the Something stuffs more food in its mouth—"is pedestrian."
"Come on." John smiles, fingers skimming the cover. "Everyone has a favorite fairy tale."
The Something sighs and waves a fish spine in the air, guts and saliva dripping from its chin. "Oh, well, I suppose it's the one about the funny mermaid." It eyes John, settling down into the pink water. "I had a special connection with that one."
John's eyes are a product of ocean tides. He mulls over the tub. "I wonder why."
The first time he hears the scooting across his floor, John shouts, "You're going to get fucking carpet burn," because he is irritated and has had a bad day at work and kind of wants to kill somebody.
In return, the Something growls something Not Human and promptly slides out his bedroom to roll about the rest of his house.
In the morning, John has to clean bloodstains off his walls and refrigerator. The prints left behind are anthropomorphic enough to be recognizable, but a bit off—from the long digits extending out the palm to the vast webbing between each finger.
John doesn't like to think about it, so he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until he has to wrap each wrist to prevent carpal tunnel.
John Watson has always been a lonely man, but he never thought his subconscious would have gone as far as to create an imaginary friend.
But I'm real, reads the sheet of notebook paper in front of him. "Right," he says.
Clumsy limbs flail and struggle to grasp onto the piece of paper again, to wrap the strange phalanges around the blue ink pen, to produce written language. Despite the appearance of an ongoing battle, the words constructed are beautiful—made of cursive and scrawl that shouldn't be legible, but is by some odd means.
Maybe you're not real.
"Maybe so," John sadly answers, dropping his head in one hand, the other gripping onto the kitchen-table leg. He wishes for a moment of solitude, but the Something slaps more onto the leaflet and pushes John's elbow out from under him. He saves himself from a concussion before angrily grabbing the paper and saying aloud, "'I'm getting a bit dry. Could you drop me in the bath?' How about you piss off?"
He still drops the Something in the bath. He even reads it books from his shelf. This week, it's The Hobbit.
"Your toes look weird."
"Piss off."
"You have to let me paint your nails."
"Piss off."
Sometimes he hears scratching underneath him when he's trying to sleep. Mostly, they are random, very haphazard; but rarely, they are small indications of human and potential understanding. (Or the thing under his bed is just fucking with his head.) Either way, the scrapes on his bed frame is Morse code, and (now the thing must be fucking with his head) it seems to ask the question of "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John attempts to pretend he hadn't noticed it, then the tapping gets more rapid, more frantic. In order to quell it, he stands atop his mattress and bounces on his heels and screeches, "Afghanistan," and the Something under his bed screeches with him. His frequent head cold intensifies to a thirty-two on a scale of ten, and he can't be sure, but John thinks his ears and nose are bleeding.
He faints and wakes to the sun shining in his eyes, to the dried blood caked on his face, to the quiet noise of a tapping nail—Morse code. John's throat tightens.
I'm sorry. Forgive me.
John does.
"Hey," John says to the bathroom door, lightly knocking on the wood. "Want me to read to you?"
It's half eleven. John is dressed in a cotton t-shirt and pajama bottoms to match. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone is under his arm, a hot cup of cocoa in hand. His socks are a white color, and he isn't tired.
He knocks again. "Y'know the movie we watched yesterday? I have the book it was based on."
The Something taps its approval of entry against the side of the bathtub, and John smiles, moving the book to his other arm to grab onto the doorknob. "What was that?" He takes a drink.
A pause, then—"Yes." It is a baritone of warm nights in and soft promises to whomever; and although the single term releases butterflies in his veins and roses in his cheeks, John clears his throat and pushes the door aside. Slipping in and planting himself by the bathtub isn't such an easy feat when the atmosphere in the room is that of melted chocolate in the nostrils. The warm temperature pulls goose bumps to attention, and John shudders and forces a drink of the cocoa.
"Will this take long?" the Something asks, swimming to the edge of the tub, arms and head resting on the surface. Its breath tickles John's ears, the back of his neck. "Not that I'm not… interested."
John looks at the Something, bites his lip, takes another drink. The Something's arms are grayscale—darker at the tips, lighter at the elbow. (And grayscale is the perfect word in this situation.) John is only distracted for a moment until he maintains a steady grasp on his purpose of being in here with the Something. He hands it the cup of cocoa despite the protests and cracks open the book. The pages are yellowed at the ends, stenches of mildew and nostalgia. "I haven't read this in ages," John sighs, flipping through the novel, hearing the spine break and twist.
