"If I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior." - Thoreau
What was loving, what was tender, what was true where Sherlock was concerned?
John had long sought to find a line between the realities he couldn't accept and the social-construct ideals that filled him with longing.
John, in other words, wanted desperately to be normal, but found that his life with Sherlock was as far from normal as...
(...There was, in fact, no comparison.)
In many respects, Sherlock made all of John's reality. No more space could the sun, moon, and stars themselves take up in John's life.
Sherlock's movements being so much like a planet's made it all the more unconscienceable, to some extent, for Sherlock to be indifferent to the solar system.
But that indifference was one example of how he deftly avoided fulfilling the dictates of public tyrants; Sherlock was mastered only by his private opinion.
An idea of normalcy had no place in a reality with Sherlock. So the more John struggled to retain this unachievable identity, to live up to what he'd always said of himself - that he was a normal, unextraordinary person who had nothing intrinsically special about him, who was in fact rather boring - the less grasp he had on this identity.
The more he insisted he was normal, the less he felt he actually was.
One primary barrier to his ability to reach normalcy: Sherlock.
Sherlock was, among other things, a lunatic, a genius, an infuriating bastard, and, more distressingly, not a woman, which fact gave John some difficulty for a long time given the feelings that Sherlock inspired within him.
Because these feelings that Sherlock inspired within him were of a quality that John knew were deeply inappropriate for the normal heterosexual person.
Which really was perhaps the crux of the matter - normalcy meant, in John's paradigm, not being gay, and the more he insisted on his being normal...well, he told himself later, it was actually a rejection of his homosexuality through metaphor.
But that was later. For a long time, the only way he could reconcile the tension between his ideal of normalcy and his definitely not normal reality was by rejection the aspects of his reality that didn't fit his conceptualization of normalcy.
It was for this reason that he concluded that Sherlock was not the kind of creature that John's heart ached for.
This conclusion lasted only until Sherlock was gone. Then Sherlock was ALL that John could think of wanting.
Normalcy, when it finally returned to him, was a damnable unfortunate thing. He'd forgotten how much he actually had feared normalcy when his reality was not normal.
Now that his world was normal, the grass looked so much greener on the other side.
There was nothing less he wanted to do than lead a life of quietly desperate normalcy.
But then! Lo! A miracle! Sherlock was back, and John barely had time to realize this before he let himself be caught up in the flow of things once more.
Caught up in a new way, too, that hadn't been part of the flow of things before - as their bedsprings could testify.
John had relinquished most of his hold on the ideal of normalcy - thus allowing this natural progression of things to happen.
Now it had been a year - had it been a year? that was amazing - and catapulting from exhilaration to frustration was a daily event, increasing force as the dynamic of his relationship with Sherlock grew to have greater significance.
There was no denying Sherlock's brilliance or the importance of Sherlock in John's life; it was too much a given. But there were moments that John still toyed with his favorite myth of normal life being a happy life.
He no longer associated normal with heterosexual; his worldview had become more complex with the time Sherlock stayed away.
Moreover, it wasn't even that he wanted his private life to be normal - he had conquered his own ego's resistance to being not normal. He had embraced being not normal with Sherlock for most of the time.
However, he still considered normal to be somewhat important in the public sphere.
Particularly when dealing with witnesses, victims, family of victims, the police force, and - oh lord - their fans.
John felt incredible loathing every time he had to apologize, apologize, apologize for his lover, in a variety of contexts.
It didn't help that scandal left a long shadow in the public sphere, since good news was so much less likely to travel as far as bad. The people of England's fascination with abomination was not counterbalanced by a pervasive good-willed hearkening spirit akin to the angel Gabriel.
It made the problem worse when Sherlock was quick to take the bait of people who diminished his intellect due to their ignorance - or downright dismissal - of his formal acquittal.
Initially fighting on Sherlock's behalf with the fierce frenzy of Mercutio on behalf of Romeo was exhilarating, but even an old army doctor could be worn down.
