FUSION CURTAINS- A JOHNLOCK FANFIC
"I can't do it John. Not this, not now. It's too much, too many decisions to make all at once," Mary said sarcastically to John; she knew how to pick out the perfect handgun from a spy shop, but had no idea as to what the 'fusion colored sheets' were that John was referring to. "Come on Mary, fusion!" was what John had said at least four times while they were at that shop. "Saying the same thing over and over doesn't make me understand it, John." John was becoming impatient, and to make matters worse, his phone vibrated in his cardigan pocket.
Meet me at 221B,
Urgent.
-SH
John sighed as he read the text, he had gotten the same one a couple times in a row. The matter was never urgent, but Sherlock was lonely, as all monsters are. "Mary-" John started, but never got to finish. "Go. I'd really rather be doing something other than this," Mary gestured at the curtains in the shop, "anyway. Have your fun, do whatever it is you boys do. Solve mysteries or whatever." Mary smiled, aware of the deep bond Sherlock and John had that she could never seem to penetrate. She had accepted it; Sherlock needed John, and John needed Sherlock.
John hurried to the car. He wiped the sleepless nights away from his eyes as he got in. The lines around and under those eyes showed age and fatigue; both things which John hadn't managed to escape. Watson shuffled around the door of the building, rummaging for his key. Sherlock pulled back the curtain ever so slightly a few stories above; just enough to see John unlock the door and come inside. John tapped on the flat's door, waiting for Holmes to open it.
Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was nearby. She rambled on about how lucky Sherlock was to have John, and how his antisocial tendencies were starting to become a problem. Then she unlocked the door for John. They both walked into the flat. Hudson strolled over to the wall on the far end of the room and stroked the wall fondly, as the Doctor would the TARDIS. "My poor wall; all the bullets you've taken for boredom." She then quieted her voice down to a whisper. "It went on his rent," was what she whispered to the black and white wall, covered in bullet-holes. The middle of the wall had a spray-painted yellow smile on it, yet another indication of Sherlock Holmes' boredom.
"JohnWatson," a short and somewhat crickety figure immerged from the darkness in the kitchen. "Mycroft," John nodded his head towards Sherlock's pretentious older brother. "He's grumpy, can't find his pack o'; just a friendly warning." Mycroft said to John, a fake grin plastered to his face. He said hello to Mrs. Hudson and then joined her in leaving the flat. John, still holding his coffee from the shop he'd been to earlier, walked into the darkness of the west side of the flat.
A deep, low voice came from the dimly lit room John had stepped into. "John," Sherlock, definitely Sherlock. "Please John, and I don't say this often, so listen to me. If you tell me where they are, I will say thank you." John had to admit, that was pretty rare, but none the less, he couldn't tell him. "Sorry Sherlock, it's for your own good." Sherlock banged the table with his head and his fists. " .THEM. I can't solve any cases without them. I can't even get up to go to the toilet John." John cocked his head at this. "First of all, disgusting, second, I think you can survive without them for a little while."
Sherlock looked miserably up at John, who exhaled a loud and tremendous sigh. "We're only trying to help you Sherlock, not hurt you," John tried to reconcile with his friend, but Sherlock's withdrawal was not at all easy. "If you had any consideration for my emotional state at all, you wouldn't have taken away my cigarettes! John, if you have ever been my friend, our whole history together; you me against the rest of the world, then let me borrow your car keys to get a new pack." Sherlock looked hopefully up at John. "Oh now don't do that! That's not fair and you know it, Sherlock!" John walked to the far end of the Sherlock's living room and switched on the light. It was a mess. The whole flat looked like it had been turned over. Clothes were strewn across the floor, case files were laying on the kitchen counter, and there was a foot, without a body, in the kitchen sink (with a plastic seal, but still).
"Sherlock? Sherlock, have you been rigorously being the opposite of OCD, or just looking for a pack?" John heard Sherlock groan in response. If he had kept smoking, he would surely get lung cancer, not to mention how disgusting it was. John had decided it; Sherlock needed to get out of the house and meet someone. "Sherlock, grab your coat, we're going out." Sherlock met John at the door, looking exhausted and annoyed. John hadn't told Sherlock where they were going when he had asked, and his deduction skills were a bit off.