"Sentiment kept it close," murmurs the Something, as it eyes the cup of liquefied heaven. It dips its tongue inside, curling the tip around the substance. A moan escapes the Something's full lips when it swallows. John chuckles, and the Something growls and gives the mug back, black eyes narrowed. "Just read," it orders, diving underneath the water, its face the only thing above the surface. "But first add bubbles to the bath," it comments before disappearing.
After fulfilling the required demand, John sips at the drink and begins reading from the children's book, a bit confused as to how the Something could hear from under the water. Though, he doesn't stop to check, as the creature's laughs and soft splashes define "go on" in his mind. Once he is unable to gulp more of the hot beverage, the reading ceases. As he pouts and lays the book to his right in preparation to stand, the Something makes itself known once more by grabbing onto John's shoulders and pinning him to the edge of the tub.
"You can't stop there," the Something says, orbs of coal wide and lips curled at the edges in a smile. "I want to know the Potter boy's response to the Potions master's inquiry. I do rather like this character, John."
"But," John starts, fighting to become one with his own body. "We watched the movie yesterday—you know what's going to happen."
The Something releases him to lean against the wall behind the tub. Its arms cross over the bony chest, a frown present on its face now as it yawns. "That movie was dull."
John stares. "It's the same thing as the book!"
"Oh, no, no, John, you see—the literature is always better. I haven't been around that long, and I know that!"
"Is it mundane that you do?" John asks, glaring at the monster, fingers curling into the ceramic of the mug, jaw set.
The Something only scoffs, and John metaphorically combusts, and the Something requests for more bubbles, and John requests for the Something to piss off before leaving the bathroom, turning the once-quaint atmosphere to a blizzard upon existing.
It's awkward (and frightening)—their first time.
After the struggle to undress and continue kissing the Something passes, John climbs into the tub. The water is cold, and he shrinks (in all sense of the word), and he thinks it well to grab the Something around the waist and heave them both out the tub to grind against the green mat next to the toilet until they have each other disturbing the tenants with their loud screams and outrageous profanities.
They manage to land on the floor by the toilet, but instead of expecting a soft groin plastered to his, John—well—
"Oh, Christ, you have a fucking tail."
Needless to say, they don't go far.
The Something's skin is a light gray, the scales on its lower body a charcoal color. The spine is familiar, if not a bit projecting. The ribs and sternum are visible, the stomach dipping down to hint at being underweight. Hipbones are protruding from the flesh—not enough to question diet. (Not needed—it eats regularly.) The pelvis is smooth, only rough at the seam where the legs should be.
Arms are strong, muscles prominent. Fingers have large webbing between them—some are wearing away. (A concern?) The nails are long and black, resembles talons. There are no significant features on the exterior to show the possibility of gills, so they must be hidden inside (possibly in the nose).
The skull is very humanoid. Lips are full. Ears are functional. Eyes are large, and the irises are black with flecks of blue. (Being above water could have added the color.) The structure of his bones is strange—not belonging on this planet, unattractive at first glance with subtle traces of elegance. Upon the opening of the mouth, it is revealed the teeth are a-plenty, and they are sharp, very animalistic. The tongue is human, white, and powerful.
The scalp and rest of the body are hairless—understandable—and not to mention slimy.
Closer inspection of the scales provides a display of the genitalia—same color as the location of its position, small to hide underneath the scales (possible growth for mating); the female counterpart would be located elsewhere in order for childbirth to be efficient. Whether the offspring is delivered that of mammalian or amphibian ways is unknown.
The joints work nicely together—nothing pops, cracks, breaks, or appears out of place.
Blue veins peek from under the skin on the wrists. Many more are vivid against the blank canvas of the chest.
The breathing patterns are normal—if not for a bit more interesting—and the heartbeat is the lullaby one would yearn for in the middle of the night.
"I may need to dissect you," John says, slinging his stethoscope around his neck. He sighs. "You can't be real."
"I'm not, am I?" the Something hums, and if it were not for the slight tilt of its head or the mock raise of an eyebrow, John can almost be sure the statement was a confession, a realization.
"I told you I was going to be gone for a few days!" John worries his bottom lip, pulls at the collar of his jumper. It's hot in here—humid, unnatural.
