A/N: Let me take you on a journey to Sherlock Holmes's very much physical mind and soul, all the while investigating a certain topic that Sherlock has never quite been able to figure out. But as we wander through the old paths of remembrance and the forbidden memories they harbour, remember these things: a thought is just a thought until someone else hears it, a secret is just a secret until someone else knows it, and a feeling is just a feeling until someone else shares it.
Heart:
The soles of his shoes padded silently against the dirt path but the black leather covering remained spotless. With each long stride, the man stood straighter and straighter, preparing himself for the cries that would try to lodge themselves inside his chest. It was crucial that he kept himself exactly the way he was: apathetic, emotionless, empty. His wool trench coat swished slightly with the breeze, and his black, curly locks tousled gently. A hard set face and nose held high in the air, the man continued to walk along the meadow trail.
Dense and dark nimbostratus clouds hung overhead, threatening to rain down the cold water they carried. The sun hid somewhere behind them, helpless to touch warmth back into the frigid man.
Stone could now be seen in front of him, a massive barrier circling around some unknown object in its center. The wall was twelve meters high and approximately one and a half meters thick, towering impressively over everything around it and seeming to meet the clouds. It was an abstract painting of grey, each rock put where it was with precise calculations and delicacy, though the wall was roughly cut and rigid. Pebbles ranged to boulders and not a single crack could be found.
Slow and steady, a rhythm emitted from behind the wall and vibrated through the ground towards the man. It ran through the veins of the earth, sending electric shocks through the man's feet as he walked closer and closer. Reminiscence radiated from that thing behind the divider, the rocks were the only thing separating the man from an overwhelming wave of nostalgia.
Pausing for a mere second to take a deep breath, he walked forwards to meet the wall, running his elegant violin fingers over the course rock. Closing his eyes, he was building an internal wall around the very much physical thing in front of him. He built double protection: one inside his head and one physically outside. But still it was not enough. An ache in his heart started to form, seeping in slowly and caressing his beating heart. The hands of desire held the man's soul, carefully turning it around in its palm, feeling the light pulse. And then with one swift paroxysm, desperation interlocked its fingers and crushed the heart, spewing the pine and longing and pain everywhere.
It was the chasm inside the man, a great abyss separating his head from his heart.
The man with his long, swishy coat clutched his chest as his trapped heart cried out from within the grey wall in front of him. His eyebrows furrowed in agony and the detective winced. Breathing heavily with his hands still clawing at his breast, the man stooped down painfully slow, and picked up a miniscule stone.
He torturously set the small rock into place on the ground.
Then another.
And then one more.
With each added piece of stone, he felt the invisible knives in his chest begin to reside, only a pinch at a time, but the pain was retreating.
Three hours he did that. Adding additions to the wall around his heart, that is.
And when he was finished, when the wall was now twelve meters high and nearly two meters thick, when the pain was almost all gone, the man stood back to look at the barrier. Not a single emotion could be read on his face, but every word he spoke betrayed the ache he felt.
"I'm sorry," He whispered, his voice almost cracking, "I'm so sorry."
Sherlock Holmes walked out of his Mind Palace.
Love.
What a peculiar word. No, not really a word. A feeling. An emotion that starts from the heart.
Many have tried to describe this 'love', but all have failed. For love is something that cannot be described. You can say it's simple, though it's not. You can write about kind love, and yet you know that sometimes it tears people apart. You can tell others the way love is easy and wonderful with a delusional smile, but no, it's not at all that easy.
The only thing you can say though, is that love is two ends of the spectrum.
You don't need your brother to tell you that, Sherlock, you already know. It's a fairly simple deduction, really.
Caring is not an advantage. Mycroft had said.
But only you had heard the meaning lying underneath those detached words. They told you not to be vulnerable, not to bare your heart for the world to see. You grew up with those words, and that's the exact reason why you had lured your own heart into the dungeons of your Mind Palace, slamming the doors on your heart's soft cries. As you turned the lock and threw the key into the Thames's roaring waters of your subconscious, you never looked back once. Though you do often hear the desperate words of the organ in your chest scream with longing to be able to reach out, to have someone. To have someone for yourself and to let them in, to not face this world alone.
It just made the craving in your chest grow when a certain ex-army doctor appeared at Bart's that fateful afternoon.
For the first time, someone else cared about you. Someone that wasn't your brother, someone that didn't know why you had to become this way. Someone that had come and . . . stayed.
Mycroft warned you long ago not to become attached. Not to relive your childhood. But for some reason, you can't separate yourself from this brave soldier. You can't distance yourself from this man and you're letting yourself . . . have a friend.
And oh, it is glorious.
Someone to laugh with, someone to get Chinese takeout in the middle of the night with, someone to giggle with you at how funny Anderson looks, and someone to take care of you.
"Sherlock?" A familiar voice echoed throughout the marble floors and stone statues of an ancient, beautiful castle.
The detective looked up, the intense concentration on the parchment was lost. He frowned slightly and hastily rolled the battered, yellowing scroll he had been reading to place it delicately into a grand wooden chest at the base of his feet. The person telling his life story to him on that parchment was not deleted, but forgotten as he quickly grabbed the ancient key that was on the small table next to him and locked the large box up.
"Sherlock?" The voice was louder, more earnest.
Sherlock hurriedly crossed the room and shut the door behind him as he walked through the impressive foyer and out towards the entrance of his Mind Palace.
"Sherlock." It was now said in exasperation, "Sherlock. You're not even listening to me."
Footsteps were heard clacking neatly down the elegantly tiled floors in long strides as the detective rolled his eyes towards the voice.
A sigh vibrated through the detective's castle, "Alright, I give up."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance but quickened his pace as he reached the towering, double oak entry doors of his palace. He pushed them open with a gentle but strong push of his leather covered hands and the fresh air was upon him.
Closing the door behind him, he reached the outside of his castle and as Sherlock breathed in the sweet scent of pine needles all around, the sun beat down warmly on his shoulders. The well-worn path of dirt lead into a forest full of birch and pine and cascara trees swirling in a mass of leaves around the trail, creating a canopy of green and gold above the detective.
Sherlock walked, and kept walking, watching the streaks of sun fall in between the spaces of the leaves and the specks of blue. Hands by his side and coat collar turned up, Sherlock Holmes desperately needed to go back into his stone palace and solve this puzzle. Someone had written down an inquiry about love, using his own life story as the main subject. The words would simply appear on that worn out parchment at random moments and it was up to the world's only consulting detective to unravel the mystery. There was something immensely wrong.
But John was calling him. And Sherlock always answered John.
Just keep your eyes on the sky, and walk. That's how he always got out. There was no door, no 'Alice In Wonderland Hole', it was just like walking through fog. One moment he'd be staring up at the sun, and the next he'd be awake in bed or lying on the sofa, hours having already gone by.
There it was.
The wispy cirrostratus clouds and the effulgent blue sky faded away into the dark undertones of 221B. Sherlock felt the smooth leather beneath his back and the rush of cool air against his bare feet as he opened his eyes to blink away the rush of exhilaration. Regaining his vision, the warm autumn sun of his mind gradually receded away and London's dark clouds were creeping in through the edges of his eyes. Sherlock slowly craned his neck to stare at the window, just to see a couple stars twinkling in the darkening night sky.
So, he'd been out for roughly two hours.
Not that bad. Not long enough for John to get worried, so what did he want?
