Stupid Want: A Johnlock One-Shot
He wants to help. He really does.
Sherlock sits at the kitchen table, staring into his microscope and seeing nothing. It is amazing, how curiously blank his mind is for once, cured of all of his burning questions and endless musings. There is no case, no excitement, no experiments, but he has his own puzzles to figure out. Things he needs to think on.
John will wake up soon.
No, no he won't. He was drunk, nearly passed out, when Sherlock had gotten the slurred phone call.
"John, what is it, I'm busy."
"Uh, this is Andrew, the army friend he was with tonight, you must be the flatmate."
"And what do you want?"
"As charming as I expected, aren't you? John… kind of… needs you."
Sherlock was informed when he arrived at the dirty little pub that John had drunken one or six too many pints and collapsed in a booth, asking repeatedly for Sherlock. "Bring me… Bring me m'Sherlo…" was what he was muttering when the detective arrived, and he heaved him into a cab, dragging him back to Baker Street. This had been happening far too often lately, John getting drunk and stumbling in, or someone having to drag him home, or someone having to call Sherlock to drag him home. Too often. But why? Obviously, something was bothering him, but he didn't have time for this, time to go over every little detail of what John said and did to figure out what was wrong.
Sherlock takes a deep breath, pulling away from the microscope. Thinking, how did that work again exactly? He'd been running over the same theories, twisting the same logic in and on and over itself, but there's too much and not enough data to find a clear answer.
There were not a lot of people whom Sherlock could not understand all the time, and John was one of them. The things he did were baffling at times, incredibly out of place. Why was it that he had lived with this man for so long and still new more about random passerby? Ridiculous.
Enraged, Sherlock stands and paces the kitchen, raking his fingers through his hair. There's something, something he's missing, something he's overlooked, something he needs…
"Alright… Here we go," he whispers, sitting back down, leaning over the table and focusing on the wall across from him, intent on the blank green panel of the cabinets.
Entering Mind Palace
Objective: Discover what is wrong with John Watson. Fix it.
Basic Information:
-Increase of frequency and potency of alcohol use
-Not coming on cases as often
-Ignoring me
(Stupid, why would he do that? He's never done that before. Is he getting bored with me? I'm not bored with him, and he thinks I'm fantastic, doesn't he? Stop. Don't get distracted.)
-Hand has been shaking more often
-Increasingly frequent nightmares
-Need for affection when drunk
Deduction:
-Going through some sort of emotional turmoil
More Information:
Drinking- Need for affection, asking for me last night, "You're my best friend and I-"
Mind Palace Recalibrating
Quote:
"You're my best friend and I love you… Git that you are. G'night Sherlock." (Slurred and grammatically incorrect, incredibly drunk last night)
Possible Causes of Turmoil (based on Quote):
-Need for more appreciation of friendship (improbable, understands my nature)
-Denial of status of relationship as extraneous and distant (improbable, see above)
-Denial of romantic feeling-
Mind Palace Recalibrating
Evidence Supporting Theory (Romantic intent on the part of John Watson):
-Uncommon initial trust and appreciation
-Poorly masked flirtation in Angelo's
-Extreme patience
-Lack of insanity after all this time
-Loyalty to a possibly unstable flat-mate
-Defensiveness when not necessary
-Unbelieving of past with drugs
-Pursuing Irene Adler
-Constant denial of homosexuality
-Lack of recent interest in women
-Marked need for affection from myself when intoxicated
-Said inebriation causing acts of affection (unwanted but enforced hugs, pleas for attention, etc.)
Deduction-Finalization:
John Hamish Watson has marked, unresolved romantic feelings towards me.
Solution:
Not Found.
Exiting Mind Palace.
Sherlock sits back in his seat, mind settling. John. Oh, god, John. Stupid, stupid little man. He stood and resumed pacing, running over the possibilities in his head. There may be another trip to the mind palace needed. God, how did he let this happen? He was so careful, so clear and concise, but he let this happen.
It had been weeks ago that John made the comment, a drunken mumble as Sherlock, yet again, rolled him into bed after a night at the pub, and he hadn't thought anything of it. It wasn't that kind of love, John was drunk, those silly excuses, how stupid they seemed now. God, how had he never seen it? Of course he'd seen it. He knew all along, now that he is thinking of it. It was in the little looks and stolen glances, the tidbits of family history he had shared and weaseled out of Sherlock. It was in the sad yet hopeful look Lestrade had given him, when he'd dragged him upstairs after a night out. It was there from the beginning: Sherlock had just been so married to his work; he hadn't taken notice when a new spouse entered the picture.
What separated them from spouses, anyway? Some, he almost dared to say most, married couples didn't have sex anyway, but they quarreled and supported and bought milk and shot serial killers for each other. How had he not seen this all along, clear as day? Sherlock knew his own faults and strengths, mostly faults, better than anyone else, and this one he knew was the human anomaly he most dreaded: denial. If you're not ready for something, if you can't handle it, you will ignore it until it is impossible to ignore.
