/ A first attempt at a Sherlock fic, to be continued depending on reader interest. Eventual JohnxSherlock? Audience rating may alter in chapters to come.
I wanted to venture further from a little fic about the boy's relationship, and work with an actual case. It's going to be challenging, so hopefully I can get keen enough interest to encourage the story's development. /
"You've been gone a while?" Sherlock queried, his disposition as nonchalant and inhospitable as ever.
John closed the front door to the flat behind him as he entered the thick gloom with a gentle thud. It was late; 11 o'clock or so. And yet, it seemed even darker in the cluttered apartment than he had previously beheld out in the street. A single pale light source glowed from the lamp behind Sherlock's head, silhouetting his figure a little too malevolently for John's taste. The fireplace to his left crackled pathetically, flame's lapping against the spent embers. The air was stifling and compact, the dismal lighting bouncing off antique surfaces, casting dramatic shadows across the scarlet carpeting and macabre adornments. The atmosphere about the place was entirely that of gothic fiction. Sherlock was normally one for theatrics but this verged on ostentatious.
"What, did I have a curfew?" Watson quipped, flipping the switch and allowing the intrusive light to dissolve Sherlock's enigmatic display.
The detective grunted at the assault to his retina's, turning his head away from the lightbulb's beam. He was dressed in the exact same way as John had left him that morning. Pyjamas a size too small, dressing gown open and lank on his wiry limbs, his hair a dishevelled mess. At least, more dishevelled than usual. A lack of cases to solve often left Sherlock in sluggish states of self-pity and angst such as this. Or rather, a lack of interesting cases to solve; because there was always something to solve, somewhere. It had occurred to John a number of times that the man must either enjoy the indolence or have an unhealthily high opinion of himself to refuse all but 10% of the investigations offered to him.
Kicking his feet out and slumping deeper into the armchair, Sherlock quirked a brow as he watched John remove his jacket wearily and hang it on the back of the door. "You didn't enjoy the pub?" He asked indifferently, running finger's through the sorry excuse for a birds nest that was his head of hair.
John sighed, pressing thumb and forefinger against his brow, back still turned. No. No he hadn't enjoyed the pub. It had been nothing more than a last-minute decision he had been pressured into by his peers, consisting of 2 ciders and a lot of rambling from the predominantly female group about television shows, celebrities and relationships. The entire ordeal had painfully reminded him of his detachment from society and his total lack of interest to reunite himself with the normality of a middle-class life. It was like taking an outsiders view into the life he once lead, and abhorring every ounce of it and it's inevitable return. "What was it?" He asked, pulling himself together, albeit bitterly. "A stain on my jacket sleeve? The dirt on my shoes? How did you deduce that I was at the pub?"
Holmes frowned defensively at John's mocking tone. If there was anything to put an already brooding Sherlock into an even worse mood, it was was the added negativities of another. "I can smell the alcohol from here, John. It really doesn't require much application…" Pressing his fingertips together, Sherlock closed his eyes and listening to his flatmate's heavy footsteps as he marched around their small space.
"Yes, well…" Watson began, but quickly surrendered. He was too physically and mentally drained to argue. That was, until he walked into the kitchen and beheld almost 4 days worth of clutter and 'experiments'. "You could have at least cleared the place up a bit, considering you've been at home today doing bugger all."
"Oh please, I'm never idle…" he muttered weakly, allowing the deepness of his voice to carry the almost whispered statement. He couldn't help but mentally note how It was really remarkably lonesome when John wasn't at home, and yet he could be so very irritating when at last he returned. His presence was bittersweet to say the least, when he was in one of his 'PTSD tantrums', as Holmes preferred to call it.
In any other incident, that would have silenced John. Disagreeing with Sherlock was entirely pointless most of the time and the doctor would normally avoid confrontation unless it was necessary. However, a miserable night was spurring on the flames of his resentment. "You know, surprising as this might be for you, I'm a busy man as well." He continued, trying to disregard Sherlock's roll of the eyes. "And yet I'm the one who comes home and has to battle this mess each day. I mean, for godsake, it's like the place has been blitzed…"
"I was rather hoping you were accustomed to a 'blitzed' environment…" Holmes quipped lightly, lifting his violin to his chin.
Eyes narrowing, John's hands gripped into fists. He wanted to say what he had to say before Sherlock began assaulting that damn instrument. "It would be nice to see a form of gratuity for the help I'm always bloody giving you."
Allowing one piercing note to reverberate from the strings, Sherlock dropped the instrument to his lap. A spitefulness adorned his face, cruel and yet brilliant. John almost wished he could've taken back those words. "Unlike the rest of you witless drones, my thought process is constant. It's a well-tuned machine that relies on continuous attention. I can't just turn-off like the rest of you, because then I'm forced to start over. It takes up valuable time to organise my thoughts again and in an emergency situation where I need my mental workings at-hand, immediately, I don't want to be panicked as I try and assemble them from where I left off. Like I said before, I'm never idle- my mind is an unremitting mechanism- and if I were to bring the whole process grinding to a halt for something as mundane and trivial as the dishes, then I may as well become a miserable excuse for a General Practitioner like yourself…" he sneered, leaning back into the armchair once more to enjoy the aftermath of his words.
His fists unclenched, but not in defeat. The pot had boiled over and John slipped all-too-familiarly into a state of passive military restraint. He gave Sherlock a brief, hostile nod and marched directly to his bedroom. He didn't even give his flatmate the satisfaction of a door slam.
