"Let's play a card game."
Yet another caseless day in 221B Baker street, a certain detective tossing things out of his way to find his precious savior. So far, there were several piles of clothing, mugs, papers, books and things John Watson didn't even know he owned.
"John, I am a grown man and a consulting detective. I've no time for games," Sherlock said, throwing and almost hitting John with a miscellanious book. The Army Doctor sighed.
"Sherlock, they're not here," he said, referring to the cigarettes Sherlock was searching so desperately for. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Of course they're here, I know they are. I've seen it in your face. They're here somewhere." Sherlock said, continuing to rummage around the small livingplace of their flat.
"Alright, fine. They're here. But you're not going to find them," challenged John, "so we might as well play cards."
Sherlock groaned, sinking to his knees in the middle of the rubbish. He covered his face with long, slender hands. "John! Tell me where they are or I swear I'll..." He sought for an argument thick enough to get through that soldier's skull. "I'll use my nicotine patches."
"Nicotine is better than cigarettes," reasoned John, keeping his eyes focused on his paper, but never moving.
"What will it take, John? It's like you need... action. The war. I need them. GIVE ME SOME." The consulting detective was losing it now, almost grovelling at John's feet. Clearly, he wasn't going to give up for some time. Well, two can play at that game, thought John.
"You're doing well, Sherlock. You've been off them for nearly a week. Just keep on with it, and it will get easier. I promise." It felt weird reassuring such a leaderly figure, but if it helped, John was willing to try almost anything.
It proved, however, that his efforts were all to no avail. "That's what you said yesterday. And the day before. It's just getting harder. John, stop trying to lie to me."
"You just need to get it out of your system, Sherlock."
Sherlock's head snapped up, focusing his eyes on John's face. "What will it take, John? I need this. More than anything -just. Tell me where they are." His voice was pleading now, as it quite always did whenever Sherlock wanted something.
"No, Sherlock, you need to quit smoking," John declared, hoping for the last time. "Look, a case will come along, alright?"
Sherlock almost snorted. "Oh, yes. Of course a case will come along." He rolled his eyes and got up from the ground, all dramatica and flame. "That's what you always say. And Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Anderson, even; I just want a single cigarette, John. Is that too much to ask for?" He looked at John with his big eyes, as if a child trying to convince an adult to buy them an innnocent plushie, as it wanted to go home with them.
"Sherlock, now you're being ridiculous. You know how it goes as well as I do. It's just one now, but next time a case is slow coming, you'll want another one, and then one because Anderson is being a prat. Before you know it, you'll be up to a pack a day." John had placed his newspaper in his lap now, focusing on the window, how he usually did when he was talking to Sherlock as if he was a child and John his guardian.
"John." Sherlock said, almost whispering. "Do you know what it's like to need something?"
"Of course I do, Sherlock."
"Need something so much that... that you'll not survive? Are you sure, John?" It seemed to John that he was getting far too sentimental about a packet of cigarettes, but still he went on with his elimination of Sherlock's protests.
"Answer me directly. Look at me." John sighs. It always comes to staring into his face when his friend was deducing; but for some reason, it always made an uneasy feeling in John's gut. However, he did as he was told. "Yes, Sherlock. I know what it's like."
He stared at John, his eyes darting around his flatmates face. Deducing. "Tell me. John, tell me where they are or I'll..." He didn't finish his sentance, his eyebrows going back to their former position from where they had been furrowed. John knew where this was going; threatening, reasoning, or sulking.
He took the challenge with a steely voice. "Or you'll what, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked up at the mantelpiece, to his skull. A small flicker of panic ran though John's eyes before he could stop himself. Sherlock smiled. "Oh, nothing, John. Nothing at all. But I'm not sure I'm talking about cigarettes anymore." He spoke as if he was unsure of himself; almost a first for Sherlock.
Right, then. Distracting me, it is. Because John knows his flatmate; he knows what the narrowing of Sherlock's eyes mean. "What is it you're talking about, then? Shooting the wall again?" John wasn't sure he- n'or Mrs. Hudson -could deal with that right now.
Sherlock, however grinned at John's attempt at foiling him. He stepped over a pile of shoes to the mantelpiece and, lifting the skull there, he threw the pack of cigarettes to John. "Not bored, John. Desperate." He turned away. John's fist clenched around the cigarettes, but he sighs and loosens his grip before he crushes them.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I really can't help you." John thought, in reality, he only sounded sorry he'd been found out. "This is for your own good."
"Mmh, and whats that?" He had wandered into the kitchen and begun absentmindedly tinkering with one of his experiments.