"Everything is fine," says the Something, as it continues to lie on the floor, skin dry and red from carpet burn. Its body language speaks levels of confidence, but the tremble in its voice can only be read as a small child, desperate for someone to clean up its mess after its fucked up—and fucked up is the correct term for what the Something had neglected to do.
"No, it's not fine," John hisses, as he approaches the creature, which yelps and leaps to the other side of the room. John hears it hit the wall; and when it slides down the surface to curl and melt into a puddle of its peeled off, pink skin, it whines and groans and closes its eyes, bites its lip. "Oi," says John, loud at first, then at a softer volume. "You, you don't need to be making those noises." He takes a cautious step forward. "Let me help you."
"Stop." The Something lifts a hand at John, stretches out a long finger to point a talon at him. "I don't need your help."
"If this is just a matter of pride," he says, then pauses, fighting back the smart remark. "Just let me help you get to some water." John grabs its arms, heaves it to an upright position. Protesting, the Something kicks the wall and plants its heels into the carpet, and its lips pull back to shoot spit-filled snarls, and—wait, kick, it totally kicked, okay. "Okay," mumbles John, placing the Something back on the floor. His hands touch its shoulders, marveling at the texture, the temperature. "You need to get to water," John says, as if it isn't obvious that they've been trying to do this for the past few minutes.
"I am fine," growls the Something, flinging its arms across its chest. "If I wanted to be in water right now, I would be in water right now." Its voice is still shaking.
John sits beside it, stares. "You seem scared."
Its chest looks sunburned. "I am," it whispers before slowly sliding its feet along the carpet, spreading its toes, twisting its ankles. "This feels… strange."
With an almost-inaudible sigh, John nods and watches. "You'll get used to it."
"I'm going out. If I come home with some nail polish, would you let me paint your toes?"
"Piss off."
John has nightmares of burning streetlights and cracked roads. Glass and concrete had rained on him, ripping apart his skin; and as he watched his flesh melting off his muscles, he heard the most frightening song striking the clouds, turning them a charcoal hue with rumbles of white light—teeth, they were its teeth. The song formed rapid winds, and it sent varying degrees of shock right down John's spinal cord.
He watched the clouds part and a great envelope of dull snow catch the wind current, lifting the material to coat the top of London's skyscrapers and leave patches of ice on the cars.
And the roads cracked more. And the streetlights burned. And the creature's song erupted everything—an earthquake. And he continued to watch. He had fused to the ground—just a mess of muscle and bone with no skin attached. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stop the monster diving from the hole in the atmosphere to stand before him; to peel off his clothing; to pull muscle after muscle, bone after bone from his fragile interior.
Of course, he hadn't felt a thing, but that never lets terror be absent.
The streetlights exploded, burning anything it touched. And the roads cracked beneath them, and everything fell.
The creature was smiling and singing, and John screeched, and he screeches, and he tangles the blankets around his sweating limbs, and the Something asks from the floor, "Are you all right, John?" Its eyes are as blue as blue can get, and they hold such a concerned guise to them. Its posture is tense, once relaxed, since it had been reading in the fort of pillows it and John had built prior to bedtime.
It doesn't seem dangerous at all, but because John is damp from a nightmare that was too realistic and is wrestling a terrible disturbance to his system, he retorts, "Piss off."
The Something crawls back into the makeshift palace, shoving its nose back into the novel. "You piss off."
Babies begin crawling around the age of six to nine months, walking following soon after.
The Something skips the struggle of simple mobility to run around John's flat, flinging off the walls and using the ceiling fan as a toy. The blond remains stationary on the sofa, watching the Something bounce in place, twirl about like a ballerina, smile at its new-found motion. "You're going to sprain something," he says, picking up the remote to the telly. "You shouldn't be—I know you're just showing off. I get it, you're clever, you're smart, now just—no, don't climb out the window. I live on the third floor."
It obeys, shutting the window with a pout on its face, but it's returned to strutting the perimeter of the sitting room unescorted by a moment's hesitation. With its chest out and shoulders back, it looks absolutely ridiculous. John can't stare at it without developing a grin.
In no time at all, as John had predicted, the Something stains itself and takes a leap too far and trips over its own large feet, entrusting John to console the swollen ankle with a bag of ice. The Something is pouting again, complaining that the ice is too cold, unpleasant against his skin, to which John says, "I thought you liked water."
The Something glares, but it's playful, and it branches out its toes—an action it had grown a liking. "Remarkable," it muses.