Still letting the warm colors of his and John's flat ease into his vision, Sherlock sat up on the sofa where he had been moments before with his hands steepled under his chin.
"John?"
The detective glanced around. His flatmate wasn't sitting in the chair tapping away at his laptop where Sherlock had left him a couple hours ago, nor was he in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea.
"John?" Sherlock said, a little louder this time.
When the detective was met with silence again, Sherlock swung his terribly long legs across the sofa and walked with silent footsteps towards the staircase that lead to John's upstairs bedroom. His gaze flickered over the steps in a second and with that Sherlock tiptoed back the way he came to settle down in on the sofa and take care of some unfinished business. John was up in his room. He had simply wanted to tell Sherlock to have a good night.
As Sherlock eased back down into his previous position, he furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. It was only nine o'clock, why would John be going to bed?
Interesting. Perhaps this could turn into a sociology experiment.
"John."
A slight rustle came from the room upstairs but Sherlock's flatmate didn't reply.
"John." He said again, a little louder.
No movement this time, and still no answer.
Sherlock looked around. A mug drying on the rack, so he'd already eaten. Wool strands caught on the corner of the kitchen table, so he was wearing that hideous cream jumper while eating. A plate of cold pasta left on the counter for Sherlock, no takeout then, John had cooked dinner himself tonight. The plates still in the sink, meaning either John had been too lazy or too tired to wash them. No, it wasn't laziness, so John was definitely tired.
But why?
All he had done today was gone to work at the surgery . . .
Oh.
Something happened there, something exceedingly important. He had wanted to tell Sherlock about it, but as usual the doctor picked the exact time when Sherlock had decided to visit his Mind Palace.
Oh well, if John really wanted to tell Sherlock about his experience with the man who had cried in his arms about his dead wife that had apparently triggered some emotional heartstring, then the doctor would tell him the next morning. If not, well Sherlock could always ask about it, right?
Now, what was it that dusty, old paper was talking about again?
Ah, yes, love.
Of course. The greatest mystery of all, the one thing man had been puzzling over since the beginning of time. Well, if anyone was going to crack this code, it would be Sherlock Holmes. (Actually he was simply trying at this point, only sixteen hours into the investigation, though he would've solved at least two cases in that amount of time, but Sherlock was very determined to solve this puzzle.)
As the detective shifted on the sofa into a more comfortable position, he thought about the research he had already filed and stored into his Palace. Love was a complicated thing (Sherlock had admitted that to himself one hour into the investigation), though weren't all emotions?
But one thing is for sure, one thing that everyone knows, even Sherlock.
Love starts at home.
Good love, bad love, it all starts at the same place.
At first the Holmes family had been overjoyed by the fact that Sherlock had such a brilliant mind. But as everyone knows, everything comes with a price. They were being ignorant when they thought the payment wasn't all that bad, they had thought that for the first time in six hundred years, a Holmes would finally be lifted of this burden.
The gift of his mind. And the ability to transport himself and anyone else he chose to, into his physical mind.
Though what they found out about young Sherlock Holmes was the most terrifying thing anyone of them had ever endured. The price was something none of them had expected. Not Mummy Holmes, not Father, not Granddad Henry, nor Aunt Violet.
A wave of memories crashed over Sherlock's closed eyes and nostalgia crept slyly into the corner of his heart. Images of his deceased father hunched over and a face creased with worry flooded Sherlock's vision. His mother, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back, his granddad, smiling at him with reassurance. And his sweet aunt, his sweet, darling Auntie Violet . . . looking him in the eyes with kindness as she injected a needle into his six year old arm.
No.
That was the past. The Holmeses never brought up the past. Never. It was done, gone, over with. Another thing he had grown up with.
Sherlock gave the smallest, shaking breath a human could ever manage, and let the numbness take over his body. It was crucial that finish what he had started, but a small pit in the bottom of his stomach was forming, which would definitely be a pain in the arse when he needed to concentrate. Ignoring the feeling and pushing it behind his research, Sherlock breathed in deeply and sank into his mind.
"Sherlock?"
The detective's eyes snapped open and he growled in annoyance.
"What?"
"Did you call me?" John yelled from his bedroom upstairs.
"Yes, I called for you seven minutes ago, that should have been plenty of time to respond though you proceeded to pretend as if you didn't hear it. You changed your mind approximately six seconds ago and called down for me before you could change it again. Now, you wanted to tell me about the man who you had to comfort today, and when I didn't reply to you the first time, you decided just now to tell me when I called you."
There was a moment of silence as Sherlock waited for John's outburst. However, his flatmate had surprised him again with his mellow tone.
"Christ, Sherlock, I just wanted to ask if you had eaten anything yet." John's voice projected through the floorboards of his bedroom.
"You know very well I haven't."
"Just checking."
Sherlock didn't reply but shut his eyes and tried once again to enter his Mind Palace and finish that damned investigation.
"Sherlock?"
"What." This time, the detective's tone was icy and he glared at the ceiling above him as if his eyes could pierce the plaster and tell John that he needed to think.
"Eat."
"No."
"Well I'm coming down and making you eat something anyways."
"Don't announce that you're coming down, it has absolutely no purpose."
"What's done is done."
Sherlock could hear the footsteps stepping down the carpeted stairs and into the sitting room and he winced with each clonk of John's feet. The detective tried not to lash out in annoyance as John stepped into the sitting room and Sherlock grimaced at the amount of noise he was making. But as if sensing Sherlock's irritation, the detective's flatmate stopped walking and stood silently, his gaze Sherlock could feel on his face even though his eyes were closed.
After a couple of moments of complete stillness, John said, "Sherlock, you need to eat."
His words were softer than Sherlock had expected, they were gentler and there wasn't the slightest trace of roughness around the edges. Caught by surprise (once again), the detective didn't reply to John's statement, but rather, an unspoken question.
"Tell me about the man, John."
"Sorry?"
"The man who cried in your arms today."
"You . . . want me to tell you about him?"
"Yes."
"Oh, well, alright then."
Sherlock still had his eyes shut and his fingers steepled under his chin, but John could clearly understand what the detective was saying. The doctor sat down in one of the leather chairs and sank into the softness of it as he got himself comfortable.
"Why did that man cry, John?" Sherlock asked as soon as John had righted himself.
"Haven't you already deduced it?" It seemed like an accusing question, though both men knew the genuineness.
"I need you to tell me."
"Why's that?"
"I'm investigating a topic."
"And that has to do with the man today . . . how?"
"It's an investigation on love."
"Oh. Right, yeah, of course."
"Now can you tell me why he cried?"
"Yeah, well, he was in love. He- sorry, his name's Daniel- well, Daniel's wife killed herself last Sunday when he was out with a few friends at the pub. He thought she was happy, at least that's what he told me. But I think what really broke his heart was that she left no note, there was no reason why she left. And he was only coming in because he had cut himself on some broken glass. It was on his arm, I only had to put in a few stitches, wasn't too bad, but the blood we had to clean up before reminded Daniel of how pale his wife looked when he found her. He started hyperventilating and crying, and . . ."
John took a shuddering breath as he recalled the shattered look on Daniel's face, "and that's when I realized just how much he was hurting. That the cut on his arm wasn't because of glass, it was because of a knife and he had administered it himself."
John stopped there, his eyebrows creased and his eyes closed tightly.
Sherlock, in response, opened his eyes and turned to stare at John Watson.