They took John's car to a restaurant called "The Doubair", which was reserved for the evening by a dating company. "Oh no, John. I'm not doing this. I don't want to do this." Sherlock froze in his tracks when he realized where they were going. "I'll see you later, you social butterfly; be by to pick you up in four hours. Have fun, and why not?" John drove off in his small car, hoping that he could make it home in time and Mary wouldn't be too mad. "Because all the people that go here use it as a last resort, are ordinarily drunk, and are usually lonely," Sherlock mumbled as John drove off.
"I like dogs, cats, most any animal really. Oh! My favorite color is yellow, and oh- am I talking too much? I should let you have a chance!" the woman slurred, looking at Sherlock, waiting for him to say something. He lazily looked at her, eyes half closed. "Alcoholic. I think we're done here," Sherlock said, sounding annoyed and ready to leave. Abagail was the first rotation, his first 15 minute mini-date.
"Ex-excuse me?"She looked at him, a little flabbergasted and a teensy bit angered. Sherlock sighed, "The entire time we've been talking, your cheeks and nose have been red. At first I thought it was just a bit of a flush; first date, first rotation, handsome man, but we've been talking for 12 minutes and 14 seconds, and all this time the redness hasn't dissipated. Also, the tips of your fingers are pruned, either due to the fact that you've just gotten out of a really long bath or you are extremely dehydrated; and honestly, I'm leaning towards the latter one. I'm assuming that you do have access to water, yet choose alcohol over instead? Also," Sherlock put his hand in front of the woman's face and snapped, in a fast, quick motion. It took her more than several seconds to blink and pull her head back.
"You reflexes are delayed, extremely delayed, indicating you've had one too many tonight and probably in the past. Not to mention your slowed speech and," Sherlock stopped to pinch his nose, "Terrible breath. If you keep this up, not only will you receive one hell of a hangover, but you will damage your liver, nervous system, heart, intestines, and brain. The withdrawal will be hard, but not as hard as the slow and painful death you will receive if you contract cancer because of this." Sherlock said this all very quickly, only stopping to emphasize a few words in a deep voice; such has 'handsome man', 'really long bath', and 'hell of a hangover'. The woman stared at Holmes, shocked, too shocked to say anything.
"I assume that's your extremely delayed reflexes affecting your speech, or I've just said something incredibly rude and inappropriate…." Sherlock glanced down at his hands. "Well I never!" exclaimed Abagail as she rose from the chair and waltzed out the door, purse in hand. She bumped into a few people, knocked over a chair and a vase, and ran into the door. Though she managed to reach her car and get inside, she did get a few stares and open mouths.
A bell somewhere in the room made a loud dinging noise, and an incredibly annoying woman with an irritatingly high voice cheerfully said, "TIME TO SWITCH LOVE BIRDS!" The room rotated, and Sherlock was in front of man, covered in tattoos. He was wearing a white tank top and cut-off jean shorts. The man, who smiled at Sherlock was toothless. "Nope," Sherlock said. The man looked confused. "Not my type. Next!" The man stared at Sherlock, not moving a muscle. Speaking of muscles, this man was twice the size of Mr. Holmes. "What's wrong with me?!" the man demanded.
Sherlock sighed. It had been about eight rotations and three hours, when in front of Sherlock a man slipped into the seat. This man had dark brown hair and black eyes. He was wearing a suit and had a grin on his face. "Sherlock. You know, I'd think we'd make a good couple; there was that one time when we almost kissed, but I know where your heart lies, Sherlock Holmes. I honestly though, prefer Sheriarty to, what was it your fans are calling you- Johnlock?" The man smiled at Sherlock and took a sip of the wine in front of him. "Jim Moriarty," Sherlock tried to conceal the smile that was playing at his lips.