Particularly when fighting for Sherlock wasn't always the most appropriate response to a situation that Sherlock had already made bad.
People like Lestrade and Donovan and even sixteen-year-old fangirls at the convention for their BBC documentary (concisely called Sherlock) were telling John: "Control your boyfriend."
Oh, and Mycroft was being a bit pushy on that account as well, but he'd always loved to exert power over the only individual that he regarded as having a better connection to his brother than he did.
As if John had any control in his relationship with Sherlock whatsoever. Submit to Sherlock was almost his guiding mantra. Which wasn't normal at all or perhaps even healthy, but John had long thrown out any conventional wisdom that might convince him to do anything about it.
But with the expectations of the world becoming a nuisance, his vision of normalcy held greater allure.
If Sherlock was normal, I wouldn't be having to do this, became a constant thought as they interacted with the outside world.
And he apologized, and apologized, and apologized, because Sherlock was frequently rude and biting to people without cause. Not more frequently or more harshly than was usual for him, really, come to think of it, but now that he and John were lovers...
...now people thought John could somehow make Sherlock fit the model of normalcy that they wanted in their lives.
Perhaps it made it easier for them to cope, to view Sherlock as something that was not normal and needed to be controlled by someone who was more normal, e.g. John.
It meant that to some extent when Sherlock called them idiots, they weren't actually deserving of the title, because the person who had called them idiots was himself uncontrollable and not normal.
If Sherlock was not normal then his assessment of them being idiots was invalid.
Therefore, it was more of a self-preservation tactic, to call upon John and blame him for Sherlock's lashing-out behavior.
John was Sherlock's keeper, and if the uncontrollable Sherlock caused trouble, then that was the keeper's fault, because it was his job to contain the animal.
And John had not signed up to contain Sherlock. His was a voluntary association only, but no one seemed to respect that possibility, because why would anyone volunteer to care for such a wild creature as the not normal Sherlock?
The latent assumption must have been that John had a masochistic streak and wanted to be a martyr for being with Sherlock. Because John was so obviously normal - he clearly didn't deserve to put up with the not normal Sherlock.
No one really bothered to question what it was that John might be getting out of their relationship - it was assumed he was the benefactor, the sane one, who had control.
This conflict between the reality of his experience and the ideals superimposed upon him became so oppressive that John found himself avoiding situations where he might otherwise need to provide damage control.
Which, primarily, meant he was essentially avoiding Sherlock in public.
There was only so long this could go on unnoticed by the great detective, however. He relied so heavily on the phrase that he'd be lost without my blogger that John wondered if it actually might be true.
One afternoon, Sherlock turned a seductive pose on the couch into a full-fledged discussion about their relationship without so much as a syllable of transition.
"You haven't been around lately."
John, as usual, pretended not to understand, even though his intuition told him that his ruse was over very quickly. "What are you on about?"
"You left an unsolved crime scene today."
"Yeah, well, I got a call from the clinic." The excuse was mere convenience. John's primary motive was to escape the inevitable confrontation with the victim's father, a sneering, grandiose owner of a small business who thought his daughter's death deserved the media (and free publicity for his store), minus Sherlock Ruddy Holmes for whom he vocalized much disrespect.
Sherlock scoffed and tightened the lanky legs and arms that ensured John's bondage for the duration of the conversation. "That's not the real problem," he said. "Talk."
John was reluctant to 'talk,' mostly because he didn't want to just come out and say Sherlock I'm sick and tired of cleaning up after the messes you make.
However, after some very compelling demands whispered in his ear, John's resistance waned.
"Can't you...can't you just be normal for once?"
Sherlock's eyes were sharp.
"What do you mean? Don't you like the way I am?"
And there John saw the timid puppy beneath the crocodile, utterly shocked and taken aback by John's opinion, receptive and willing to do anything, anything to keep John from disapproving.
To keep John from leaving, which was, ultimately, as he'd discovered through careful digging, what Sherlock feared most.