"John," The doctor looked up, "did he love his wife?" The question was almost innocent.
"Yes."
The air was still as Sherlock processed the information and filed it in the room he had made in his Mind Palace for the topic of love.
"Tell me about love."
"Alright, well, what do you want to know?" The doctor said quietly.
The detective paused for a moment as he turned his head back towards the ceiling, "What is love?"
John cocked his head and licked his lips absentmindedly.
"Now, let's see. Love is the strongest of feelings, the one thing that can put people in the deepest pits of hell or make them believe in fairy tales or make them feel happiest they'll ever be. And-" John stopped, "Hold up, didn't you say it yourself? Something about love being a vicious motivator . . . or something like that."
Sherlock looked at John, "'Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator'."
The detective recited it from memory. Why didn't he delete that?
"That's the one."
"And how does that relate to loving something?"
"Someone." John corrected.
"Elaborate."
"Well, when you love someone, you will do anything for that person. You'd die before you'd let them come to harm; you'd kill for them. Love blurs everything around you but at the same time it shows you everything and more about the person you love."
"Is that it?" said Sherlock when John stopped talking.
"Love is simple."
"So there is a simple definition."
"Exactly."
"Thank you, John. This has been very useful information."
The conversation dissipated and as his flatmate got up from his chair with a lame excuse about needing to turn in early, Sherlock thought about what John had said. Love is happy, love is hell, blah blah blah. But there was only one thing in their short conversation that caught the detective's attention, and it was the fact that John was talking about loving a person, not something.
The evidence was right there in front of him. There was no doubt about it.
John Watson was in love.
Sherlock Holmes just had to figure out with whom.
"What the bloody fucking hell were you thinking, Sherlock?!" John slammed the door to 221B behind them and stormed angrily after the detective.
"I was capturing criminals and protecting the pedestrians of London." He replied emotionlessly, sitting down at the kitchen table to finish up an experiment.
"Well next time be more careful." John's furious tone hadn't diminished.
"What does it matter now?" Sherlock adjusted his microscope lens, "It's all over, why try to change what has already happened?"
"I'm just taking precautions to try and save your arse the next time you drag me into another one of your midnight chases and we almost get killed." John said, standing next to where Sherlock was sitting.
"This hardly counts as a 'precaution'."
"You know what, Sherlock? I just want to know one thing. What the hell goes on in your brain, huh?"
"Many things, you wouldn't understand."
"Of course." John gave a mock smile that hid his boiling rage, "Of course I wouldn't understand. Because I'm too stupid to understand anything you do. And next time you go running off after a criminal," The doctor stared hard at the side of Sherlock's face, "next time, I won't follow to save your arse."
John stood there for another moment, glaring at Sherlock's cheek since the detective was busy looking through his microscope lens at a slide of some substance currently unknown to mankind. After a few seconds of a one-sided staring contest, John gave a barely audible growl and marched to the cabinet above the cutlery drawer where they kept the hard liquor. Pouring himself a generous glass of Bushmills 1608, the doctor glared at the back of Sherlock's head, hoping he could hear every curse that John was mentally throwing his way.
And then John Watson downed the whole eight ounce glass of whiskey in one gulp, the fire burning down his throat felt oddly satisfying. The bottle was still open and it shook as John slammed the glass down on the countertop, provoking Sherlock to look back at him.
The detective didn't even flinch.
Fuck it. John thought, and he grabbed the bottle by its' neck and drank straight from it. But, a couple more swallows were all he could take from that expensive whiskey before the lightheadedness got to him.
John, thinking on impulse, marched back to Sherlock's side and glared at him, the left over adrenaline rushing through his veins. The doctor was about to throw his hands up in exasperation for the fact that the detective had not even looked at him, and head up to finish the night with some sleep and a bottle of whiskey when Sherlock reached a hand out tentatively and touched John's arm with his gentle fingers. He wouldn't have felt it through his thick woollen jumper if John hadn't been keenly watching Sherlock's every move.
"Thank you for your concern, John."
Sherlock spoke softly, each word from the detective's baritone voice seemed to vibrate in John's ears though the mouth that said them was barely whispering.
A silent moment made time stop as John stared in amazement at Sherlock. Then the hand on his arm went back to the microscope and the doctor felt as if he was jerked back to reality after a dream.
"Right, well, goodnight then." John turned around awkwardly and was aware of every squeak the floorboards made under his footsteps.
"Goodnight, John." Sherlock said in the same soft voice that echoed through the flat.
Sherlock Holmes watched the slightly swaying, retreating back of John Watson walk through the sitting room and up the stairs to his bedroom where the detective could hear the doctor pacing restlessly.
Why did John even want to know what Sherlock's thoughts were? It's not like anyone could understand them anyways. Sherlock himself could barely make sense of them and it was his own mind for god's sake. Many had tried, actually. The 'many' including Mycroft, Mummy, and six psychiatrists during his teenage years.
Still, none of them had come even remotely close to scratching the surface of the wall his mind had built around itself.
Sherlock was still staring at the space John had been a couple minutes ago and was dazing off when he suddenly remembered the fizzing substance he had in a vile in his hand.
Fragilely pouring a single drop of it onto a slide, Sherlock was deep in thought. 'What the hell goes on in your brain, huh?' Those were John's exact words. Why does he want to know? I've given him an extraordinary amount of opportunities and subtle hints to allow him access to my thoughts, so why does he keep asking?
The detective looked at the slide through his microscope lens.
Besides, he wouldn't understand anyways.
Sherlock turned the dial to inspect the substance closer.
Nine days ago we were in Cheshunt for a case. A man (late forties, suffering from anxiety and depression. Cause: wife left him for another man, typical) held a gun towards me (it wasn't as if I was actually going to get hit, did John even see his shaking hands?). At the hotel two hours after, John said almost the same thing.
Cheshunt: "Let me know what you're thinking before you go off and fuck some shite up"
Eighteen minutes ago: "What the bloody fucking hell were you thinking"
Key word: Thinking
Thinking (adj.) Def.: Using thought and/or judgment from the brain
Root word: Think
Think.
Thought.
Thoughts.
Brain.
Mind.
And with that Sherlock set down his equipment and lost all interest in the experiment he was currently conducting. The detective walked over to the sofa in six long strides and laid down with his head and feet propped up on either armrest.
Mind…
…Mind Palace
He closed his eyes slowly, watching the black seep in around the corners of his eyes and let himself sink into the oblivion of his mind. And suddenly, Sherlock Holmes was standing in the middle of the birch woods with the sunlight streaming through the leaves and hitting his face like kisses of warmth.
Feeling his feet land firmly on the solid dirt path, Sherlock started to walk. He blinked his eyes into focus of his mind and admired the beautiful trees his subconscious had artfully created. Sherlock Holmes's mind was amazing. It had imitated the crooked branches and the way the bright, green leaves fluttered softly in the wind perfectly, allowing the detective to feel the cool air mixed with sun beating gently against his skin.
Sherlock continued to walk, knowing exactly where he was going and where he was going to end up. He absentmindedly looked at the familiar trees around him and relished their thin white trunks as a relic of his childhood while he tread on the dirt path. Birds sang their sweet melodies from hidden branches to each other and Sherlock felt the comforting peace of his mind.
He could see his Palace now, it was still a little ways away and-
"Sherlock?"