"I'm only here for 15 minutes, so let's make this first date count," Moriarty said. "I have every intention of making it count, Mr. Moriarty. What do you want?" Sherlock demanded. "Tsk. Tsk. Patience is a virtue Mr. Holmes. You barely know me," Moriarty smiled widely, amused with himself. "Your name is James Moriarty. You are a psychopathic killer. You are brilliant and wildly insane, and you haven't met your match. Oh wait- yes, I believe you have. You have tried to kill me four times now, and I do anticipate a fifth,"
Sherlock poured his glass of wine out on the carpet floor subtly. "Poison in the wine? You can do better. You dated Molly Hooper for a short amount of time to get close to me, playing gay. Playing games was always your forte; though your favorite game needs more than one player- murder. I could continue, but I know you know how much I know about you." Moriarty clapped a few times and leaned in closely. "But I hardly know you," he whispered, grinning all the while. Sherlock chuckled in response. "Fine," Moriarty said shortly, disappointed that his 'get to know you' game was over.
"I need a date," Moriarty smiled. "You…. what?" Sherlock asked. "I need someone who is male, to accompany me, as a romantic interest, to a dinner party next Friday night. It can't be just anyone it has to be someone who is in the same intellectual plane as I am in, even if they are at a much lower level," Moriarty looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Thanks for the compliment," Sherlock mumbled before asking, "Why?" Moriarty shifted uncomfortably in his chair, squirming a little. "I need someone with deduction skills to be my date so that we, together, can solve a, a mystery of sorts." Sherlock eyed Moriarty suspiciously. "What kind of mystery?" Moriarty looked at Sherlock, the mocking smile in his eyes was present again.
"I'm assuming you've heard of the Midday Murders? Well, the one person who seems to know anything about the matter is a good friend of Prime Minister Harriet Jones, and he happens to be hosting a gay party; oh and I forgot to ask, the Prime Minister, you know who she is?" Sherlock looked at Moriarty, offended that he would think Sherlock would know about murders but not about the Prime Minister of England. "Yes, Harriet Jones; I know who she is, doesn't everyone?" Moriarty decided to continue, not fazedby Sherlock's sudden show of annoyance.
"Anyway, normally murder wouldn't raise my eyebrows, but this murderer seems to be almost as mad as I am, and these serial kills have been, well, somewhat my style." Moriarty glanced up at Sherlock to find him staring, obviously confused. "What the hell does 'my style' mean?" Sherlock was without a doubt completely lost with what Jim was saying. "This particular murderer has been setting up crime scenes and committing murders that I've already committed. He or she is copying me, if you will. I count at least four murders he or she has dug up from my past; oh it's not just my past, it's also 're only emulating murders that both you and I were involved in. I wonder what happens when they get to the Reichenbach Fall, as your fans are calling it?" Moriarty waited for Sherlock's reply.
Holmes looked less confused now, more deliberate. "John," he said worriedly. Sherlock stood up and had begun to exit when Jim stopped him. "Don't bother. They're not up to any murders involving John yet; they're still only on the fifth. Ha! I could murder so much faster," Jim looked to Sherlock, missing his company already. "Well, it seems our date has come to a close. Oh and I didn't even get to strike up any interesting conversation. Is it too soon to kiss you goodbye? Anyway, let me know if you're interested; by Wednesday." Moriarty began to walk away. "Wait! How do I contact you?" Sherlock implored. "The same way you've always had. You know where I'll be," Moriarty said, his back turned and still walking away, his hands were in his pockets. He had neared the door when Sherlock spoke again. "Catch you later!" He almost yelled. "No you won't!" James responded in a singsong voice.
John opened the car door for his friend. "So? How was it?"John asked. He was curious, but unsure of how to approach the subject of Sherlock's romantic life. Yea, sure, he'd just dropped him off at a dating go-'round for four hours and driven off; but still, he wanted to be delicate. "It was…. eventful." Sherlock looked to John; then told him about his encounter with Moriarty (purposely leaving out the bits where Moriarty had talked about 'Johnlock' and 'Sheriarty').
