Hello there!
So this is the first chapter of a little Sherlock fic that I've started. I'm intending it to become a Johnlock (Sherlock/John) piece as it develops, but I've also got an idea for a case - so it will have an actual plot as well! Let me know what you think, I've tried a different writing style in this. I thought as Sherlock is a very English and well-spoken person, the piece should resemble this. And also, my brain has become a thesaurus. So yeah. Leave a comment and tell me what you think and if I should continue or not.
Oh, and if this chapter seems a little confusing, don't worry - it'll be explained in the next chapter ^^
"She's in para, para, paradise… para, para, parad – "
The words to his quiet tune were cut off as John raised his eyes upwards and took in the scene playing out before him. The four plastic bags rattled as they hit the scuffed wooden floor of his shared apartment, but all John's focus was dead ahead.
It was on the ivory-skinned man who was hunched over a small microscope, staring intently at mysteries the doctor couldn't even begin to fathom. The sight was not unnatural to the doctor, quite the contrary in fact. When the two of them weren't running around London, Sherlock Holmes found other ways to exert his genius. Yet as John's eyes travelled over the translucent ivory skin, he felt his throat becoming unbearably dry.
"Sh – Sherlock?"
The Consulting Detective didn't so much as glance upwards, instead extending a slender finger to the dial, clicking it forward before studying the glass slide more intently.
"What… what the hell are you doing?"
John wasn't sure if it was his exasperated tone, or the disbelief on his face that made Sherlock's piercing eyes glance upwards, but glance he did.
"Really, John. You are so predictable sometimes. It's boring."
There was a witty remark sitting behind his teeth, but John only bit it back. He felt his cheeks humming with the scarlet that adorned them. He bit back his embarrassment and shoved it downwards to his chest where he morphed it into a bitter anger. A familiar, controlled, unbiased anger.
Yet he still found himself glued to the spot, staring at his flatmate. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sherlock must have felt John's gaze because he looked up again, but this time his perfectly arched raven eyebrows weren't creased together. He seemed to look over the doctor in a steady sweep, taking him in for the first time. John sudden became aware that he looked like a fool. He felt his stomach roll at the image he presented, so instead to yelling at the detective more, he simply grabbed the dropped shopping and stormed into the kitchen.
Sherlock followed the doctor's path with his intense eyes, recording each and every detail of the man temporarily in his brain.
Flushed cheeks. Ruffled hair. Tense shoulders and neck. Fleck of tea on front of shirt. Rumpled jumper. Scuffed shoe. Black smudge on left palm. Dilated pupils. Unshaven cheeks. Blood under right index nail.
Sherlock turned back to the microscope, his mind racing as it came to the conclusion that John had had a stressful day at work. He had woken up late with no time to shave, hastily made a cup of tea and spilled it unknowingly onto his shirt. Then he had almost missed the bus, running to catch it and scuffing his usually pristine shoes on the curb as he boarded. The clinic had been busy from start to finish, giving John no time for lunch thus there were no smells on him beside cheap coffee that his assistant had brought him every hour. The caffeine rush had dilated his pupils, giving him the illusion of extra energy. His last patient had been a woman. Young. Crying. John had comforted her, thus the smudge of eyeliner on his palm. Then he had taken blood, but the caffeine had long since turned, dampening his skills and causing him to miss the vein. The blood got onto his hand, and he had washed it but not as precisely as usual because he was set on leaving. His hair had been ruffled from John's unconscious habit of running his fingers through his hair. It was a gesture of impatience and somehow calmed him.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side, focusing his attention on the perfect replica of John in his mind. Dilated pupils, caffeine. Flushed cheeks –
He stopped and leant back in his seat.
John had showed anger when he entered the room, which wasn't unusual for his flatmate. They rarely spoke normally unless both their minds were focused on the same thing. Sherlock found that John's tolerance was certainly beginning to bend to the genius's unusual tendencies but more often than not, the doctor was angry at him.
Yet from his knowledge of John Watson and his habits, flushed cheeks were not a sign of anger. The doctor's military training had subdued John's ability of outwardly hostile emotions, and to others he was unreadable. But Sherlock could deduce things about the doctor that others just wouldn't comprehend.
As he let his thoughts whir around his brain, a sound caught his attention. There was a sweet clink before John padded back into the room, two unmatched mugs in his hands.
"Oh for the love of Christ, Sherlock! Put some bloody clothes on!"
Ah… flushed cheeks: embarrassment.
He sighed and turned back to the microscope, ignoring the doctor's request and examining the sample more closely. He vaguely heard the thump of a mug on his desk before following John's heavy feet up the stairs. The doctor's door slammed with finality but Sherlock barely gave it a passing thought as he noticed a small rise in the blood sample under the lense.