Holmes pressed the bow gently to his lips, feeling the sensation of the hairs against his skin as he stared down at the adjacent armchair where John should've been situated right about now. It was hard to place the tiny ache he felt in the pit of his stomach, gnawing irritably at his conscious. He quickly dismissed it as another of those useless emotions and pushed it to a far corner of his mind, there to niggle quietly. After all, John practically begged for cruelty once in a while. He was so tantalisingly compliant. He was the kind of man that Sherlock often looked down on. A slave to the bureaucracy, obedient to the expectations of the world. And yet, that ache could not be smothered. Lifting the violin to his shoulder once more, he played with bitter endeavour.
"You know, it would be a whole lot more convenient if you would just answer the phone" Lestrade divulged as he walked through the front door, removing his hands from his pockets and folding them across his chest in a half-arsed attempt at appearing authoritative.
Sherlock buttoned the remainder of his shirt before slipping his arms through the sleeves of his blazer. "That…" he began casually, lifting a foot onto the coffee table and tying his laces, "is John's department. But it would appear Mr. Watson is in a foul mood with me this morning. Hasn't left his room."
"I'm surprised his patience has lasted this long…" Lestrade jested, raising his brow. He met Sherlock's unappreciative glare.
"Suspected suicide, was it?" Holmes nimbly changed subject, throwing his coat across his shoulders. He turned his gaze down to his hands as he slipped his fingers into the leather pockets of his gloves.
The Detective Inspector inhaled deeply, leaning his weight against the door frame and rubbing sleep from his inner eye. "It would appear so, yes. At the Cowels Country Hotel, Hertfordshire. Groom was found in the guest room just hours before his wedding. Both family's were booked in last night; comes to almost 60 very unhappy guests and potential suspects…"
A corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he wound the navy scarf once around his neck. "I think we can narrow that down…" He brushed his hands down his torso and turned in the direction of the stairwell behind Greg. "John!" He shouted, just inches from Lestrade's ear who jolted from the noisy assault. Frowning impatiently as he awaited a response, Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged questioning glances before Holmes pushed the Inspector aside and began thundering up the flight of stairs to his flatmate's room, only to be intercepted halfway.
"Morning." John quipped with false enthusiasm, brushing boisterously past Sherlock on the small staircase, avoiding his accusing eyes. Still dressed in his pyjamas, John reached the floor of their flat where Lestrade was still standing at the doorway. "Greg…" he nodded in greeting, slipping past him also and making his was casually to the kitchen.
Sherlock followed impatiently. "Why aren't you dressed?" It was a normality for John to be up and clothed hours before Sherlock would even consider leaving his bed, even on a day off. It was a military efficiency that Holmes had grown pleasantly accustomed to.
Opening the fridge, Watson immediately closed it again after his senses were assaulted by the grisly sight inside. "I'm not at the office today…" he announced, completely ignoring Sherlock's agitated demeanour and taking a loaf from the bread bin. He placed it down onto the counter.
"Then you're available to accompany me; we need to leave now." Sherlock's voice obtained an increasingly irritated tone.
John didn't respond. He placed two slices of bread into the toaster and began filling the kettle with water, all with his back to his flatmate. Sherlock's upper lip curled. He was rarely on the receiving end of a shunning and didn't much care for the burning exasperation is created.
"Sherlock, we need to get to the crime scene!" Came Lestrade's impatient voice from the doorway around the corner, putting a little more effort into his authoritative facade.
John glanced over his shoulder from the stove, meeting Holmes' indignant stare. He raised his eyebrows in an 'off you go, then' manner. Silence rolled for what felt like minutes as they visually gouged one another, until finally John turned once more to face the kettle. Not sulkily; just, indifferent. It was a display that Sherlock rarely witnessed from anyone other than himself, and he didn't like it one bit. Especially not from John. Seeing any form of himself being mirrored in John's temperament, artificial or not, was surreal to the point where it angered him. He gave the back of John's head one last death-glare before pivoting on his heel dramatically, causing his coat to sweep, and exiting the flat behind Lestrade. He made sure to give both his own door and the one to the building the added effort of a slam.
Cranking the gas on the hob, John leant across the counter on his elbows. He stared down at the speckled pattern of the laminate, brow knitting as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. He knew what he wanted; but all to well the hopelessness of receiving it. A 'sorry' from Sherlock was about as feasible as pigs flying. He would have to buckle, eventually. Give up the inhospitable charade and follow the man's orders like what was expected of him. in truthfulness, it wasn't only for Sherlock's benefit anymore. Not just a favour to a hostile man who had no one but himself. John needed the companionship, too; he feared that by giving the cold shoulder, retiring from his role as assistant within the relationship, he would receive nothing but disregard from the man he looked up to and expected so much from; albeit in silence. It made him feel weak, that desperation for contact. That desire for the thrill that living with someone like Sherlock gave him. Relying on someone else to keep him contented. Whether or not his efforts went appreciated, did it really matter? Just whom needed whom?
John pressed his forehead into his palms, allowing a breath of air to escape his lungs. For the first time in so, so long; he felt old. Not even the walking stick had brought about such a feeling of hopeless despair. Mundane was something he had sought so eagerly since returning from Afghanistan, but now, nothing could've repelled him more. A trivial existence, merging into the ordinary and unremarkable. No, he didn't want that. Last night had made that abundantly clear. But an extraordinary life wasn't something he just wanted to view from the sidelines. He wanted connection; an active role within that realm. And the only way that was going to happen was with appreciation