"Not smoking, Sherlock," John was getting exasperated now; he hadn't gotten his point across. "Look, I know you think breathing is boring. But I happen to think that you breathing is pretty damn important." He wasn't quite sure how that had slipped out. However, he faithfully plowed on. "Guilt me all you want. You're not smoking, and that's final."
Sherlock grinned. He'd already thought of this. "Ooh, I give up. It's not as if half of London owes me anything." He knew what was next; threatening to call his brother.
"You pillock, I can just call Mycroft then. Shall I? I'm sure he'd be more than happy to cut you off."
"Mature, John. But, if you recall what I said about five minutes ago, smoking isn't in interest anymore. I've found, a new, as you would say, drug."
John cursed under his breath. "Right. What is it this time, Sherlock? Morphine? Cocaine?"
Sherlock simply grinned at John's antics. "How would you define 'drug', John?" He asked, as if he didn't already know. "Enlighten me."
"A substance that has an effect on the body?" He formed it like that, as a question; he had no idea where Sherlock was going with this. Then the consulting detective said something inexplicable;
"Is that what they call love nowadays? A bit primitive, don't you think?" That put a rock in John's throat.
"Wait. What?" He was blustering now. "Love -you?"
"As I said before; I'll leave you to your deductions." He grabbed his coat and harpoon from their places on the floor, and headed in the direction of the door.
John composed himself somewhat and said, somewhat unsteadily, "You know you can't see her, Sherlock."
Sherlock turned. "Her?" he asked inquisitively. "Whoever implied a woman?" He thought back to what he had said to John moments before. "Perhaps 'drug' was the wrong word. How would you effectively describe 'addiction'', Doctor Watson?"
"You know what addiction is, Sherlock."
"Humour me."
John puffed out a breath. "It's a compulsive need."
"Good. Any more?" As John had done before, Sherlock wasn't looking at the doctor, but at his experiments.
"Um, how about; the fact of condition of being addicted to a particular substance. Sorry, but what does this have to do with anything?" Finally completely and utterly confused, John had to ask. The detective closed his eyes and leaned away from his microscope. He mumbled to himself, "As ever, you see, but you do not observe."
"Right. No, put the microscope aside and sit. You told me to deduce, give me a chance to."
"Yes, sir," Sherlock said in mock salute. He got up, the legs of his chair squealing against the hard floor of the kitchen. He walked to the couch and plopped down, his long legs folded under him.
John took a deep breath. "Right then. You're in love." Sherlock looked incredulous.
"Married to my work. I always was in love." Realizing it might have been rude to interrupt, he added, "Please, do go on, though."
"Right. Okay. But it's not just your work, or you'd still be going after your cigarettes, since apparently your wife is ignoring you," John tried.
"John, what did I say about sexism? Also, do you, or have you ever, seen a ring on my finger?Not married; never married. Single, still." He seemed to be getting a kick out of John's deductions.
"Okay. Right. Consulting detective, that's a bloke job, then?" He didn't know what he expected with Sherlock, but for some reason, this didn't come as a surprise to him.
Sherlock considered. "To put it bluntly, I suppose."
John nodded. "So your... crush, is ignoring you, and you can't hit up your mistress, or whatever you'd call it as a man. Pool boy." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Your observations are disappointing, really." A thought popped into John's head then.
"Hold on, how can you be married to your work and still single?" He supposed it was a dumb question, but nevertheless; he did want every piece of information.
Sherlock sighed. "Apart from the obvious, yes. Just think, John." He was getting fed up; John could see it. Sherlock continued. "Being addicted to a single substance, thing or activity; more descriptively, something you couldn't get away from. Your body wouldn't let you."
"Adrenaline, then?" John was sure that wasn't it, but still; the factor of Sherlock Holmes in love was ludicrous "Is that it ?"
Sherlock grinned. Not a small, sarcastic grin like his usual; but a grin that made him look like the Grinch on Christmas day. "I'll give you a hint. It is a man, coincidentally. Not my husband, n'or my partner, mind you."
John's breath rushed out of his mouth. So, he thought. He is gay. Why doesn't that surprise me? "Okay. You're in love with a man."
"Brilliant," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You don't have to be sarcastic, Sherlock." John was getting rather annoyed now. "Look, I'm trying, alright? It's not my fault you don't make any sense."
"It's not that I don't make sense, John. It's simply your inability to observe," Sherlock laughed bitterly.
John huffed angrily. "Okay. A man," he started. He heard Sherlock mutter brilliant under his breath, but he kept on. "And since you don't know many people outside of your cases and you can hardly tolerate most of the ones you know, that narrows it down."
"Again, brilliant."
"Is it Lestrade?"
John was sure that, had Sherlock been drinking something, it would be all over him right now. "God, John. Your deductions, as always, are cruel." He laughed bitterly before replying with, "No."