"Strange how you're not growing scales," John points out, running the bag of ice across the talus. "Your skin's clearing up nicely—no more blotches or irritated patches."
"I need clothes," announces the Something.
The first thing the Something sprouts (besides functional legs and feet) is body hair.
Its chest and forearms are occupied by the fine black hairs, its underarms and legs gaining a thicker bed of it. Uneven spots grow on its face, two eyebrows seem to magic themselves above his blue, blue eyes, and its genitalia is surrounded by the coarse black hairs.
Its scalp succeeds a day or two later. It's short, and John enjoys running his fingers through the little mane, chuckling to himself at the scruff, at the displeased look on the Something's face. "Shear locks, shear locks, shear locks," he mocks.
When the hair grows out, the "shear locks" curl and fall into loose ringlets that lie upon on the Something's forehead, which John now takes upon himself to push away.
"Can't call me 'shear locks' now," it teases, its voice deep.
John places his hands on the sides of the Something's head, sliding his fingers into the soft wool, laughing, as he mumbles "shear locks" under his breath.
It isn't long before the name "Sherlock" sticks.
During the night, while it's sleeping in the pillow fort, John paints its toenails black.
In the morning, when it shouts its anger at an amused John, the only response it gets is "they had to match your fingernails!"
Its long talons break off one Thursday afternoon, and after John's disappointment of having to remove the polish off its toenails, he becomes its doctor.
"Now, I know I'm not specialized in… in… whatever you are—were—but I can tell you that you are about as human as it gets. Well, from as much testing as I can do at home. We could run blood tests, x-rays, scans, and all that, but we'd have to go to hospital, and they'd ask where you came from, and I know that wouldn't go as great as one would imagine. Anyway, you're healthy, everything seems normal—oh, and if it isn't obvious, your sex is male. Your gender is up to you."
"Excellent."
They sit on John's bed. Sherlock plays with the stethoscope around John's neck.
"I would like to listen to my heartbeat."
John abides to its desire, handing the device over. He watches it place the buds in its ears, hold the stem with three careful fingers, apply the flat piece to his chest. It breathes slowly, and John places a hand on its back, steadying it as its eyes widen. It blinks several times and turns its head, looking at John. It releases a laugh, a small noise of disbelief, and John smiles and rubs small circles into its skin.
"I need to get my hands on more equipment," it says, removing the instrument from its ears and tossing it to John. The pale eyes in its sockets move about the bedroom at such a speed that mimics a cat with a mouse. It licks its lips and beams.
John can only smile as he goes to put the stethoscope back around his neck. "Before you go out anywhere, we need to get you to a cosmetic dentist—file down your teeth, make them more human."
Sherlock abruptly closes its mouth.
Ignoring his bladder's plea to be relieved, John stays in the comfort of his blankets and his lack of pillows, which remain on the floor despite the tenant of the fort having relocated to share the confinements of soft sheets with John. Sherlock snores in its sleep and somehow manages to undress, as well. The t-shirt John had given it has been placed on the bedpost, and the sweatpants are bundled underneath Sherlock's head—a lazy man's pillow.
John sighs.
Sherlock grinds its newly filed-down teeth. (The dentist had done a fantastic job.) "My gender matches my sex," it grunts.
John nods. "Go back to sleep."
Sherlock punches John in the abdomen. "Go to the toilet."
When John returns from the loo, Sherlock has taken residence of the whole bed.
Sometimes, while John is off being a doctor for the greater good, Sherlock fills the bathtub and lounges inside. Curiosity comes over the best of him, and as he sits in the water, the familiar wrap of the clear liquid around his legs is not-so familiar after all. He splashes the contents, even adds bubbles, but being in water isn't how it used to be. He can't even breathe underneath it anymore without coughing and seeing bright lights.
He isn't sad. Being sad would imply he cared about being like that girl in the dreadful fairytale story book.
But isn't caring—doesn't that make you human?
Sherlock cups water in his hands, allows it to drip from his fingers. The webbing between them has considerably decreased.
He uses John's shampoo and hopes for the smell to be noticeable.
And sometimes, while John is off being a doctor for the greater good, Sherlock doesn't dress and crawls below the bed. He lies on the rough carpet, getting dust in his nose and cobwebs in his hair, and scratches the wooden board above him. The previous nail prints are much bigger than the ones he is leaving now, and it only takes a few strokes for his fingers to become sore.