The detective tipped his head back and groaned, almost screaming through the forest with frustration. The second time. It was the second time in three days in which John Watson had interrupted his journey into his Mind Palace. Sherlock turned around from where he was on the trail and broke into a run, muttering curses and not-so-appropriate words towards his flatmate.
As Sherlock re-entered 221B, the first thing he did was raise a fist and pound it against the leather cushions of the sofa, creating a very muffled angry sound.
"John, please refrain from interrupting me while I am in my Mind Palace."
"Notmy fault youspendso much time-" He hiccupped, "in there." John grumbled as he stepped back into the sitting room to glare at Sherlock.
"Say what you want to say and then get out."
John narrowed his eyes and gave a very pointed, annoyed look towards his flatmate. His eyes were red-rimmed and his words were very much slurred. John Watson, the ex-army doctor and the one with the alcoholic sister had tried to finish the bottle on the nightstand, rendering him ineffably drunk. He then proceeded walked over to the leather armchair he usually occupied during the day and plop himself down on it heavily.
"I have somemore data for your-" Another hiccup "invesgimation you askedmeto help you out wif afewdays ago."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his drunken friend, "Go on."
John smirked and leaned back, completely relaxed at 12:49 in the morning, the alcohol fueling his body with temporary energy.
"Itsgon take a while."
"Every piece of evidence is worth my time."
"Good."
There was something different in John's voice with that word. It was almost . . . reassurance. No, more like . . . relief . . . or . . .
"Wha I wanted tosaywas, tha love is thesameand differemt for every single person oud der." John looked at Sherlock expectantly to see if he understood.
Resting his head awkwardly on his fist that was propped up on the armrest, John sniffled and jutted his lip out as if he were a child.
Sherlock simply looked back at his flatmate and tried not to let on that he had absolutely no idea what John Watson was talking about. But he would never let him know that. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was actually, in fact, a marvellous actor.
The detective nodded his head as a sign for his flatmate to continue.
"I love reallydifferentfrom you, Sherrrlock" The detective's eyes snapped up, "butwefeel the same love."
John's voice was soft, and a bit . . . hesitant. Even with the slurred words, Sherlock could see him almost regretting his message. Although everyone knows that the truth is spoken only when you're drunk.
He paused, and as Sherlock waited for him to continue, the detective looked at John and his eyes told the detective that he was waiting for him to give a response.
And then came the realization.
The 'aha' moment.
The part in the story when the protagonist understands the stakes of what is laid out in front of them.
Sherlock's response was that based off of his understanding of John Watson.
He swung his legs off the sofa gracefully and set his bare feet gently on the hardwood floor. Then, getting up off the leather cushions with John's blue eyes piercing through his own. Padding across the short distance that separated him from his flatmate, Sherlock stopped right in front of John.
"Sh-Sherlock?" John looked at him in confusion.
"Have you not realized it yet, John?" Sherlock's voice was husky and an octave lower than it usually was.
"What?"
Oh, so he hadn't. John's subconscious was playing out a scene for him, using instinct rather than facts.
The detective kneeled down in front of John so that his flatmate's knees were touching his stomach and his eyes were lower than John's. Kaleidoscope eyes matched indigo blue ones and suddenly, the world shifted just the tiniest bit, confirming Sherlock's suspicions.
It didn't happen to many people, no, not at all. Not many people at all realized someone was in love with them at one in the morning, but Sherlock Holmes did. Though he wasn't quite he himself felt (that was a first). The detective just hoped that he would figure it out before Mycroft stepped in and made John Watson disappear off the face of the earth.
"I have a hypothesis," Sherlock began slowly, "about love."
"Tell me 'bout it." The doctor was still looking intently into those multi-colored eyes of the detective.
"My way with words cannot describe this, so I will have to show you."
The silence around them was deafening and John immediately sobered. Though it had nothing to do with any of the alcohol leaving his system.
"Alright then, show me."
Without tearing his gaze from John's, Sherlock took his flatmate's hands in his own and interlaced their fingers, slowly rubbing small patterns on the doctor's fingers. John allowed him to, feeling warm and fuzzy and light headed and confused and wondrously happy all at the same time though he played it off as the whiskey infiltrating his blood stream. The intimacy was almost overwhelming as Sherlock stood slowly up, pulling John with him.
The room was dark with only a floor lamp in the corner turned on, giving a soft glow around the pair. Moonlight floated in delicately from the windows that had their curtains thrown open and the stars were impossibly bright that night.
The doctor looked as if he was floating on air, the surreal atmosphere around the two men made John seem not quite . . . grounded. He was half-awake and everything seemed like a dream.
It's the numbness that blankets your body and you don't feel it until it's gone, that trance in the middle of the night. When everyone and everything around you is silent and still, and all you want to do is lay there, staring up at the darkness of your bedroom ceiling. You don't feel awake, nor asleep, it's that in between state where nothing really exists. The space where nothing really matters.
And Sherlock knew, just by looking into John's eyes, that John would swear this had all been a hallucination of the alcohol his brain had conjured up the next morning. But for now, all that mattered was the man standing in front of him. A pulse was beating rapidly in John's chest, and Sherlock remained utterly calm and composed.
"I heard," The detective's voice was low and quiet, "that people dance when they're in love."
John's breathing was silent, but he felt a warm feeling crawling up his neck as he realized just how close the pair was. Words no longer felt like tar on his tongue and suddenly, John could speak. The impulse of being drunk took over.
"Would you like to dance, Sherlock?"
He smiled, "I would be honored to."
"Music?"
He didn't hesitate.
"No." A pause though, "Follow me."
"Of course."
Sherlock took John's right hand and placed it on his left shoulder, put his left hand around his flatmate's waist, and held John's left hand in his right outstretched. The detective stood tall with his back straight, only dipping his head slightly to get closer to John.
Once they were in position, Sherlock let himself remember. He remembered for John. Remembered the memories that were usually tucked away in the attic of his Mind Palace, the memories of his childhood. One step forward, one step back.
His ex-tutor's voice filled his head, Now, as you're stepping to the right, turn your partner with you. Yes, yes! Like that! You will always be the one leading, Mr. Holmes, so you must guide whomever you're dancing with. Bring your partner around and waltz in a circle.
And suddenly, the silent flat became alive with hidden music. A whole symphony stepped in time into the flat, playing for Sherlock and John. The orchestra's introduction crescendo lead into the room through the small cracks and spaces between the walls, and the flutes and oboes blew sweet melodies. No, no. Not so stiffly, you must be smooth and gentle and move with the music, not to it.
The detective lead his partner around the sitting room, maneuvering swiftly around chairs and tables and piles of papers. It was a wonder how he avoided all the obstacles, considering he only had eyes for John. They danced like that, to music only evident in their heads and in their hearts. The doctor clung to Sherlock as if his life depended on it, but as his flatmate directed, his confidence developed and John Watson began to find his place in the song.
They waltzed around the cluttered sitting room, eyes fixed upon each other and the world around them a blur. Hands gripping tightly on the other, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had blissful, blank minds, not a single thought was floating in their heads for once in their life. Perhaps it was the crazy chase they had endured a few hours before, or the sudden intimacy of talking about love in the middle of the night. Or maybe it was just because they were Sherlock and John. Either way, everything felt perfectly set into place.
There was no composer in the world that could have put the notes the pair was hearing onto paper, for Sherlock and John had created their own little fantasy within the walls of 221B. The silence of London during midnight was roaring with music and the violins played an octave higher than the clarinets, teasing them lightly with graceful notes. Adrenaline coursed through their veins and dopamine crashed into their brains. Hearts pounding and eyes alight, neither one would have been surprised if the next morning they woke to a blissful dream.
