They had been talking for a while when Lestrade finally decided to speak up. He stood up and stretched his body, while at the same time letting out a little groan. "Alright, so let me get this is straight. I have been up for thirty-six hours and to be honest, I slept through half of that conversation." He sighed and looked from the consulting detective's face to the doctor's face. No one said anything back and he took that as a good sign. He fell back into his leather office chair with a 'thump.'
He continued after a brief moment of silence. "The wife, Mrs. Langston, she murdered her husband, only to learn that he in fact had no insurance policy. Thus, killing him was pointless. She dropped his body in the water fountain, claiming that the night before he had gotten piss drunk and left. At which, we were supposed to believe that he had tripped, fallen, something, and drowned?" He took a deep breath as he played with a pencil on his desk, awaiting any sort of reply. The way his brow was knitted made the bags under his eyes show more.
Sherlock nodded his head a little, smiling. "She's wasn't too clever, Mrs. Langston." John nodded in agreement from his seat. He smiled over at his flatmate. "What I can't believe is that she thought she could actually get away this whole bloody thing." He whacked his knee with a palm. "I mean, no one's dumb. She must have been at the hookah too much..." Greg laughed at that, the wrinkles in his forehead suddenly disappearing.
All the fans in Lestrade's office were on full-blast, buzzing loudly as they worked. They sounded too strained, as if they had been working for a few too many long summers and they were about to shit the bed. In the room it was cool, opposite the weather outside. All day it had be humid, sticky, with no breeze to cool off anything. John was suddenly grateful that he had turned on the AC before they had left, in hopes that when they returned, it would be a nice cool temperature in the flat.
Greg got up again and grabbed his coat, shrugging into it tiredly. "The boys and I better go pick up Mrs. Langston then, eh?" He sighed as he threw his phone and keys into his front pocket. "I guess we'll be seeing you later, Greg?" John asked, also putting his coat on but bothering to get up yet.
Just then the door opened. Sally Donovan walked in, a pile of faxed papers in hand. "I have some reports from Mrs. Hooper over at St. Bart's. They're for you, freak." She sighed to herself, then continued. "Honestly, I don't know what she sees in you."
Sally moved to hand the papers over to a very tired, very upset looking Sherlock, but John grabbed them first. Her disgusted expression quickly turned to one of shock. "Bloody hell! What is wrong with you?" he shouted, freighting her. "You think you can get off on talking to Sherlock like that? Well, you're wrong!" He turned and gave the papers to Sherlock, meeting his eyes for a moment. The consulting detective looked oddly grateful for a change. He smiled softly before John turned back to Sally. "I'm sick and tired of the way you treat him!"
Everyone stared at John, taken aback. He never raised his voice. "He's not a freak, or a psychopath. He's just smart! Smarter than you..." Sally sighed to herself, trying to remain calm. She looked to Sherlock with a look that seemed to show a bit of some apology, but nonetheless, he saw resentment.
A little while later, John and Sherlock found themselves flagging down a cabby to get home. The sky had gotten dark and now it was littered with a sea of stars. John opened the door for Sherlock, who slid in without a word. For a few blocks, the only noise in the cab was the buzzing of the air conditioning. What the consulting detective said next, surprised John, almost the brink of a heart attack.
"Thank you," Sherlock said, his eyes on the street. He looking out of the dirty window, at a couple walking by. He looked exhausted, totally drained of all energy. His head had since fallen down onto the headrest.
John looked over at his friend, taking his whole image in. Sherlock's expression would have been hard to read for anyone else, but the doctor knew him too well. He saw repression, sadness, even hurt. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out for Sherlock's hand. He held it tight, and ran a thumb along the man's knuckles. He surprised himself, but there was no turning back, not now. "You're not a freak, or any of the other things she calls you. I promise, Sherlock. I just… Too many times have I heard her say such nasty things. I couldn't take it. I had to say something."
Pain passed through Sherlock's expression but it was so quick that John almost missed it. Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a deep, almost labored long breath, seeming to cleanse himself of all the stress. "You're really not," John reassured him. "You're not a freak. I know you better than she does, believe me." Sherlock finally met the doctor's eyes, and gave his hand a quick squeeze. John could tell he was trying to brush him off, to get him to shut up. He wanted a subject change. "She's just mean, Sherlock. I honestly think she's like that because she's jealous of you."
Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. For the first time in his life, he was thoroughly stumped. With a confused look and furrowed eyebrows, he turned back to John. The cabby took a sharp corner, causing John to fall into him. His hand landed on the detective's stomach, and he felt Sherlock tense his abs. John quickly got back up and tried to clear his throat, giving the detective a faint look of apology. "Jealous?" Sherlock asked, still wanting to know what John meant. John nodded in answer, happy to move on from what had just happened. "Yes, jealous. Jealous of how smart you are, how much smarter than her you are."
They both felt the cab slow and suddenly they were in front of their flat. "Oh," John said, surprised. "That was quick." He let the taller, paler man's hand go and reached into his pocket for his wallet. As he paid the cab driver, Sherlock got out. He waited for him at the door.
The warm air nearly stuck to John as he walked across the sidewalk to meet Sherlock where he was, next to Speedy's. "Feels like walking through butter," Sherlock said with a frown. "I hate this weather, always have." John nodded in agreement as he fumbled with his keys, trying to unlock the door. "I hate this weather, too. I prefer the rainy reason…" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the good doctor and smiled. "You don't say? Me too." John merely chuckled as they made their way to 221b.