As he looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were as bright as dying stars, John said, "I do," with emphasis. He also pressed his lips against Sherlock's, which were turned over each other and pressed tight together in what may have been consternation, what may have been annoyance, or what may have been an attempt to prevent them from trembling. "But-"
"-I thought your...I thought it was unconditional," said Sherlock with fierceness, not able to vocalize the word love in the tension of the situation. His brows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed and his face was pinched with not knowing.
"It is," said John quietly. He knew how tricky a territory this was to navigate. "I love you the same unconditionally. I'd just find it a little easier to be loving if sometimes you made an effort to be...more polite."
Sherlock's response to this was guarded. "You'd prefer your privacy in the shower, then?"
Oh, Sherlock.
His habit of coming in the bathroom when John was occupied therein was something that only made John a little annoyed, mostly because Sherlock's voice was garbled by the sound of water in John's ears. And because John felt he had to make a show of being annoyed that his partner couldn't be bothered to respect the usual bounds of privacy - but that was all it was, was a show.
For John took inordinate delight in the fact that Sherlock noticed when John wasn't there and took action to change that fact.
It was a lot better than the days when John would return home from Tesco's to discover Sherlock had been in deep conversation with an imaginary John for an hour.
"Oh, Sherlock," he said, wishing there were words adequate to express all this with a conciseness that wouldn't leave the detective bored. "No. I mean with...with other people."
"Oh."
"Our language doesn't transcend the bounds of our...our bubble, if that makes sense."
Sherlock seemed inclined to make no reply.
"So just...be normal with other people, at least in the superficial respects, if you would? I just...hate to have to apologize for you. It really ticks me off."
Sherlock nodded, eyes closed. "I understand," he said with gravitas, and then his eyes opened, and a smile of a strange quality emerged on his face. "Shall we get on with it, then?"
"Get on with-?" John began, but was consumed mid-word by an answering, ravishing kiss.
Sherlock's personality was much like a volatile chemical substance - adding one new element, no matter how minor or how pure, changed the consistency of the fluid altogether.
And so it was after that conversation - Sherlock was irrevocably transformed, John could immediately tell, but into what, he wasn't certain.
Their shagging was as usual as such a thing with Sherlock could manage to be, and the sleep that followed was warm and comfortable.
The morning dawned and John realized he hadn't had such an undisturbed sleep in a long time; Sherlock had apparently not moved the whole night, but was staring at John the next morning, alert and clearly bored.
"What are you still doing in bed?" John asked, swallowing as much of his morning breath as possible while feeling a yawn creep up his throat.
"Didn't want to wake you by getting up," Sherlock said with a cheerful bounce in his voice, and with a peck of a kiss on John's forehead, the detective fairly leaped from under the comforter and bounded into the living room, the slight amount of fat on his bare buttocks quivering as he jumped with the energy of a gazelle.
Feeling old, John laughed and stretched out the kinks of sleep in his muscles before padding to the shower.
A quarter-hour later, wrapped in towel, John emerged, needing some clean pants from the laundry basket left in the kitchen. Sherlock was in his dressing-gown (but nothing else) and was engaged in making tea and toast, of all things.
"This is a pleasant surprise," said John, and took a sip from the glass that Sherlock pressed into his hand. "And is this orange juice? Where'd you-"
"-Mrs. Hudson's fridge. She won't miss it."
John looked at his partner with surprise. "Did you go down there looking like-"
"-She's not there today, John, she received a letter from Florida in yesterday's post, and like always when she gets one of those she goes to Winchester to take out her aggression about her ne'er do well son on her sister."
John just shrugged with a laugh. "Oh. Well. Thanks." He finished the orange juice and saw, to his interest and some dismay, that a good amount of orange juice had been appropriated to the latest dismembered human body part in the house.
"Acid test," said Sherlock without prompting, without looking at John except through his peripherals.
"I'm going to dress," John said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder, feeling vaguely like a scientist who had at last communicated with creatures from another planet.