As the timbre climbed the staff to reach a single, solo B natural above A harmonic from the cellos, they both could tell the climax was near. A beat later and the orchestra leaped right back in and with the cellos as the instruments swayed with finesse. The winds blew light, airy notes and-
Beep beep beep
The orchestra faltered and Sherlock and John stopped simultaneously. The detective looked at the doctor with a question written all over his expressionless face.
Beep beep beep
"You'd better get that." John finally answered quietly, and detached his hands from where they were on Sherlock. The buzz from the whiskey still hadn't worn off, John's face still warm.
Wordlessly, the detective spun around on his heel and marched towards the coffee table on the other side of the sitting room and picked up his phone with a low growl.
Lestrade.
Calling at 2:28 am.
"What do you want, Lestrade?" Sherlock couldn't hide his tone of utter annoyance.
"Wow, you actually picked up this time. That's a first, Holmes."
"Get on with it."
"Wait a second." John walked over to his flatmate and looked at Sherlock, "Is that Greg?"
"John?" Lestrade could apparently hear the doctor's voice through the phone.
"Give it here, Sherlock." John held out a hand in a demanding voice.
"Why?" The DI was now currently being ignored.
"Just give me the bloody phone." John said and swiped the mobile from Sherlock's hand in one swift motion.
"Lestrade?"
"Hey, John. Look, we need-"
"You have impeccable timing, you know that?" The sarcasm was unmistakable in John's voice, and Sherlock smirked.
"Wha-"
John handed the phone back to Sherlock and said, "All yours now."
Chuckling softly, the detective held the phone back up to his ear and proceeded to yell at Lestrade to 'start talking or I will make sure Mycroft has your head'. In which the DI replied with 'well I'm shagging your brother breathless every night so I'm pretty sure he'll take my side on this'. Which in turn caused Sherlock to shudder and John to burst out laughing and Sherlock to growl 'when are you two going to break up already', with John doubled over with fits of gasped laughter.
Finally, after a screaming fit that almost woke Mrs. Hudson who was two flats down, Sherlock and Lestrade made partial amends and they went back to talking about whatever the DI originally wanted to say.
"I need you two to come down to the station."
"Why? You've already got the criminal in custody and the paperwork's your problem, why do you need us for?"
"Well, you see, Sherlock," They both could hear the slight crackling through the mobile as Lestrade paused, "Mr. Williams didn't commit the murder."
There was silence on both ends of the phone.
And then, "We'll be right down."
Sherlock snapped the phone shut and turned to the doctor, "Let's go, John."
"Why?" Sherlock muttered to himself, "Why, why, why?"
"Shouldn't you be asking 'how', not 'why'?" John said aimlessly as they walked down the nearly deserted streets of London with the night sky shining bright above them.
The detective ignored him and continued to squint his eyes and stomp loudly on the pavement. Sherlock and John were walking right next to each other, their shoulders brushing occasionally as the doctor was very aware of, though Sherlock had yet to notice.
"No," He replied back, sounding quite annoyed, "why would someone go through the trouble to framing Williams for a simple financial problem? Why did Williams confess only to admit he wasn't the killer a few hours later? Why kill a poor farmer with nothing of value in his possession?"
"Yes," John now had the same frustrated tone, "but how was Williams framed? How did they expect you to go through all the evidence in that specific order? How did they plan this far ahead?"
"They, John. You keep saying 'they'. You're implying that there is more . . ." Sherlock trailed off as his head raised slowly in realization, "Oh, John! You're brilliant!"
The doctor widened his eyes with surprise as the detective suddenly turned to him and wrapped his lanky arms around John's shoulders in a bone-crushing hug, squeezing his flatmate for a mere second before letting go excitedly and rambling on about what he had just discovered.
John stopped.
John blinked.
Sherlock kept walking.
Sherlock kept talking.
The pair was nearing Baker Street, only a couple blocks away now. And for some reason John couldn't comprehend Sherlock's words as he jogged to catch up to his excited flatmate. The doctor could only stare at the detective the whole way back to 221B and he tried very hard not to notice the way the moonlight made Sherlock's pale skin look like porcelain.
There was also the matter of Sherlock's impossibly long eyelashes that fluttered beautifully –wait, no, he didn't just think that, no, no, no –fluttered quickly every time the detective blinked. Sherlock's words were just a buzz in John's ears, and the only thing he could really focus on right now was the slight tinge of red on the tip of Sherlock's nose and the way his prominent cheekbones were touched with that rose color too.
As Sherlock babbled on about some sort of multi-knife only available in some foreign country, John felt a small prickle of heat rising up his neck. He swore it was because of the night weather.
It wasn't the cold.
And suddenly, the pair was back at Baker Street with John somehow finding his voice again and hissing at Sherlock to 'quiet down, Mrs. Hudson is asleep!' and the detective replying with nothing but his deductions and ignoring the doctor as they climbed the stairs to their flat. Sherlock was still gesturing loudly with his hands when he pushed open the door that lead directly into the sitting room, with John following tiredly behind.
The detective took one step into 221B and . . . fell silent.
He stood inside the flat, hands at his side, face forward, back to John.
"Sherlock?" The doctor asked tentatively, standing behind his flatmate, "You okay?"
"John . . ." He said quietly, standing very still, "I believe our dance was interrupted."
The flat had a sudden warmth in is atmosphere as his flatmate stepped around the detective until John was standing in front of Sherlock. The doctor looked him in his psychedelic eyes and a smile slowly crept onto his face.
"I believe so."
The lights were off and the curtains of the windows were thrown open as Sherlock carefully pulled off his coat and helped John out of his. Taking John's hands, Sherlock didn't say another word.
The music picked up right where it left off.
The clarinets sang a beautiful high C and the violins eased their way into the background with aerial scales. Although John couldn't hear it, he could feel every single beat and rest and forte and each alluring grace note. He felt Sherlock's soft hands, with small calluses on each fingertip from violin playing and the smoothness of his expensive silk shirt pressed against his own wool jumper.
But something entranced John, something that stood above all else: the liveliness in Sherlock's eyes. The way Sherlock Holmes danced in a way no other could ever capture, or even begin to. Because although John Watson could not hear the notes that kept the pair dancing, he heard Sherlock. And with Sherlock, comes the music.
It was like stepping into a dream again, entering a place of delusion, but not caring the slightest bit.
Surreal moonlight carried an essence of starlight into the room. It was a dream indeed.
The orchestra now had a decrescendo written on their sheet music, a slow diminuendo as the winds gave their last breaths. The song, as well as the dance, was ending.
4:47 said the clock.
4:49 and the strings would die away, the flutes holding out a single note, and the harp plucking three last strings.
The footsteps stopped.
John looked at Sherlock. He couldn't tell what expression his flatmate was wearing.
Standing there in the dark room, barely able to see each other's faces, the detective and the doctor stayed silent, letting the dance come to a final end.
John didn't know what he wanted Sherlock to do.
Sherlock did.
But he couldn't give his flatmate that.
So the detective would give him something close. Like when you're craving milk chocolate but you only have white in the pantry.
Almost, but not quite.
An eternity of silence, and finally, Sherlock's soft, baritone voice broke the barrier. It was an octave lower than it usually was, and there was a certain gruffness that you just couldn't achieve during the daytime.