John could tell Sherlock was upset, he knew his body language well enough. Sherlock was too quiet and it seemed like he barely moved unless he needed to. He could blame it on the weather all he wanted, but John knew better.
"I'm sorry you have to deal with Donovan," John said with a sigh as he took off his coat. The detective didn't respond, and he went to walk into the living room. "Sherlock," John said. "Please, stop shutting me out. You're human. You are human, you know." Sherlock sighed and turned back around to face John, a blank look on his face. John smiled a little and huffed out a breath. "The human thing is to be upset, my friend. I know these little things upset you the worst, though you try not to show it. Let it out once and a while, it's not healthy to keep everything in."
John watched his friend, studying him like a good book. He looked broken, like all the hurt he had held in from over the years was threatening to come to the surface, to tear him at the seams. "Talk to me, that's all I'm asking for," John said, looking away, to the wooden floorboards beneath his shoes.
Sherlock took his hand, entwining their fingers. With an expression of shock, John looked back up Sherlock. "You know me too well," Sherlock replied, his voice husky. John chuckled to himself. "I know," he scoffed, jokingly. "Sad, isn't it?" They both shared a laugh and it echoed though their quiet flat. Suddenly, everything felt right. Nothing at all seemed different, yet it seemed better. John couldn't explain it. He didn't want Sherlock to let go of his hand, so he switched their hands, wrapping his war-battered fingers around Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't comment, in fact, it didn't even seem to faze him. He just smiled a little.
"I realized something today," John said, breaking the silence. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in question and smirked a little. "Oh, really? What might that be?" John looked away, carefully weighing his words before speaking. "Donovan made me realize how much I…" He shook his head. "Wow, okay. What I mean is... I care about you a lot, a lot more than I should, in fact. And certainly, more than is friendly." A silence fell between them and John's words echoed in Sherlock's mind, seeming to haunt him in every dull, lonely part of his mind. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, suddenly worried. The thought was soon cut short, as Sherlock made a face, an expression that showed distress, lack of control, like his heart was breaking. He cupped the doctor's cheeks with gentle hands and leaned down to press his lips to his. John felt himself return the kiss, knowing deep down inside, he had always wanted this. From the moment he had met Sherlock, something in his heart changed, something he couldn't even explain.
All at once, John was assaulted with the man's fresh and masculine smell. His cologne sent John's head reeling, and he reached out for Sherlock's dark colored shirt, for fear he would faint, pulling him closer. The detective kissed him slowly, with a skill that both surprised and excited him. There was an ease and certainty in that kiss, one that just felt right.
One of Sherlock's hands slipped down to John's sweater, feeling the fabric of it before he went lower to touch John's trim waist. The kisses began to get longer, more rushed, and finally they had to pull away for air, or else they would have passed out.
"No one has ever kissed me like that before," John said, trying to catch his breath. Sherlock smiled softly as he let his hand fall back to his side, as they though he feared it would burn through the fabric of John's sweater, had he touched it any longer. "That's a shame," Sherlock answered lightly. "They missed out on a lot…" John turned a crimson red and smiled, taking in the compliment.
"When you said you were married to your work…" Sherlock quickly hushed John with a trail of kisses towards his neck. John unconsciously arched his neck, giving the detective easier access. Sherlock breathed him in, almost lost in the smell of his clove aftershave and Nature's Way soap. It was like heaven to him. "When I told you I was married to my work… I was really actually trying to just shut you up, make you stop looking at me. I took you for straight, obviously. But my God, I found you attractive. I told you that to nip it in the bud, so to speak. I didn't want you to get mixed up with me, or feel uncomfortable in any way."
John was suddenly very much aware at how 'human' Sherlock really is. "You really cared that much? So often you talk about having divorced your feelings, that you're a high-functioning sociopath." He was still a bit distracted by Sherlock's roaming lips but he managed to get the words out, somehow. "You barely knew me, Sherlock."
The dark, curly haired man stayed quiet as he stood up tall again. John waited for an answer but never received one, so he wrapped his arms around the detective's slim waist to let him know it was okay, that everything was fine. He watched as he looked to the ground, almost seeming embarrassed. "John, I-I, of course I did." John was taken aback by the stammer and he pulled back more to look into Sherlock's pale eyes. "What are we going to do now?" John asked. Sherlock noted how he seemed a little worried, maybe even scared. He reached out and touched the doctor's arm. "Shhh, it's okay. Let's just find out as we go?" John nodded his head and closed his eyes for a moment. "Okay."
When they broke apart, John shoved off to his bedroom. He dragged his bad leg a tad as he walked and, as always, Sherlock could see how exhausted he was. "I'm going to take a nap. Today's been a long day," John said over his shoulder. "Tonight we should go out to dinner... And before you ask, yes, I just asked you out." Behind him, he heard the patter of old English shoes. He couldn't help but smile. "It has," Sherlock agreed, still following him. "I think I'll join." He stepped into his room, pulling off his button down as he went. He heard the bedroom door close from behind. He almost fell into his mattress as he pulled his shoes off, he had no concept of balance, it seemed. He could hear Sherlock softly laughing at him. "I'm happy I met you, John. You make everything right." That was the last thing he remembered hearing before they fell asleep together, lost in each other's arms.