In producing a modicum of human decency. Sherlock had proven himself a quick study, it seemed.
Some time later, Sherlock was engaged in writing, of all things. Furiously.
Surprised and curious, but not enough to say anything, John sat and opened his laptop, cradling his second cup of morning tea in one hand.
Whereupon Sherlock stood up, walked over, and deposited what he'd been writing on John's keyboard. It was actually legible.
"I took the liberty of outlining the case to facilitate a smoother, more complete blogging account," said Sherlock with a shrug.
What was more amazing to John was that Sherlock hadn't thrown the piece of paper at him, but actually gotten his lazy arse up and given it to him.
"Th-thanks," said John. He wondered if wine would spout from the ground if he stabbed it with a stick - only a demigod could have tamed Sherlock, he felt.
"Let me know when you're ready to go out - received word from a source about something that might hold our attention for at least a few hours."
"Go get some clothes on and I'll be ready immediately," said John, standing to find his shoes.
Sherlock gave his partner a really, John? glance - how dare John imply that he'd go out without trousers on - but flounced off to his bedroom without a word.
"So, what do you think - ought we go with the white with the blue trim or should we go with the jewel-tone set?"
God, what is going on? John was thinking to himself. Because the pair of them were standing in the dishware section of Harrods, apparently killing time by pretending to be interested in the sale.
But they'd been there for an hour, with no sight of a mysterious rondez-vous of any sort, and John was very bored.
Sherlock, however, seemed to harbor some secret thrill for this pottery, because he was going on at length about the dinnerplate sets as if they were the Chinese vases he adored so much.
"-I don't know that they need to match the wallpaper as much as they need to match the furniture, though," Sherlock was rambling, "and the jewel tones would suit the furniture color scheme rather better..."
He was almost more neurotic than usual.
"Sherlock," John interrupted, "what are we doing here, exactly?"
"I've got a coupon," said Sherlock, clearly pouting. "Twenty percent off. Inclusionary of sale discounts. Not to be passed up when we so badly need new plates and things, John."
"What's wrong with the mish-mash we've got? Are you planning on having the King of Somewhere I Don't Care About to dinner anytime soon? I'm rather fond of the motley-"
He then realized what he was saying.
"Sherlock, point is - why are we here?"
"A very good question that eons of philosophers and high priests and mythwriters have struggled to understand," Sherlock answered evasively, then his eyes widened. "Oh, look, John! A special on china teasets!"
"What's wrong with you today?" asked John, but received a quizzical glare in response.
"Do you need any assistance?" asked a boring, mousy-looking saleslady who smiled at the pair with faltering grace as they passed.
"No, thank you very much," said Sherlock, adding, "But I simply love the color you're wearing, by the way. It suits you."
"Thanks!" The girl's smile became a little less ambivalent, and her hand came up to tug at her hair in an unconscious invitation despite John's attempt to communicate he's mine through his eyes.
Some time later, the boys were looking to go home. John began to look around for a cab to hail, but Sherlock was trotting (trotting? but indeed he was, there was no other word for the peculiarly cheerful, quick gait that was brief enough to afford John a decent chance to keep up) in the direction of the dark, grimy stairs of an underground station just around the corner.
"Um, Sherlock?"
The last time John remembered Sherlock's taking the tube had been when drenched with pig's blood and bearing a harpoon.
Sherlock hadn't liked that experience very well.
"What are you waiting for? We don't need a cab," said Sherlock with altogether far too much good-will in his jeer. "So expensive! Let's be economical. And save the planet while using London's most consumer-friendly transport service. Take the underground. We'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail."
"You needn't write a bloody advertisement, of course I understand the merits of taking the tube," said John with some irritation.
"Well, let's go then," said Sherlock, and tapped John with a sudden, "Race you!"
With a sigh of relief - that was the first thing Sherlock had said today that was familiar, Race you! - that turned into a deep inhale for oxygen, John took off in a sprint, leaping deftly across the sidewalk, weaving between dazed members of the crowd, feeling the exhilaration of running and barely not bumping into people and feeling the wind against his face and the steady thumping of his feet against the stone sidewalk...