He paced. Back and forth, back and forth. John ran his fingers through his short hair before folding his arms over his chest. Of all the things that the man could have done…
He sighed and sat on the edge of his unmade bed. Reaching out for the steaming mug, he cupped it in both hands and let the warmth seep into his cold fingers. The weather had turned almost instantly and it was bitterly cold outside. It didn't help that he was in such a rush that morning that he forgot his coat.
What a day. The clinic had been crawling with people, Maggie had called in sick so his workload had been doubled. After a girl started crying at him that she was pregnant, he was done. Nine straight hours with no break, no food and only coffee had landed him in a foul mood. The last thing he needed was to come home to a naked flatmate, bearing his birthday suit without shame or modesty.
It was the last thing that he wanted to come to.
Are you sure…?
There was a gentle stirring in the pit of his stomach making the doctor cringe. He took a deep gulp of his searing hot tea, burning his tongue in some twisted way to punish his conscience. In actual fact, he just punished himself.
John sighed heavily, resting his forehead on his palm.
Maybe he overreacted. Sherlock wasn't exactly normal so he couldn't blame him for not understanding a normal person or normal personal boundaries. The soft side of his emotions caressed his chest, bringing his guilt to the surface and making him come to the realisation that he should apologise. He could just remember seeing a pile of clothes by Sherlock's hunched figure and if nothing else, he could at least blackmail the man into putting on some boxers.
So with his tea in the left hand and his right in his pocket, John steadily made his way back downstairs to face the music.
Or, well, Sherlock.
As he guessed, the noirette hadn't moved from his position at the microscope. He didn't even tense as John slowly walked over to him.
"Sherlock, can… can I have a word?"
He watched as the detective's bright eyes swam over the microscope lens, seeing things that John wouldn't ever be able to see. Even just watching him, John couldn't help but be in awe. Sherlock was a walking contradiction of person and robot. No tedious emotions holding him back from his pursuit of knowledge. John, after nearly a whole year with the man was still unsure whether to worship him or pity him.
"What?"
His voice was thick with its usual impatience, but John had learnt not to become offended by it, but sometimes the detective pushed a button too many.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John. I'm listening. What's making you so uncomfortable?"
The doctor frowned. "Why would you say that?"
Keeping his azure eyes on the microscope, Sherlock sighed heavily.
"Your hand is in your pocket because you don't know what to do with it. Your other hand is gripping the mug so tightly that I can see the white of your knuckles. Your cheeks are still flushed and your eyes are looking everywhere but at me; the clear object of your uneasiness. You feel guilty for raising your voice at me, which is unnecessary but you have a need to apologise nonetheless. Let me save you the breath and accept the apology now so that you can carry on with your day, and I can carry on with mine."
John grit his teeth before slamming the mug on the table. The sudden noise caused the detective to jump slightly and finally raise his eyes to John's.
"Don't be such an arsehole, Sherlock."
"I was just st-"
"Stating a fact', yes. I've heard it before. But have you ever considered that people don't want to hear the facts? We don't need to go around listening to your self-assured bullshit all the time, OK? Jesus…"
Sherlock frowned, turning his focus onto the man before him. John's outburst had been unexpected, but he found himself intrigued. Only when he shifted all of his attention to John did he really see the doctor. His breathing was erratic, his brow was sweating, his pupils were still huge, drowning out the honeyed warmth that was usually there, and he was irrationally angry. The detective licked his dry lips as the man before him turned, raking a hand through his short ashen hair.
With his back still to the noirette, John heaved a sigh.
"I'm going… out."
The last word was whispered and Sherlock found himself studying his back as he retreated from the flat and out of sight. He frowned, not an uncommon gesture, but this time his mind wasn't picking through a case or an experiment. The detective let out a long breath, steadily retreating into his Mind's Palace, flitting through his saved memories of the doctor.
John Hamish Watson. Thirty-four. Military Doctor, served for twelve years before being Honourably Discharged. Birthday, May fifteenth. Taurus. No religious preference. Non-smoker, although experimented in school. In a non-committed relationship with superior. Seemingly sociably accepted.
As far as he could tell, John was an average man.
He felt a familiar stirring within his mind as his attention was shifted from his experiment to his flatmate. Leaning back in the chair, he considered the multitude of possibilities of the doctor's obvious distress.
Obvious exhaustion, causing heightened emotions. Discomfort around myself, most probably because of current predicament.
Sherlock ran through other possibilities but the first summary seemed the most likely. He sighed and reached carelessly to the floor and the pile of discarded clothing there. With minimal effort, the detective managed to shrug himself into his boxers which were only partially scorched. Feeling immensely irritated, Sherlock turned back to his microscope and to the sample that could crack his current case.