And it had become impossible to ignore. John's health was suffering because of it, for god's sake. And here he'd been, too wrapped up in himself, as usual, to notice.
"Stupid," Sherlock mutters, scrubbing and hand over his face, falling back into the chair, head in his hands. Stupid of John to fall in love with him. Stupid of him not to notice. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Stupid of Sherlock, to want to love him back.
Caring is not an advantage, he remembers, staring blankly through the floor tiles into nothing. But what if it was? Caring had saved his life, saved John's life, saved countless lives, hadn't it? There were times to care and times to separate yourself, weren't there? There were times to love John and to put him aside, weren't there?
But could he do it?
Sherlock Holmes had never been in love. The closest he'd come was Ms. Adler, the Woman, and, looking back, she was practically himself, reflected in the female form. He'd moved past it. Over it. Beyond it. There was nothing there for her but a fascination, a fascination of the unknown; that much he had deduced long ago. But… But John. John, whose hand was warm and rough on his shoulder. John, whose voice was comforting and quiet. John, who was so very rarely boring. John, who was always there. John who had done so much to save him.
John, who had never given up.
He could love John, that much was certain, the emotion was within his capacity, but would it be enough? Would there be enough room in that massive brain for an ex-army doctor? Was there enough patience, enough will to communicate?
Sherlock looks up, suddenly realizing something of the upmost importance, something he's missing, and stands, his decision made.
John is not entirely sure if he was completely human when he wakes up that afternoon.
It is nearly impossible for him to drag himself out of bed, even with the sun masked in clouds, the gray glare blocked by the drapes.
"Never again," he mutters, knowing it is a lie. He doesn't know what's gotten into him lately. Things are just so much easier when they're blurry and drunk; maybe it's his time with Sherlock catching up with him.
Sherlock. John groans, distinctly remembering his vague mutterings of "Bring me my Sherlock," the night before. Apparently, such pleas are not uncommon. Just a few weeks ago, he and Lestrade went out for a pint, which turned into one too many, which turned into three too many, and pretty soon he was being dragged out of a Taxi toward 221B. A few days later, Lestrade pulled him aside at the yard.
"You might want to know that, the other night, you told me some very personal things," he began, and when asked what he said, he simply replied, with a sigh, "You told me you were in love with Sherlock."
There was a silence as dead as the body in the next room, and Lestrade let out a sigh as John scrambled for words, trying to find a way to explain this away, a scapegoat for his slip-up. He'd been so careful. He'd stopped coming on as many cases, stopped paying Sherlock so much attention, kept reminding himself that nothing would ever come of a stupid crush, and now this.
He used the "Ha, ha, I was drunk, still not gay, just really intoxicated," card, but he could tell the detective inspector was not buying it. He simply nodded and wandered back to Sherlock, who was busy sharing nasty small-talk with Anderson, and John's heart had sunk into his stomach and refused to resurface.
He couldn't handle this. Nearly every night, he had nightmares now, similar to the ones of the war, but a new battlefield, Sherlock's battlefield. A bullet, a pill, a trap, a trick, a game; anything that could harm Sherlock tried in these terrors, and there was nothing John could do but watch. Nothing he could do but watch his best friend, the man he… he loved, die. And yes, he loved him. Somehow, he did.
It was hard to admit, and he didn't plan on admitting it to anyone else. Sherlock was married to his work. John would get over it. Of course he would. He was a soldier, for God's sake.
Presently, he stands slowly, limping slightly on the opposite side of his psychosomatic ailment; he must have fallen at some point the night before in his inebriated state. As he makes his way downstairs, he lets out a long sigh of relief: Sherlock is not home. His flat mate has become fond, rather recently, of torturing his violin with angst-ridden, strenuous music that fills the flat with almost as much discomfort and emotion as John's mind. He turns into the kitchen, praying that they had a few spare aspirin left, and maybe something a little stronger, then he can rest out this hangover…
He is surprised to find a steaming cup of tea on the table, next to a jar of jam, with two slices of bread ready in the toaster. He takes all this in, finding, to his delight, two aspirin beside the tea cup, and a note from the ever-evasive Sherlock slapped onto the jam jar.
John-
Gone to Tesco, out of milk. Don't turn on the telly, don't stand for too long. Eat, drink your tea, take a nap, and I'll see you when I get home.
-SH
He looks down at the note in disbelief. Sherlock has gone to get groceries and, though John can hear the contempt for "telly" ringing in the back of his head, a fairly pleasant note wishing him well. John can't help but let out a low chuckle that hurts his head but warms his heart, taking the aspirin and pushing down the toast.
"I love you, too, git," he mutters fondly, and sits down to drink his tea because, for now, it's enough.
It is enough to know that he is not alone in this stupid want, even if it isn't within reach just yet.
Fin.