And then he arrived at the dingy stairs of the underground station, and he doubled over to catch his breath, noticing that for once he'd won - Sherlock was nowhere yet in sight.
Nowhere yet in sight.
Nowhere yet.
Nowhere.
Oh blast.
John, still breathing hard after his half-mile dash and feeling his fingers sausage-thick and tingling with blood circulation, he tapped a simple ? to Sherlock.
And just as he did, there came the detective, looking somewhat sheepish, glued to his phone, texting furiously.
"Wouldn't you know, I caught my shoe-lace in the stones and fell flat on my face," said Sherlock, who proceeded to text a photograph of the incident to John.
"Um. You-" John was about to protest, if it was an accident why is there a picture?
"-Tourist couple in the foreground, they messaged the photograph to me after helping me up. Seems I spoiled a pleasant view."
To which John didn't know how on earth to respond, so he just laughed. Painfully.
Sherlock had never tripped in his life, by John's recollection; Sherlock was a cat. If there hadn't been picture proof, John would have thought it was a strange machination on Sherlock's part for the sake of an experiment.
Well, who was to say it wasn't, actually? The man had done stranger things for science.
"Oh. Well, it's not as though I couldn't do with the exercise," said John with an attempt at levity, and at balance. Sherlock was always complaining that he was getting fat, and it was a legitimate complaint.
Which made Sherlock's next sentence more confusing.
"Oh, John, don't tell me you're self conscious about your body, of all the ridiculous things!"
...what?
"You're not fat, you silly goose. What on earth makes you think you specifically need exercise? If you're happy and healthy, that's all that matters, innit?"
Sherlock's voice had, mid-conversation, assumed a cooing, soft Northern accent that was deeply bewildering to John.
So he looked Sherlock in the eye and saw a twinkling there that revealed Sherlock was laughing inside, despite a long face.
"You're weird today," said John, not breaking eye contact, "and I don't know why, but I do know that it's weird. So stop it."
"Why, what's wrong?" Sherlock's facial muscles all bespoke concern, but the quality of his eyes gave his act away until they too glazed over with overwhelming earnestness.
"You know!" said John, turning and stomping down the stairs two at a time.
"Is it- oh dear, John, mate, I'm dreadfully sorry, I just assumed- oh dear God, assuming always makes an ass out of you and me, doesn't it..."
Sherlock was prattling of all things, and John was just simply pissed off at this, because Sherlock was having altogether too much fun with whatever this was...
Ignoring him for the duration of the tube ride was a Herculean feat.
"Have you talked to your sister lately?"
It was an ordinary enough question, but that was rather the problem - it was Sherlock asking it.
Sherlock, who consistently forgot John's girlfriend's names and sometimes forgot that John even had a sister, because the fact frequently got pushed into the recycling bin of his mental hard drive.
"She's fine," said John, hunching down into the seat and brooding mercilessly, not looking at Sherlock.
"Oh. That's good," said Sherlock, then began fiddling with the buttons of his coat until he thought of another question to break the silence. "How's my brother?"
"Oh come off it!" insisted John, resolving not to answer any further mundane questions, because he was so certain Sherlock was playing some absurd game with him.
Sherlock was smarter than that - why was he lowering himself to such mundanities?
"Well, it's a perfectly honest question - you're seeing him Thursday next, yes? I know because he texted."
"Texted you or texted me?" asked John long-sufferingly. There were no secrets between him and Mycroft - at least communicated in text - to which Sherlock was not privy.
"I admit I looked at your phone," said Sherlock with more shame in his voice than he ever was wont to express. Ever. "I hope you'll forgive me."
"Shut up," said John with such vehemenece that the old couple across from them looked at each other askance.
"Does that mean you do or don't forgive me? I wasn't snooping, I promise - it was just an accident."
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose without answering.
"Please, John? Please forgive me?"