"Thank you for the dance, John."
The doctor swallowed the nervousness he didn't knew he had and tried his hand at a witty answer.
"Isn't that my line?"
Sherlock didn't say anything back. John stood there in the dark, hands clasped in his flatmate's and wondered what the detective was doing because he couldn't see him.
Suddenly, there was a pair of soft lips on John's left cheek. Only for a moment, a gentle, chaste, barely-there kiss. He didn't have time to even register that they were there before Sherlock said, "Goodnight, John" and broke away from their intertwined fingers.
A second later and John could hear the click of a door closing while he stood there like a statue, in the dark, in the middle of the night, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Okay, so he had danced.
With Sherlock.
That was bloody weird as it were.
And then a kiss?
John squinted his eyes at nobody as he tried to find the right words.
He turned his head towards the hall which Sherlock had just walked off to, then looked back at the spot in front of him, where Sherlock had just been, then back at the hall, and then in front of him again.
Jesus Christ.
Seriously, what the bloody fucking hell just happened?
Wait, there was dancing, yes that was for sure.
A kiss, yes, there was definitely a kiss.
Wait, what?
Oh dear lord, he was losing his mind.
Perhaps that was all just a dream.
Yeah, most definitely a dream.
Though he could still feel Sherlock's ironic warm hands on his own.
Okay now John Watson was officially crazy. To the nut house we go.
No, okay, he's got this. Okay, John Watson has got this all under control. (Even if he can't remember what actually happened.)
Tomorrow he would wake up, and he would know if this had all been a dream or not. Yes, tomorrow.
Oh god, the alcohol was catching up to him.
He really needed to get some sleep.
The next morning, John Watson awoke to . . . pancakes?
He groaned loudly.
Stupid fucking hangover.
Screwing up his face and wincing, John tried to block out that ache in his head. He grappled for the clock on his nightstand, but his hand felt the coolness of glass. Squinting and turning his head, the doctor found a glass of water and a couple aspirin pills lying next to it. He'd have to thank Sherlock for that.
Bleary eyed with a fading headache, John got out of bed and followed his nose like a blood hound downstairs without fully waking. Though the moment he stepped into the kitchen, the doctor could literally feel the warm aroma surrounding him, and it jerked his senses awake.
"Sherlock?"
"Finally, John."
"Are you making pancakes?"
"Why are you still in your pyjamas?"
"Pancakes. You're making pancakes."
"Change, John. I need you in regular clothes."
"Sherlock Holmes, you're cooking. On a Sunday morning. At the crack of dawn."
"Clothes. And I highly doubt 9:37 is 'the crack of dawn'."
"It's close, considering I only got four hours of sleep."
The detective was at the stove, looking simultaneously out of place yet completely at home with a spatula in his right hand and a silk dress shirt on.
"Thanks for the aspirin, Sherlock." John said, rubbing his eyes again.
"Thought it would be best for your evident hangover."
The doctor breathed a small laugh out of his nose and said, "I hate to admit it, but those pancakes smell good."
"You're not getting any until you put some proper clothes on."
"Says the man who walked around in his bathrobe for a whole week because he was too bored to change."
"No pancakes for you then."
"Fine, fine, fine." John grumbled and turned around to walk back up the stairs to his bedroom.
Sherlock watched John walk away out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the warm tingly feeling that was creeping up his neck. The doctor had on an old white t-shirt with plaid pyjama pants, nothing out of the ordinary. Unless you count the fact that this was the first time Sherlock had actually noticed John's cowlick and his slouch and his low, gruff voice that was immensely adorable.
Wait.
Did Sherlock just call John . . . adorable?
Actually, yes. Yes, John Watson was adorable in Sherlock Holmes's eyes.
Also, John had walked down barefoot and the cotton tee had showed off his tan, muscular arms and the moment before he had spoken to the detective he'd rubbed his eyes with his knuckles sleepily, looking like a five year old with morning softness.
Adorable. Full-on cute.
Sherlock smiled to himself as he added another perfectly-made pancake to the stack on the plate next to the stove. Pouring another of the pancake batter onto the pan, Sherlock started to hum. Hum what, do you suppose? Well the waltz, of course. What else? The dance that the detective and the doctor had danced together. There was nothing else.
He flipped the pancake.
He hummed some more.
He set the pancake on the stack next to the pan.
He continued to hum the waltz.
He started to make another pancake.
He started to sing.
He didn't register footsteps descending the stairs.
He sang brilliantly, letting his voice fill the entire room.
He spun around on his heel, getting caught up in the moment.
He stopped.
"So it wasn't a dream then?" John had a small smile on his face.
The detective gave John a one-over and nodded his head in satisfaction at his flatmate's clothing choices.
"Obviously not." Sherlock straightened his back and turned around to get back to the pancake that was starting to sizzle on the pan.
"Now," said John, sitting at the kitchen table (which for once was free of all experiments), "can you tell me why you have moved all of our furniture against the walls and why there is just an empty space in our sitting room?"
"Eat." The detective turned off the stove and handed a plate of still-hot pancakes to John with a fork and a bottle of honey.
"I should be the one saying that to you." He said absentmindedly, distracted by the steam rising from his homemade breakfast.
Sherlock stayed quiet but sat across from John and watched him attack the stack in front of him. The detective's eyes flitted over the doctor, taking in the way he had hurriedly dressed and the touch of tiredness by his eyes, and the way John's hair was still tousled in that adorable way.
Suddenly, the half-eaten plate was being pushed towards him.
Sherlock looked up, meeting John's eyes.
"Now you eat."
"Really, John," He gave an exasperated sigh, "I ate two days ago."
"That's far too long to be without food."
"For you."
"Just eat it."
The detective scowled but didn't mean it as he grabbed the fork that was still at John's side across the table and began to shovel the food into his mouth.
"Whoa, Sherlock! Slow down!" John chuckled when the food disappeared in approximately three seconds.
"Come on, John." Sherlock stood and left the plate on the table.
"Are you going to answer my question now?"
"Which one?" The detective gave an innocent look.
"The one that inquires as to why all our furniture has been rearranged." said John, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes."
Sherlock walked around the table and grabbed John by the arm, lifting him into a standing position. The doctor simply heaved a sigh and followed Sherlock to the middle of the bare floor of their sitting room.
"So? You going to explain?" John and Sherlock were standing in the center of the sitting room, both with bare feet and the detective wearing the not-quite-disgusted-but-close look at the doctor.
"I am going to teach you to dance," Sherlock announced, looking John straight in the eyes, "You were atrocious last night even if you are a fast learner."
"Well sorry I didn't grow up in a palace with a ballroom and private lessons every Thursday." The doctor growled in annoyance.
"It was every Sunday." said Sherlock and John tried to suppress a scowl (it didn't really work out).
"You going to teach me or what?"
And then it was like the god of love or whatever flipped the switch in the room because the atmosphere was all hush-hush now. Everyone was holding their breath for something unknown to John but completely planned by Sherlock.
The detective pulled his gaze away from John for a moment and stepped towards the doctor's laptop (which was open of course) that was sitting on the desk pushed against the wall next to the window and tapped a few keys.
A second later and music filled the flat.
It was music that was much too heart aching to be played during the daytime, but somehow it fit perfectly with Sherlock and John.