"One more."
"Sorry, mate. Last call was twenty minutes ago."
John frowned, glancing up at the barman. He could only just make out his outline through the dark din of the pub. It was practically empty and he only just noticed that the stools and chairs were piled neatly atop the tables.
He gave a frustrated sigh before necking back the last mouthful of his bitter beer.
"Do you want me to call you a taxi, mate?"
John blinked, attempting again to look at the barman. He seemed quite burly, with a very shiny head. It was that or the glint of the light against the mirror behind him. The doctor rubbed his eyes, exhaustion sweeping over him in waves. He shook his head, reaching again for the pint glass that he only just remembered was empty before shuffling himself unsteadily onto his feet.
John found himself gripping the bar as the world around him took a vertigo turn. He swore he could see the ceiling before a deep rumble brought him back to earth.
"… call you a taxi."
"No! I'm… fine. I live…" his voice trailed off as he wound his arm backwards to point in some kind of direction that his frazzled mind thought to be 'home'.
He didn't see the sceptical look that the barman gave him because John was already making his way towards the door. He wrenched the wooden slate open so quickly that he nearly hit his own face with it. After a second of staring, he chuckled and walked into the bitterly cold night air. The street was familiar but John didn't really pay much attention to anything as he crisscrossed over the pavement. He very nearly toppled over the curb a handful of times, each time only laughing louder. He let his voice carry over the quiet night as he recited, beautifully in his mind, a song from his childhood.
Perhaps it was because of his drunken state, or the way he hollered Eye of the Tiger at the top of his lungs, that John was so completely oblivious to the presence lurking behind him. It moved within the shadows as if it was wearing them and watched as the fool made his way slowly down the street. It hid from lamps, watching as the fool turned another corner, and then gave a demonic smile as it realised the drunk was heading into a dead end. As it slipped it's hand into the inside of it's jacket to retrieve a small blade that glinted with glee in it's palm, the figure slipped easily through the shadows and into the rhythm of it's intended victim's stride.
It raised the blade, levelling it with the bare nape of the fool's neck and flashing it's bright canines, brought the knife clean down.
There was just a brief second where the assailant was stumped, not feeling the fleshy thump of it's knife within it's victim. Then, as it was thrown backwards and howled in pain as something connected with it's nose did it really take in it's surroundings. It saw a flash of ivory before another blow to the face left it slumping on the curb, moaning and motionless.
He winced as he rolled his shoulders, feeling the pain smoking up his arms and biceps. Sherlock let himself catch a breath as he studied the man at his feet. Dirty. Crazy. Unconscious. He turned his eyes briefly to his right, sighing as he saw John's wobbly frame still making it's way carelessly down the street and singing that god-awful song. The detective gave out a frustrated grunt before sliding out his cool metallic phone. Typing a quick text to Lestrade, Sherlock then started forward at a jog to catch up with his idiotic housemate.
"'Cos it's the, dum, Eye of the – Sherlock!"
"I believe it's the Tiger, but OK."
"What're… what'cha doing here?" he slurred, reaching out to grasp the noirette in a crushing hug. Sherlock winced as he felt the pressure on his forearms, but allowed the drunken fool to have his moment of abhorred affection.
"I thought that I'd just take a leisurely stroll at –" he glanced at John's exposed watch. "Two o'clock in the morning."
"Oh. That's nice." John moved back, giving a sluggish shrug, completely oblivious to Sherlock's sarcasm.
"I s'pose it's good that, that you did 'cos… 'cos I don't really know where I am."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man before him. He was swaying dangerously on his feet and staring, it seemed, into nothingness. When he hadn't heard from the idiot for over six hours, Sherlock had developed some kind of ungraspable pressure in his chest that he diagnosed as anxiety. He had texted the doctor, then rang, then texted again, but all to no avail. Finally deciding that John deserved a slap, Sherlock had left the comfort of his home to seek the twat out.
But now, as honeyed eyes blinked at him innocently from under a clueless face, Sherlock couldn't find it within himself to be angry. It was curious indeed, the sudden shift in his emotions, and one he would have to study further but only within the safety of four walls. He wasn't sure if he could be subtle with John hanging from his arm.
"Come on, you idiot. Let's go."
He saw the man frown, some semblance of the insult registering in the back of his mind, before the alcohol washed it away and he was back within his state of obnoxious ignorance.
Thank you for reading!
And also, if you're a writer and looking for a beta, then I've just registered as one. The info is in my profile or on the beta section of FanFiction. Or just send me a PM :-)