However, the pain doesn't stop him tapping Afghanistan or Iraq?
John stenches of antiseptic. Sherlock clings to the front of his jumper. "Am I real?" he asks, timid and unlike anything John has seen.
"I think you are," the blond admits, scratching his head and scooping the other man in his arms, allowing them to lay chest-to-chest on the sofa.
"Where did I come from?" Sherlock inquires, then, eyes slowly narrowing.
John can practically see the gears rolling in his great head. He touches the curls. "Well," he starts, "let me tell you this, yeah?" Clearing his throat and rubbing Sherlock's shoulders, he says, "There is Something under my bed; it has black eyes and no hair upon its head. It came in the dead of night and gave my poor heart a terrific fright. When it's around, I don't feel well, because I think this creature comes from the depths of Hell; but after seeing what it can do, with its great eyes now a lovely shade of blue, I am only confused, as I still do not recall the place of origin it was infused. I do not question, I do not pry, for all I know, it is only for my eye; and what depression I will face when the Something under my bed leaves this place."
Sherlock groans. "You're an idiot, John Watson."
There are bloody handprints on the refrigerator, the walls, the bathtub.
John tries to be patient, but he's dealt with colds and yeast infections and stomach flues all day; he's treading through the house on tiptoe, back arched and a very agitated smile on his face. Any sound could set him off, and he tries desperately to not wring his hands around Sherlock's neck whenever he finds him under the bed.
Obviously, he can't, because Sherlock is singing, and his palms and fingertips are bleeding, and he looks at John with those blue eyes and continues singing with that angelic, low voice of his.
So, John smacks the bed, his fingers getting caught on the blankets as he stands. They rip in his violent attempt at getting loose.
Sherlock continues to sing.
Before cleaning, John wraps each of his wrists with durable cloth bandages and slips on latex gloves.
The stains are worrying, but he tries not to let it bother him.
There's only so much he can do when the marks are very reminiscent of the prints he had seen many weeks prior to their involvement.
"Everything's going to be fine," says John.
"What's your problem?"
"Unresolved sexual tension."
When John is seven years old and known as "Johnny", he sees a dead fish underneath his bed. It's little and has a gray tail and smells terrible, and if he weren't already on the floor playing with his model trains and superhero figures, he probably wouldn't have noticed it until his mother came in to tidy up his room.
Like any small child finding something that doesn't belong to them, Johnny takes it. The feat isn't as easy as he thinks, as just simply lifting the animal with a hand doesn't prove able. So, he adds more force… then, digs his nails into the scales… and then, grits his teeth. "Why won't you move?" Johnny asks, his tongue slipping out of his mouth in frustration. He grunts and kicks his bed and loses his bearing. He ends up on his elbows, his face in the carpet, mouth red from his front teeth having fallen out. Crying is the initial thought, but when the dead fish under his bed slithers away and reaches its long fingers toward his missing teeth, the impulse to cry is overshadowed with the want to scream.
It takes his mother three minutes to check on him, and by then, the Something under Johnny's bed has stolen his teeth and hid to the darkest corner of his room. She tries to calm down her son, who only squeaks his fright and waves his tiny fists in the air. "There is Something under my bed," he protests, "it has black eyes and no hair upon its head."
"Now, now, Johnny," she coddles, trapping his head in her breast. "It's not real, it's not real."
His throat is sore. She bathes and convinces the seven-year-old boy that he has swallowed his teeth. "Don't worry," she says, drying his hair with a pink towel. "The Tooth Fairy will understand."
For being able to deliver mobility as graceful as a ballet dancer, Sherlock is about as pliable as a tree trunk when John takes him to bed.
"Just, just relax," John whispers against the other man's mouth, kissing it, cradling the sides of his head. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you." The words are a plea for the universe to remain stationary, for the one underneath him to stop quivering and cursing when they haven't even removed their clothing yet.
"No, no," Sherlock says, moving away from John's hand, narrowing his eyes. "I can brush my own hair."
John chuckles and hands over the comb. "All right, then." He flattens down his own hair with his palms and watches Sherlock groom himself. "You're pretty."
He smiles.
John's fingers trace Sherlock's veins, tapping each blue string, licking the crook of his neck. "You stole my teeth," he whispers into the skin, noting the fragrance of his shampoo in Sherlock's hair, the taste of his aftershave on Sherlock's jawline.