Melancholy notes flowed smoothly to John's ears, causing him to be overwhelmed with an ache in his chest as Sherlock walked back to his flatmate and set their positions. The same as last night, John's right hand on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock's left on John's waist and Sherlock holding John's left in his right.
The tall one didn't say a word but lead the shorter one around the room in circles that was now furnished to his liking. As the notes became lighter and brighter, Sherlock began to add seeming out-of-place steps here and there. John was looking down at their feet, squinting his eyes and trying to keep up with the skilled dancer. The detective smirked silently at the doctor's un-combed hair as he moved with the music.
A violin solo was heard high above the background orchestra and John tried his best to copy Sherlock's movements and find the pattern as Sherlock guided him quickly and mercilessly in a waltz.
"Sherlock," John murmured, still looking down at their feet, "you need to actually teach me how to dance."
"Just follow me." Sherlock said softly.
"I'm trying."
"Dance with me, not at me, John."
"I have absolutely no idea what that means."
"Just feel it. Don't think." The detective was still spinning John around the room.
"You're one to talk, I highly doubt you have ever not thought before." The blonde was still struggling, still looking down.
"No, John." Sherlock said, "Don't look at our feet, look at me."
Then Sherlock removed John's left hand from his right, continuing to dance as he put his forefinger and his thumb under and on John's chin, lifting his head up to meet Sherlock's eyes.
Reaching for John's hand again, he whispered, "Better."
And so they waltzed. Dancing to the nostalgic music that somehow made them both want to cry and yet seemed like a beautiful sunny day. The notes were like getting teary eyed at a sunrise. John got lost in Sherlock's mercurial colored eyes and his mind was blissfully blank. Not a single thought was running through his head as he danced with his flatmate.
As for Sherlock, well, he was thinking, as always. But this time, his mind was solely on John and John only. The way his feet made soft padding noises on the hardwood floor, the delicate laugh-lines on the corner of his eyes and the way his deep indigo eyes felt like you were drowning in out at sea.
So somehow, at ten in the morning, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson found themselves dancing in the middle of the sitting room with all their furniture pressed hastily up against the walls.
But as everyone knows, all good things come to an end. Even the little things.
The music stopped.
The orchestra slowly died away and the last note was given to the pianist who pressed a soft sweet note to finish the piece.
They stood there with their hands now at their sides, staring at each other, as if not daring to move for fear of breaking the atmosphere.
Then, "How did I do?" John asked softly.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and after a moment he said, "You could do better."
John burst out laughing.
"Then show me how it's done."
"Certainly."
They practiced waltzing for the whole Sunday, all the way until eleven o'clock at night and having only stopped once for lunch (much to Sherlock's annoyance).
And that is the story of how a certain detective and a certain doctor fell asleep on the sofa of their flat together.
Oh! No, no, no. Not like sleeping-sleeping, if you know what I mean. Just that they sat together for some midnight telly and John found the side his head on Sherlock's shoulder while Sherlock's cheek became pressed onto the top of John's head.
Now that was adorable.
And so Sunday night turned into Monday morning.
"Oh shite!"
John practically threw Sherlock off of him and raced to his bedroom upstairs to get changed. The detective's head was now placed somewhat uncomfortably on the armrest of the sofa and his eyes were just beginning to open. He stifled a yawn as John ran around the flat, grabbing keys and socks and flipping his jumper around that he put on backwards.
The doctor was just about to step out the door when Sherlock said, "Wait, John."
"What? I really need to get going if I'm going to make it to the surgery on time."
Sherlock was rising ever-so-slowly off the sofa and padded across the sitting room to the kitchen, his hair ruffled and his dress shirt that he wore to sleep horribly wrinkled.
"Seriously, Sherlock. What do you need?" John tapped his foot impatiently.
"One moment, please, John." Sherlock was slouching and the sleepiness was hanging over him like a cloud.
"Hurry up."
The detective was doing something in the kitchen and John stood by the door, a hand on the knob, gritting his teeth and trying not to yell. One second he was thinking about what to say as his lame excuse for being late and the next there was an apple in his face.
"Eat on the way." Sherlock said sleepily.
"Oh. Er, thanks, Sherlock." John was oddly touched by his flatmate's kind gesture and smiled as he took the apple, "But I really have to go now, so I'll see you tonight."
"Have fun taking care of sick babies and their dreadful mothers." Sherlock drawled. His low voice had sarcasm dripping off it like honey.
The doctor chuckled and then . . . he didn't think.
"Bye, love." And a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips.
The detective had no time to react, just the doctor's mouth pressing against his and suddenly a nanosecond of awkward realization (for John that is, Sherlock was still trying to comprehend what had happened) and the blonde bolted out the door. He left Sherlock blinking after his shadow, still trying to figure out why John had done what he did.
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK
That was the only train of thought running through John's brain as he rode the tube down to Central London.
Well, that and SHITESHITESHITESHITESHITE.
So basically it went something like this:
WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DID I JUST DO?!
WHY THE FUCK DID I JUST DO THAT?!
OH, FUCKING SHITE WE FELL ASLEEP TOGETHER LAST NIGHT!
WHEN I GET BACK TONIGHT- SHITE!
Etc., etc.
And let's just say that the people on the tube stood clear of this wide-eyed, messy-haired, deranged-looking man. But the worst thing was, when John got to work, the only thing he could think of was those dark brown, almost black curly locks, sometimes falling in front of that pale face, and that face with those eyes, oh goodness, those eyes . . .
He broke out of his trance when Ms. Cooper asked something about medication and whatnot.
"Yes, yes. Of course. I'll have you take some regular Ibuprofen and just follow the instructions on the box."
John sighed with relief as the elderly lady closed the door to the room behind her and he leaned back heavily in his chair. Rubbing his temple, John Watson internally freaked out. He was having a teenage sexuality crisis in his mid-thirties. Hold up, was this his mid-life crisis? But didn't those happen a little later than the thirties? Good god, it was either that or he was losing his mind.
Anyways, the only problem here was his godforsaken flatmate that kept interrupting his thoughts when he least wanted to his that dark haired detective. If those thoughts could just go away, now that was what he needed right now.
Oh, look at the time. 3:45, his next appointment.
Joy.
John was tripping up the steps of 221B, cursing loudly with a colorful vocabulary as he dragged three shopping bags full of the next week's food in his hands. The day had not gone well with four appointments of children with regular colds and three with old women concerned about some bodily fluid and . . . well he couldn't remember anything else. John reached the upstairs and unfortunately for him, the door was closed and he had no hands to open it.
"Sherlock!"
No answer from inside.
"Sherlock!"
He tried once again; no reply.
"SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU BLOODY FUCKING OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT N-"
The door swung open gracefully and the detective stood on the other side, a mocking, questioning look on his face. Along with a deep purple silk dress shirt and exceptionally nice slacks to be wearing at home, Sherlock looked as if he had just gotten home from one of Mycroft's dinner parties.
"Thank you." John nodded curtly and stepped inside, dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter without bothering to put them away like he normally did.
"Bad day?" Sherlock retreated back to his leather chair and sat down, swinging one leg over the other and watching the doctor's every move.
"You know very well that it was." The short one huffed and walked over to sit across from Sherlock.
"Care to talk about it?" The issue with that morning and John's kiss was momentarily forgotten by both of the men. But only momentarily.
"No."
And then John picked up his laptop from the coffee table and decided to do some evening writing on his blog. He made it to four minutes with the detective's eyes boring into his head before he glared at the words and shut the screen with a loud snap.
