A/N: Hello, everybody. I am the Penguin, and my quest is to write. I've come across the SH'11 universe only days ago, watching the episodes ever since. (I want to kill them for this cliffhanger in the big game. Waiting another 5 month? KIDDING?) In any case I love the characters enough to actually start a drabble collection about them.
Please note that those are not actual 100-word-drabbles. They are just short. Also they are not sorted; they will be randomly placed within the three episodes, through they might be put in order later on. We'll see. There most likely won't be any slashy kind of slash, but probably some blood as it is involved in the episodes. Well, enough talking already. Relax and enjoy.
Description: He saw right away something was off. But they were colleagues, not friends, and because Sherlock didn't tell, John didn't ask. / He didn't want to admit it, but he hat put his trust in a complete stranger. And because John didn't ask, Sherlock didn't tell.
Set in episode 2 after Sherlock is attacked in Soo's flat.
Miscommunication
John had the first suspicion when he heard Sherlock's voice, but he didn't know for sure until the detective started to cough.
He isn't the greatest observer. Has never been, probably won't be anytime soon. He will heartily agree that whatever it is his flatmate is doing with his mind is beyond him, and that he is happy this way. But doctor John Watson wouldn't be the war veteran- the war survivor- that he is if he hadn't got sharp senses to his aid.
He noticed the way Sherlock's hair was tousled, the dust moths the carpet left in them. He didn't miss the way the scarf was somehow tighter around the detective's neck, effectively covering up his throat. He saw the man's hand twitch up to said neck before it ended up straightening his coat collar instead.
Oh yes, John saw.
He had been throttled before. He knew about the breathlessness that made you gasp for air after every sentence. He had felt it, the vocal chords struggling to readjust to the newfound room of a recently released throat, causing the voice to falter and scratch like sand paper on stone. He had experienced it beforehand, many a time, though he never talked about it if not explicitely asked.
However, none of this explained why the younger man didn't say a word about the incident. And it most definitely didn't explain why Sherlock, the great fearless Sherlock Holmes, seemed unable to meet his eyes.
But this was how it was, and because it was this way, John didn't ask.
Sherlock could tell right away that John knew.
He noticed the man's blue eyes follow his hand up to his hand- darn his bloody self-control, had the incident left him this shaken- and though he quickly settled on straightening his scarf, he saw the flicker of suspicion in the doctor's eyes. He knew only too well that by the time the sun would set, his pale skin would bear the tell-tale throttle marks dark and blue for everyone to see. The idea of hiding something in his own flat upset him. He would do it anyway.
A strange numbness had settled deep within his chest, and it wasn't from the loss of air. It was rather a twinge of uneasiness in the closeness of his companion, not quite fear yet, but something he'd have to figure out rather sooner or later.
Sherlock Holmes, the world's first consulting detective, was afraid that his deductions had been incorrect and that now he'd pay for his mistake with his life. Because after merely weeks of getting to know each other, he relied on John Watson enough to call out to him in what could have been his last seconds of life. Because he relied on this stranger, relied on his loyalty enough to want him by his side in the face of danger. John had shot a man to save his life, and Sherlock had taken it for granted he'd do it again.
A million questions buzzed through his mind- questions he didn't ask before but now thought that maybe he should have. All the whos and whens and whys, gnawing on him, distracting him.
John had been right there on the other side of the door. John and the gun in his coat's inner pocket. John, who had refused to take Mycroft's money. John who had killed for him without a moment's notice had been right there and done nothing to help him. Because surely he must've heard, surely he couldn't have been this absorbed in his own thoughts, surely he must have... must have what, exactly?
Sherlock managed to put the thoughts away for now, bringing his attention back to the case at hand. But he could not bring himself to look at his colleague.
John didn't ask. And Sherlock didn't tell.