John Watson is frustrated.
He's had a shit of a day, a shit of a week, the last case they'd solved was a shit, Anderson had been a shit nothing new there, the weather was shit and when they'd finally cornered the odd woman with the deranged plan to poison the water supply, it had all...gone to shit.
And now, back at Baker Street, which was supposed to be his home and haven, Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective was...being a total...shit.
How the hell can he be so damned cheerful? John is sitting on a kitchen chair he'd dragged into the bathroom, Sherlock perched on the edge of the bath, hand outstretched and upturned as John picks pieces of glass and slivers of wood embedded in the long fingers and palm, following with an application of antiseptic. It twists something inside John to see those beautiful hands reduced to a patchwork of cuts and scratches and he wonders how scar tissue may impact Sherlock's ability to play the violin.
"Sherlock, sit still" John holds the hand more firmly as Sherlock gestures gleefully with the other, caught up in reliving the detail of the capture.
"Did you see her John, when she knew we had her? Did you see the moment of recognition, when she knew we'd beaten her?"
"Yes Sherlock, I saw it. Now sit...still!" John tugs at a shard, perhaps slightly more roughly than needed, to grab Sherlock's elusive attention, "Some of these are deep and I don't want to hurt you." Although maybe some pain might teach you not to take such stupid risks.
Sherlock's hand stills and his eyes swing to focus on John, bent in concentration over his hand, "Yes, right. You're right of course." The hands cease their expressive dance; the feet however, continue their percussion tapping on the tiles.
God, he's so buzzed with adrenaline at the moment... It's going to be a very long night...again. All John wants to do is tend to his own injuries, grab a hot shower and crawl into bed, but he'd learned the hard way that if he didn't get Sherlock sorted the mad git would simply divert himself with whatever captured his fancy and whatever injuries would be forgotten in the path of discovery. He remembered once spending several hours cleaning the kitchen after Sherlock had managed to smear virtually every surface with bloody handprints after John had stupidly chosen to change out of sodden clothes before tending to his wounded flatmate.
John changes to tend to the other hand, Sherlock gazes at the one John's released, mentally cataloguing the number and position of new markings as if memorising a street map. There's a pause in the frenetic activity as Sherlock files away the scrap of information somewhere in his cavernous brain.
It's not that John doesn't enjoy what he does, running around after Sherlock, solving crimes and being brought to a thundering, open mouthed halt at the brilliance of Sherlock's deductions but it isn't….enough. Endless months running, living, working beside this incredible man have begun to mess with his head. The domesticity of Baker Street and a string of disastrous short term relationships continue to cycle back to an inescapable conclusion I fancy my flatmate. Sherlock hasn't helped the situation by being a complex conundrum of questionable glances, casual nudity in the flat and blatant innuendo that is never followed up with action.
His life has begun to feel like the wrong type of carnival ride, with the right music and gaudy lights, but missing some undefinable spark that would end the ride in a breathless, sweat drenched sense of completion. And I'm afraid to change rides in case I'm thrown out of the park.
John switches hands again, putting down the tweezers and picking up the antiseptic. The methodical routine of John's actions have settled Sherlock somewhat and the detective is now quietly watching as John turns and dabs and flexes fingers one at a time to ensure mobility hasn't been compromised. John can feel Sherlock's gaze, unwavering and analytical and wonders not for the first time how the two of them ended up with their paths intersecting in this small flat on Baker Street.
Ministrations complete, John releases Sherlock's hand, aware again of the odd sadness that always follows the loss of contact. He sighs deeply and looks up to catch the intent gaze of the man opposite.
"There you go Sherlock, good as new."
"Thank you John. As always, your skill is exemplary."
John's tired and his first thought is to brush the compliment off, but he knows Sherlock is trying. He's not oblivious enough to think Sherlock hasn't detected John's rising level of frustration over the past weeks. He's been increasingly cranky, and Sherlock has been getting the worst of it. The taller man may be a genius but he isn't psychic and he's doing his best given limited information.
"Thanks….Thanks Sherlock. I'm going to take a shower. Why don't you play for a while, your violin calms you down." Rather than wreck the kitchen.
"John…"
The bathroom is quiet, the simplicity of tiles and porcelain reducing the complexity of Baker Street to shades of white and beige.
"John…" Sherlock tries again. This time, John raises his head to look into troubled eyes.
"What's wrong John?" The deep baritone is gentle and questioning.
"Nothing." John doesn't want to get into this tonight or perhaps ever.
"It's not 'nothing'. It's been 'not nothing' for several weeks now and I don't understand why you won't explain it. I find it quite frustrating."
Quite frustrating? How does he do that? Speak whatever is on his mind without reservation? Isn't he afraid of repercussions? Perhaps I could learn something from him on this topic.
"You won't want to hear it." John begins.
"I've asked, so you may assume that I do."
John pauses, looks to the ceiling as if searching for divine inspiration, closes his eyes and sighs. Sometimes, the only way to win a battle is to sacrifice some ground.
"Sherlock, are you happy?"
Sherlock looks somewhat taken aback, then thoughtful, considering the question fully, "Yes. We've removed another threat from London's streets, you've treated my hands and the experiments in the fridge should produce some meaningful data by the morning. Yes John, I can say that I am currently happy."
"I'm not Sherlock. I'm…." John realises that for the first time, the simple statement is the truth, "… not happy"
The expression on Sherlock's face is one that John's never seen before ever! There is a mix of shock, despair, panic and desperation, all crowded and fighting for balance and if John ever thought Sherlock emotionless or uncaring, the suspicion had been wiped away in a single blink. If John wasn't staring fixedly, he may have missed it as the look appeared and vanished in a heartbeat but it had been there So help me…it WAS there.
Sherlock clears his throat roughly and with a carefully neutral tone enquires, "Why?"
Everything has changed. Everything. With that one look, John's carefully considered speech about sharing a flat and yet needing to maintain some semblance of individuality falls away. His planned script about needing to find a relationship, a 'partner' outside Baker Street evaporates. His hesitant intention to bare his soul and explain that, well…he had NEEDS and running around with Sherlock in the dark wasn't getting those needs met disappears like smoke.
Instead, John takes a deep breath and attempts to write a new future, a future that includes a tall, wild haired, insane but brilliant detective. He knows it's a risk, he knows that in all likelihood this will doom what they have and yet, and yet…I damned well SAW it. I saw that look.
John searches for words, the right words. The words that will inform but not alarm. Words that will offer opportunities yet not close off options. Words that will articulately explain that while this life that they're living is the best damn thing he's ever had he knows, he absolutely fucking KNOWS that it could be so much better.
However, what comes out of his mouth is, "Quite often, I dream of shagging you."…Bollocks