Curious
You know... I've never always known I was gay. I had a feeling that I didn't want to be true. A nervous tick in the back of my head whenever I saw someone attractive. I brushed it off. The warm feelings of protectiveness and love that sprouted for my male friends I passed off as fondness, almost hating myself for it. What was I crazy? Loving my best mate? Only a freak would do that right? What a pervert I thought I was, guiltily jerking off to his image in my mind thoroughly swearing to myself that I would never do it again only to repeat and rinse the next week. I hated myself, felt sick. Sometimes one or two would notice me gaining distance and ask what was wrong. Of course I couldn't tell them I had fallen in love.
I was such an idiot. Maybe I thought it was because I was constantly lonely and so unloved I needed to go to the same sex to have something. But that wasn't true was it? I still struggle with those feelings to this day. I wonder if Sherlock ever felt this way too. I envy his openness. If only I could be a fraction of what that man is. But I am John Watson, loyal side kick and friend. That's all I am.
"Ordinary."
"Sorry?"
"I said, this is is ordinary. Which is odd considering it's a double homicide."
"Sherlock... That is not ordinary in the least." Sherlock hums thoughtfully, staring into his tea as if it held the answer. A comfortable silence falls as He contemplates the questionable array of dealings, bringing the cup to his lips every few moments only to not have taken a single sip. I return to the afternoon paper deciding to entertain myself with an article for a while rather than waiting for an answer I know will not be coming.
You tend to pick up on things like that about Sherlock after you spend enough time with him. Make sure to not step on papers in the sitting room, do not disturb experiments in the kitchen area, it is unwise to fall asleep on the couch and to never stay around a crime scene longer than Sherlock himself lest you be left behind. Little things like stirring techniques for tea and key information in news articles. I often find myself only skimming through them most days, a change from my usual routine.
I find myself changing increasingly often as well, adapting to Sherlock like a handy extension. I've never complained, the danger of the job excites me, chases away the boredom and pain of the past. Who needs the past anyway? When you have a very present need to run or a race for gathering information or even the important need of reminding Sherlock to take care of himself before he collapses. Somebody has to after all, god knows he won't listen to his brother.
"John." My head perks up.
"Yes, Sherlock?" He gnaws on his bottom lip a bit, possibly a childish habit he doesn't notice any more- I jolt. Now he has me doing it! Analysing people like objects and puzzles to be figured out. I mentally kick myself for it. Sherlock deserves better from me.
"The tea is cold." He nods towards it curls bouncing cutely to the side. My heart skips a beat, eyes narrowing. Suspicious; Sherlock doesn't mind cold tea, he must be trying to excite a reaction from me but what could that reaction be? I shake my head slightly, I need some sleep, and to stop over thinking so much, I am bound to drive myself insane at this rate.
"Sure, Sherlock." I give a reassuring smile getting up from my armchair taking his cup with me, dumping it quietly in the sink.
"On the top shelf." He calls from the sitting room. I nod quizzingly to myself. Why was the tea on the top shelf?
I open the cupboard barely reaching it, having to go on my toes to reach the small tea tin. My shirt lifts up bringing in an uncomfortable breeze under the jumper. I shiver slightly, feeling around for the tin unable to see it from my low angle. Finally I find it dropping back down to my heels with the smallest triumphant smile. I put the kettle on dropping a fresh tea bag for myself and Sherlock.
Questionably, how did the tea get in the top cupboard when I had just made tea a few minutes before? I check the tin finding it unmarked of any brand names or colours. My stomach squeezes nervously, predicting trouble. Calm down, Sherlock probably likes this brand better, maybe its from before I moved in a few months ago. It was possible. But improbable.
I fill the two cups with hot water, sniffing delicately at mine even though I know Sherlock would notice. He see'e everything it seems. I hand him one settling down in my armchair catching a strange look in his eyes. Where his pupils dilated? I hope he hasn't gotten ill without me noticing. I think to ask him if he has a fever but rule against it. He wouldn't tell me anyway. I take a small sip from the top and find it a pleasant tasting fruit tea. Sherlock doesn't take a sip at all but puts it on the end table beside him and drops the case file beside it studying my face intuitively. This should be my first major warning that I made a horrible mistake but I take another sip instead. Stop being so paranoid. But sometimes I wonder if I am not paranoid enough, with what everything that goes on with Sherlock and I.
"Curious."
"What is?" I inquire with a polite smile.
"You are suspicious of me."
"I think everyone is when it comes to you Sherlock. You're possibly the most suspicious character I know." I poke jokingly. He hums thoughtfully. My vision sways and I frown.
"I suppose I must work on that then."
"Sherlock." I spout firmly. "What have you done to the tea, Sherlock."
"What do you mean, John. Don't you enjoy fruit teas?" He has a mischievous glint in his eyes that confirms my suspicions. The tea must be spiked. The room glides to the side as I fall onto the floor with a distant thud. The sitting room spins precociously, my head echoing emptily, vision focusing on Sherlock's grin as the sides spin faster and faster until I lose myself to the darkness.
AN: One-shot maybe? I don't even know to be honest. Review or something if you want more :I