"Oh, for God's sake. Yes. I forgive you. Now leave me be."
"I love you," said Sherlock.
That definitely made John look at his partner with wide eyes. Sherlock - saying, so clearly now, in public, without hesitation, words that he couldn't bear to say in the dark after they'd been making love for hours?
"I love you," repeated Sherlock, but there was a quality of disingenuousness in his voice that made the words painful to hear.
He didn't mean it. He was playing a part. What part, John wasn't certain, but he didn't like it at all.
"I love you," said Sherlock again, and it was almost singsongy how he proceeded with, "I love you, I love you, I love you!"
He paused. "John? Do you love me?"
Of course I bloody love you, John was on the verge of saying, his sadness at hearing these special words tossed so carelessly around, bouncing them against the walls of the subway train, testing them out in front of other people with a false alacrity that was so not Sherlock.
It was like he was dealing with an insecure teenage girl.
He couldn't bear to give a dignified reply, and was further confirmed in his frustration when Sherlock, throat tightening, said to the old woman across from them - "I like your scarf, m'am. Purple suits you very well."
"Why, thank you," said the old woman, awkwardly, and then John heard the noise of a plaintive sniffle from his seat-mate. "Why, what's the matter, dear?" asked the old woman with all of the reserved indignant anger of a mother hen who's been watching her daughter be pecked into place.
In his peripheral vision, John saw Sherlock glance at him once, twice, and lean forward across the aisle tremblingly. "Can...can I ask you a bit of advice?" he asked of the old woman.
The old woman made her man budge over, resolutely, and patted the seat next to her.
Whereupon Sherlock picked himself up and sat next to her, whispering all sorts of things in her ear, and she nodded grimly and glared unhesitatingly at John.
As if it were John who had done something.
No, he was just reacting to Sherlock's doing something to him.
And he was furious.
But then the old woman and man had to get off the train, and the woman scribbled her skype address on a piece of notepaper, patted Sherlock on the head (and he looked up at her as she stood above him with the adoration of a pupil for a great teacher) and told him she'd talk to him later.
And then as soon as they were gone, Sherlock - reluctantly? - sat down next to John again, and leaned onto John's shoulder in an unusual physical display of affection.
John really hoped that the charade would end, now.
There were auspicious signs - deep sighs of reflection and, perhaps, regret, a twisting of the hands that signalled agitation before a big, uncomfortable revelation, a labored breathing, the click of esophagus as Sherlock swallowed in preparation to speak...
"Well, John, here's a question I've been mulling over," said Sherlock, and his voice sounded a little bit returned to usual, without the inflections of neuroticism and overwhelming anxiety that had tainted it all day. "It's rather an important question, I think - but I want to hear what you think. Please be very honest. I don't want to cause undue conflict just because of some slight differences we may have in our opinions concerning this."
"Okay, what is it?" asked John, deciding to close his eyes against whatever great and important thing it was Sherlock had to say.
"Again, I wish to stress the importance of being completely honest with me - whatever it is you think, I want you to come right out and say it. No beating about the bush."
"Okay...?"
Thereupon Sherlock took a deep breath, fortifying himself against a plunge into waters of unknown depth, and said:
"So should we have gone with the blue trim or the jewel tones?"
John felt so abused and bitter that he couldn't help but laugh with anger. "Oh. Oh. Oh! You think you're so funny, do you?"
"No, I'm being perfectly serious - I'm opting to go back and get the jewel toned ones, which go so much-"
"-No. Sherlock, I'm not doing this anymore."
Whereupon John resorted to clapping his hand over Sherlock's mouth.
This was a mistake because Sherlock, being clever of mind, was altogether far too witty for his own good, and couldn't stop his tongue a'wagging in the best of circumstance.
In these circumstances, when Sherlock's favorite mode of expression was thus imperiled, John's blockade elicited a deeply sensual tonguing of the hand.
Sensual enough that John had to pull Sherlock halfway onto his lap in an attempt to conceal a very obvious boner, and this made John even more irritated and angry no matter how innocent Sherlock appeared.