"I'm not trying to be cruel, Sherlock." He was about to snap. "For God's sake, just TELL me!" Sherlock just smiled and crossed his arms like a child. "No." He shook his head. "Guess. Two more."
"Sherlock, I swear to God. This isn't a joke -it's serious. Honestly. You liking someone is like Moriarty letting someone g-" He stopped, his deep blue eyes widening. "Christ, Sherlock, tell me it's not Moriarty." Sherlock looked at him for a moment before rolling his eyes.
"Yes, John. Of course. He's the most wanted criminal in, quite possibly, the entire history of mankind and I'm in love with him. No. One more guess." He steepled his fingers and watched John as if he was the greatest speciment he'd ever seen.
John swallowed. Not Lestrade, or Moriarty, or thrill, or adrenaline. That left one more. There's a moment as he just looks at Sherlock. Finally, John swallows. "There's only one person left, Sherlock."
The world's only Consulting Detective looks at John straight in the face. "Well, let's hear your results. Let's hope it's good. After all, it is your last guess." He looked up at his friend innocently, like a little boy being caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
John swallows again before answering. "It's me."
Pausing only for a moment, Sherlock smiles, his eyes lighting up, and rises to his feet, "I knew you'd get there. It was only a matter of time, after all." John took a moment to blink.
"You're in love... with me." John was stunned. No comment whatsoever. SHerlock's smile faded ever so slightly, but it stays prominent on his face.
"You can't see it, can you?" he says softly and, just as quickly as his face had melted into something soft, it hardened up again. "Now, I did have a job to do." He reached down and collected his fallen harpoon and coat.
And then John's on his feet before he can think better of it, grabbing Sherlock's arm, "No."
Sherlock almost turned, but thought better of it; his face was in view, and John could see a small bit of shock on his face from being stopped. "No?"
John shook his head. "You're not telling me something like that and walking off, Sherlock." His hand tightened slightly on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock blinked.
"I had assumed, actually, that you might want to be alone." John sighed. Then, inexplicably, his face broke out into a smile.
"Sherlock." He started, his voice slightly off. "When the world's most observant man thinks you're hitting on him... you probably are."
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed together. "John." His face smoothed out as he said his flatmates name, however showing no emotion. "John."
There's a moment of silence, and then John drops his arm. "Unless; right. Trying to get out of the flat for cigarettes... right." Too good to be true. Worked up over nothing. John could hear himself saying I'm not gay! and I'm not his date! over and over in his mind. Obviously trying to convince himself otherwise. "Just... delete it, Sherlock." And he's turning away now, all British stoicism."
Sherlock panicked. "John, don't!" He grabbed John's arm bfore he could think better of it. "I mean. No, of course I'm n-..." He swallowed deeply, his throat suddenly tight. "I'm not... I'm not sure... I don't understand what it is," he settled. "I mean- I'm not good at this. Not like you. I don't know how-" John interrupted him with a sigh.
"First off, you don't put someone on just because you want a fag. Look, we'll be... It's fine. Just delete it, alright?" John was on the verge of tears; his anger finally bubbling into something lesser. He jumped when Sherlock shouted,
"JOHN." He slowly breathed in, catching and composing himself. "I told you. I don't want the fucking cigarettes. I want..." He stopped, unable to continue.
"What, Sherlock?" They were whispering now, not that it made Sherlock's next words any louder. He announced them with his eyes focused on the floor, somehow inexplicably interresting. "Iwantyou."
John was silent for so long that Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd said the right thing, or John was just so mad at him that he couldn't speak or he'd burst. However, John was watching him with a mix of disbelief and hope warring his lined face, and then "We're both idiots, aren't we." Not phrased as a question, as it should be, but as a statement.
Sherlock almost smiled. "A madman and his doctor."
John nodded, "Sounds about right to me."
And he's catching Sherlock now, the impossible tall and lean angles of him, getting his hands lost in that ridiculous hair and pulling him down for a kiss. Sherlock hesitantly pushes his lips against John's, his hands slowly and tentitavely resting on John's hips. After a few minutes, he breaks away to push his forehead against his flatmates. "John, I..." He paused for a moment, brushing his lips softly against his Doctors, before continuing, "I meant it, you know."
John can't help but smile at that, because this is Sherlock. Incredible, impossible, brilliant Sherlock. "You know that I love you, you idiot." Another kiss, briefer this time, because he simply has to grin. "If I didn't I would've killed you when I found a head in the fridge."
Sherlock smiles and bends down again, and John almost thinks that he's going to kiss him again, until Sherlock's long arms around his new-found love. He mumbled something incoherent into John's shoulder, spreading warmth down his back.
"Yeah. I know." Because even if he can't make out a word of it, he does. He always has.