Sherlock whimpers, his hands twitching underneath John's. "I love your voice," he remarks, legs curving around John's hips. "Talk some more." The baritone rumbles in his chest, and John pins Sherlock's wrists above his head, gnawing at his neck.
"Shut up."
The deep purple bruise matches the hue of his button-down shirt. The coat John has picked out for him is a bit heavy for his shoulders, and he's having difficulty wrapping the scarf around his neck. John helps him, always the one to lean on, never the one to mock. "Now," he starts, grabbing the lapels of his coat. "I don't know how this is going to work out, Sherlock. Don't be… upset over the outcome."
"Is this more for your benefit than mine?" he asks, folding his hands behind his back, lowering his gaze to meet the doctor.
John sighs and rubs his thumbs into the wool of the Belstaf. "Shut up." His grip tightens to conceal the trembling in his limbs, but Sherlock notices and bumps their foreheads together.
"It'll be okay."
"Really?"
Sherlock chews on his lip. "Probably not."
John roughly pulls him down, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's. "You're lucky I love you."
"The bed sheets are made of polyester microfiber, the pillows—goose feathers—the blanket is from your days in university. It smells faintly of body odor and other bodily fluids, and there are places where the thread has been stuffed back into the stitching four—no—five times. It's been done rather badly, possibly with fingers. It's sufficient, and that's enough for you."
John raises onto his elbows. "Is it enough for you?"
"I live for you, John."
"That man, right there"—Sherlock hooks his arm with John's and points at the blond passing them, chatting away on his mobile phone—"is having an affair with his boss. He's talking to her now, receiving text messages from his wife. You can tell from the irritated glances to the device every now and then. His back is hurting from his boss, who is fond of the cowgirl position. She belongs to the overweight community and eats a regular diet of cheesecake. There are crumbs on the sleeve of his jacket."
"Okay, Sherlock," John laughs, "you're making that up."
Thunder roars. Sherlock grins. "I may be, but isn't this fun? I can't wait to do your friends."
John runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, catching on knots, ripping out the tangles, but the noiret doesn't flinch, only lays a hand on the older's hip, tapping out a code made of nonsense. "I am real."
They kiss. "I know."
The pub is full of laughter and strangers, and the company has a differing effect on the newcomers. John is only welcoming the good times, allowing a worry-free smile to slide onto his face, as he stands on tiptoe to gather the attention of his mates. "They said they'll be near the back. C'mon, Sherlock." Their hands connect, and the spark that usually ignites in Sherlock's stomach isn't there, for a cloud of anxiety and fear replaces it with bubbles refusing to pop.
"I don't want to be here anymore," Sherlock tries to say over the noise, but John has selective hearing, and his hand is the only life source Sherlock has right now as they inch closer and closer to their chosen destination.
There are many interesting beings in the building, and Sherlock acquires dozens of new sights and smells he needs to collect for later experiments, for new hypothesizes, but John is pulling him away from them, forcing him to join the residence of his old life, the old individuals he used to call friends. There's a larger male sitting down at the table, a man Sherlock's sure he's seen on the television before, and one that has "former military service" written all over his face, and they're all engrossed in John, John, John; and suddenly, Sherlock thinks this is a bad idea.
They're still holding hands, and John's grip patterns his heartbeat—fast-paced and nervous—and the doctor is even showing signs that maybe this isn't a good idea, that maybe his friends are just being polite and not mentioning the fact John's holding onto air instead of a hand. (No matter the previous encounter with the cosmetic dentist.)
When Former Military Service goes to get more drinks, the man Sherlock's sure he's seen on television before pipes up and waves a hand in his general direction, a grin on his face. "John, you haven't introduced us to your friend."
"Oh, sorry, Greg," John says, his cheeks growing pink, his breath coming out evenly now. (They can see him. They can see him.) "This is—"
"I'm real."
John's friends laugh, and the man at the table's laugh is the loudest of all. The man now known as Greg claps a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and the slight gesture is more calming than inappropriate. "Of course you are! We can see you, can't we?"
And Sherlock's own cheeks blossom with pink, and John squeezes his hand in reassurance, and he says, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."
And Sherlock Holmes and John Watson go home that night very intoxicated and very clumsy, and they exchange sloppy excuses for oral sex; and when morning comes, the sunlight blasts them awake with obnoxious yellow rays, and birds are chirping, and they take a bath together, and Sherlock doesn't grow a tail, and they live happily ever after.