"I think- did I lose my wallet?" asked Sherlock in a harried way as they arrived at the station nearest their Baker Street abode.
"The fuck you did," said John, irritated to distraction, "it's in your coat pocket."
"No it isn't," said Sherlock, whereupon John, in his haste to get off the train withdrew the wallet from the pocket himself and shook it at Sherlock. "Get off me and give me your coat."
The erection was far from disappearing, and the more John tried to will it away, the more it remained steadfastly obvious. Having Sherlock on his lap really hadn't helped the state of affairs much.
Instead of behaving like a child, at least Sherlock had the decency to shrug off the coat without a word and drape it around John's shoulders. Frontway facing back, but it would do for the moment; it was supposed to be a tool for concealing anyway, even if it did look a little odd.
"Thanks," said John gruffly, and they fled the subway train a second before the doors sealed shut.
"So, would you like to do something about it in the bathroom, or shall we just hurry home?" asked Sherlock with such straightforwardness that after a day of convoluted sentiments, John was immensely relieved.
"Um. Home."
Which meant that Sherlock spent five minutes arranging the coat 'properly' on John.
Ugh.
He just bit his tongue as Sherlock fussed in a way that was completely foreign to John, adjusting the belt and pulling at the shoulders and trying to make something so clearly suited for a much taller man look passable on John.
"It's a sixty-second walk to the flat," John said by way of concluding the experiment, which left Sherlock going ahem ahem in embarrassment and then, arm in arm (? was John's response to that!) they walked to their place of living.
It was a quarter past noon at that time, and as soon as they walked in the door, John threw himself on Sherlock's couch and snarled at his beloved. Whereupon Sherlock started laughing uncontrollably.
"Okay, you've made your point, Sherlock," said John with a huff, "and you know it." He peeled off the coat and threw it on the table. "Now this..." (he referred to the obtrusive aspect of reality that was most insistently nudging at the front of his trousers) "is your fault - you mend it."
"Indeed, I will," said Sherlock, and all of a sudden he was his old self again, "But first I'll make us some tea."
"No, now," said John with a childishness that surprised him.
"Tea," replied Sherlock with a curt amiability that was distinctive of him. Sherlock humor. Normal Sherlock humor. "You're on my couch, by the way," he pointed out as he went to the kitchen and started, in his hyperactive way, throwing together the things necessary for tea.
"You're making tea," replied John, and immediately started to laugh. "This makes no sense."
"Doesn't it?" said Sherlock from the other room.
"Not really," replied John.
"It's what you said you wanted," replied Sherlock as the kettle began to boil.
They were once again in bed, warm and comfortable in their places alongside each other.
"What did you mean, this was what I wanted?" asked John.
"What, you didn't lay there like a spoilt child and demand I suck-"
"-No, before. After. I mean. God."
John closed his eyes and tried to think of things like ceiling wax and cabbages and kings. He was still a little woozy from the delight of existing in the way they'd been for the past hour.
"I mean, you said something like I wanted you to do what you were doing all day."
"So concise, John, you should be the next Poet Laureate."
"Thanks. So what was the point?"
"A test of a hypothesis."
John knew it had to have been scientific to some extent. "So what was the hypothesis?"
"That if I acted like a normal human being, you'd not be pleased as punch."
"Really." John had to smile into the pillow nearest him. "You call what you were today normal?"
"Granted, I was imitating behaviors that were specifically chosen to make my point, and modifying the form of these behaviors to fit the situations that were available to me."
"Okay." John nodded. "I get it. You don't want to be unauthentic. And being normal is inauthentic to you."
"Precisely."
Though as John mulled over it, he couldn't help but feel that Sherlock had crossed a line.
Saying I love you for the first time on the underground in front of strangers and at the same time making John look like an abusive boyfriend - that seemed particularly needless even in the context of proving a point.
"Are you going to talk to that woman on Skype?" asked John, surprised at how jealous he sounded.