Sherlock smirked as John set the laptop down.
But before the detective could even utter a single syllable, John said, "I'm hungry. What do you want for supper?"
"Not hungry."
"Sherlock, you're eating."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes, you are. I am not playing this game with you, Sherlock."
Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, what are we having?"
"Thai sounds very appetizing right about now."
"You just bought groceries."
"Hush."
John had gotten up and was walking to the kitchen where there was a phone on the counter. He plucked the restaurant menu from under it and scanned the list.
"Pad Thai for me then." The detective said in his bored tone.
"Alright then, I'll call."
"Don't forget the peanuts."
"Don't worry, I won't forget."
Sherlock sat in his chair as John called the restaurant. The doctor could feel his flatmate's eyes on him as he talked on the phone, trying to listen to the person on the other end speak about the spiciness rating for each dish. Finally, after a tedious six minutes of explaining that he didn't want number twenty seven, he wanted number thirty seven, John put the phone down and walked back to Sherlock.
They sat in silence for a couple of moments before John got the courage to speak.
"Er, Sherlock?" He looked away from his flatmate.
"Yes, John?"
"About this morning, erm, well, I'm really sorry and-"
John faltered as Sherlock stood, with his piercing eyes on his flatmate and took one stride to his chair. Stooping down, as John's eyes widened, Sherlock dropped a kiss to John's cheek.
They stared into each other's eyes for a moment longer and then Sherlock swiftly turned around back to his own chair again. Picking up his violin and absentmindedly plucking the strings, Sherlock let his gaze wander to everything except for John.
"So . . . you're fine with this morning?"
"Obviously." The reply was quick and curt.
"Right. Okay then."
The night passed without a word of either one of the kisses. Everything was back to normal. (Only if you don't count the fact that Sherlock knew John loved him and though he was unsure about his own feelings, Sherlock couldn't deny that they were strong feelings.)
The whole next week was normal. Well, as normal as you could get living with a consulting detective while he runs around dodging bullets simultaneously rambling on about a hypnotic honey experiment he was conducting.
It was Tuesday night and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Until John Watson realized that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes that is.
It started at precisely 6:58 that night, having just eaten some Indian take away and sitting lazily in his chair, John had felt very content. Sherlock was lying down on the sofa, as always, in his Mind Palace. John looked at Sherlock with a fond smile on his face while the detective was blissfully unaware.
Three words the doctor had thought were enough to strike him with the realization.
God, he's beautiful.
That scared the living shite out of John Watson.
His eyes were wide and John was looking around frantically, having no idea what to do. Interrupting his breathing patterns, Sherlock's soft snore could be heard.
John stopped. And chuckled.
Another string of thought ran through his mind. What have I got to lose?
The doctor stood and walked over to the sleeping detective to sit on the narrow space of sofa left available. He smiled again and leaned down to press a kiss lovingly to Sherlock's forehead.
"I love you." The doctor whispered.
John had always been bold.
Then again, so had Sherlock.
The detective's eyes flew open at the touch and John took a sharp intake of breath, startled by his flatmate.
"I love you too."
Sherlock closed his eyes abruptly and seemed to go right back to sleep.
John blinked. And bit his lip. He bit his lip for the reason to keep from bursting out laughing. It didn't work.
The doctor was doubled over in fits of laughter, having to grip Sherlock's shirt to keep from falling off the couch. Sherlock open his eyes and at the sight of John crying tears of laughter, started to giggle himself.
Two flatmates, professing their love for each other, and then laughing about it.
A.K.A. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
They kept laughing for who knows how long and it ended with John kissing Sherlock's forehead again and saying goodnight. Right after saying another 'I love you'.
So basically, it was a relatively normal Tuesday night.
Three raps on the door, Mycroft then.
Sherlock didn't even bother to get up off his chair as his older brother came walking smartly into his flat.
He made his breathing even and let the calmness wash over him and the detective became a machine. Sherlock Holmes couldn't afford to hurt Mycroft anymore.
"Hello, Sherlock."
"Mycroft."
The elder Holmes sat in the leather chair opposite Sherlock, the one John usually occupied. The detective wiped his face and composure of all feeling, almost making himself invisible to the world.
"We're alone, Sherlock. You don't have to pretend." Mycroft said softly.
"I always have to pretend." He looked his brother straight in the eyes.
"No, you don't. Please, Sherlock, I need to know what you're feeling."
"We are not repeating our childhood, Mycroft." The detective said curtly and gave a cold stare off into space.
A moment a silence, and then, "You're right." said the politician, casting his gaze down at his feet.
An odd unsettling feeling was hanging overhead of 221B and tension crept into the room. The moments of silence turned into minutes. They weren't meeting each other's eyes. They couldn't.
"I am going to kiss John tonight." Sherlock suddenly announced.
Mycroft looked up sharply and his hardened eyes and pursed lips told the detective that his brother disapproved. Deeply.
"I thought you said that we would not repeat our childhood." He replied. A quiet rage was woven in with each word.
"It's not going to be a repeat." Sherlock met his brother's aquamarine eyes with his own.
"How do you know?"
"It's John."
"You said the same about Victor."
"Don't say his name." The detective's hiss was cold and sharp.
"I simply don't want your utter infatuation with Dr. Watson to disrupt the friendship you have with him now." Mycroft said coolly.
"It's different this time."
"Prove it, Sherlock."
"You already have all the proof you need."
"Which is?"
"I know you can feel it, Mycroft."
And he did.
Mycroft Holmes could sense the longing ache in Sherlock's heart, the organ they had thought shut down for many years. But of course, one needs a beating heart to continue living. That pulsing thing in Sherlock's chest had an outstretched hand, reaching for something that was just out of his grasp. Mycroft could feel it all, and his own heart started to mimic his brother's with a faux pain.
"You told me not to pretend, so I'm not." Sherlock whispered after a moment.
The elder Holmes shut his eyes tightly, trying as he had time and time again, to block out the emotion that was radiating off of Sherlock onto him. This man, this poised politician here, was trying not to take away the pain from the one he cared for most. For because of the family, Sherlock had been born with a mind and Mycroft with a heart.
Suddenly, the ache was gone and Sherlock's wall had gone back up.
"You wanted me to feel it." Mycroft opened his eyes and his cold demeanor reappeared.
"Yes."
Silence filled the room once again. The two brothers stared at one another, one with the intention of persuasion, the other a rock that cannot be moved. But sometimes, all you need is a little push.
"I will take care of the Williams case for you." Mycroft stood, "And I'll come to check on you in three days. If you are not out by then, I will make proper arrangements to ensure your bodily health, but I will not disturb your mind. Goodbye, Sherlock."
Mycroft shut the door and walked down the steps with a poised manner and a head full of worry. But at the last step, he stopped. The politician smiled as he pulled out a small slip of paper from his left pocket that read:
Williams is in Oxford, arrest Posey if he has hiking boots.
His brother, no matter how childish or ignorant, was brilliant. Mycroft stepped out the door and onto the pavement of Baker Street, and into the sleek black car that was waiting for him.
The detective watched his brother walk out of his flat and even though he couldn't see it, Sherlock knew exactly when Mycroft had found the note he had left him.
Tonight.
He was going to do something he hadn't done in seventeen years.
Tonight.
With John.
Yes, tonight.
A/N: Brit-picked by the lovely Totallynewmerlinfan2013 :) Check her out, she's amazing