Sherlock laughed awkwardly in the dim afternoon light that came through the blinds. "That was a job for Lestrade. She's a significant member of a child prostitution webring. The account she gave me has already been linked to illegal activity; a positive ID needed to be made, and that was caught on the CCTV on the train."
This provided little solace for John, however, who felt even more used than before.
"I think you know you went rather over the top there, though, Sherlock."
"It worked, didn't it?"
Will caring help save them?
Sherlock's machine side kicked in less frequently than it had in days of old, before the Fall, but it made it no less shocking or painful when it did emerge.
"What you said - it wasn't fair." John could barely bring himself to vocalize how angry he really was about it.
"What did I say?"
Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled, but John really hoped he might understand without it being spoon-fed, because really, Sherlock was an adult and ought to be able to figure out this sort of thing without help.
"You just kept repeating it, like it was meaningless," said John, and then, with a whisper of breath, John heard Sherlock gasp a little bit.
"Oh," said Sherlock, and said nothing more than a second, "oh."
"Oh is right," said John, "and it was really, really hurtful that you could say I love you over and over again nilly-willy in an act without being able to say it in the privacy of our own bed without reservation."
"Don't think of it that way, if you can," said Sherlock, but his voice reflected only the slightest amount of resistance - resistance that hid a deepening sense of shame. "It's not...it's not like that."
The most careful and reverent of kisses was placed on John's forehead, and Sherlock gently twined their hands with the sweetness and steadiness of creeping jasmine on an arching arbor. John closed his eyes.
"I do love you," said Sherlock, with breath heavy on John's cheek. "How many times did I say it on the train?"
"Five?" asked John, not that he'd counted in particular.
"Then..." Sherlock paused, took a deep breath, and placed a gentle kiss on John's left ear. "I love you."
Without disrupting John in his repose, Sherlock moved himself up a bit and kissed John's other ear, whispering with heat that tickled John's ear-hairs, "I love you."
John's eyelashes danced like daffodils as Sherlock kissed his partner twice more, once on each closed eyelid. "I love you. I love you."
Three more kisses, once on John's brow, once at the bridge of John's nose, and once at the tip of John's nose. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
Then even more lingeringly, Sherlock pressed his lips against the place where John's cheeks met his mouth on the left and right sides. "I love you. I love you."
Sherlock was trembling a little bit - being brave, but still trembling, just like he did when it was time for whatever shots John thought it necessary to prescribe at certain points, pretending he didn't want to wrench the syringe out of John's hand and administer it to himself so that he'd have control of the fluid entering his body.
So since John could feel that, he was surprised to feel his eyelids pressed open by Sherlock's thumbs, and he winced a bit as Sherlock's thumbnail pressed a bit too much into his eyelid.
"Sorry," said Sherlock in reference to the thumbnail. He seemed to want to make eye contact for this final iteration of the ritualistic cycle. "I love you."
Thereupon he kissed John in one of the more traditional places, squarely and passionately.
This isn't normal, John thought to himself, pressing his hand into the back of Sherlock's as he assisted in deepening the kiss. Not normal at all.
And really, it's only fools who think I have any capacity of controlling my boyfriend, John contemplated as they further interacted, for really, he's the one who's got full control of me.
That's the only kind of normalcy I like.
For it had occurred to him that normalcy didn't have to be an ideal - nor did it have to conflict with reality.
They could all be the same thing, if he cared to make them such.
Based on LJ prompt - Sherlock is really trying to behaving normally for John (maybe on a date, or at home, or after pushing John too far), but his lack of understanding of social niceties means FAIL. Especially if John can see how hard Sherlock is trying and either rewards him for it, or finally says something like, "Seriously, Sherlock, I appreciate the effort, but I like you the way you are; just be yourself."
But...I kinda didn't refer to the prompt once I got the idea in my head SO the work actually got off-topic. So it doesn't really fill the prompt at all. (sadface) Okay, hope you like it nonetheless.