"Are you going to do it? Meet with him, I mean?" John asked. "Well, I don't know how fun I am at parties, but yes, I assume so." Sherlock looked John for approval. "Well; then we'd better take you shopping," John said as he grinned. Sherlock thought that John was joking at first, but apparently not. John had recruited Mary to take him, while Watson got to stay at the flat and blog; how convenient for him. "Try these on," Mary goaded Sherlock into entering the dressing room holding a tight pair of black jeans and a blue dress shirt. "I don't understand why I can't wear my suit and coat to the party," Sherlock added as he dressed in the dressing room. "Because John is tired, he needs a break; and you can't be left alone. "You're babysitting me?" Sherlock asked, half amused and half offended. "Mmm…. I call it observing," Mary said with a smile.
Sherlock ended up buying a suit and a black tie. He had contacted Moriarty, and was on his way to the meeting point. Sherlock drove up to the edge of the streets 'Broadchurch' and 'Torchwood' and he slowly got out of the car. "You certainly take your time, Holmes," a man walked out of the shadows and approached the car. Sherlock checked his watch and frowned. "I'm on time, Moriarty." James smiled. "Oh but that's half the fun. Being early. Seeing who comes first. 'First come first murder', or at least I think that's the expression. But we're not here to hurt each other, are we; unless you plan to break my heart at the end of this date?" Moriarty grinned at Sherlock.
"You realize this is a onetime thing?" Sherlock said sarcastically to Moriarty, who had grasped his hand and started to walk with him. "As a child, I was always the loner; the one outside of the group. My book was my best friend. I lurked in the shadows whilst the other children played in the light. I was the one quietly plotting the murders of everyone around me, and I was the one who refused to associate with those barbaric see, you and I, we were made for each other, Sherlock you are a job, nothing more. A rather interesting job at that; but I do hold to my statement that you and I are the only ones for each other." This relationship might have seemed a confusing one for bystanders; they weren't romantically involved, but they didn't hate each other, and they weren't friends. Sherlock and Moriarty shared a bond, almost as deep as Sherlock and John's. Though this bond was different, it was more of a murderous bond, one that had the ability to become volatile; which according to both men, made it all the more fun.
They stood on the stoop having already rung the doorbell. "Why hello!" A rather large man, a bit plump, came out from inside and hugged them both uncomfortably tightly. "Oh! Pardon my manners, but who might you be?" Moriarty smiled, and said (in an incredibly believable way), "Jason Brightlance and Henry Coleman. Our names should be on the list," Moriarty then winked, in a not at all subtle manner, and looked at the man. The plump man flipped through some pages and invited them in.
"Brightlance and Coleman?"Sherlock asked in a soft, low voice. "Oh Sherlock Holmes, I have so many tricks up my sleeve, it's a wonder my shirt hasn't torn." They walked into the main room of the large house. It looked a bit like the house Jackie Tyler had her birthday celebration in in the parallel universe; Sherlock did check, no dog called Rose at this party. Moriarty introduced them to many other gay couples, Sherlock was excruciatingly uncomfortable, he wasn't used to being around so many people. "Henry Coleman! Where are your social skills? You're simply not the same man I met so long ago," Moriarty said slyly, observing Sherlock's discomfort. "Where's the man who knows about the murders?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth.
"Okay, okay. This way please, Mr. Coleman." Moriarty led Sherlock through the crowd, which seemed to be getting thicker and thicker every second. "You know, you're really no fun. We have a rare opportunity here, and you're ruining it," Moriarty said, leading Sherlock through the remarkably large flat. "Moriarty," Sherlock hissed angrily. They finally reached the opposite end of the flat and began to look through the talking couples for the man James had described.
"May we cut in?" Moriarty asked six people who were quietly mingling. There was one man who fit Moriarty's description perfectly. "Yes, of course," said someone after they had all introduced themselves. "So how long have you and this handsome devil been together?" asked plump man to Moriarty, flirtatiously eying Sherlock all the while. "Oh about a year, more or less," James said smiling, while Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably at the man's stares and use of the words 'handsome devil'.
They talked a while more, and the plan was to get Moriarty and information man together long enough for James to play a little, 'See My Death Stare And How I Can Smile With My Mouth But My Eyes Remain Emotionless Because While We're Talking, I'm Plotting Your Death?' Sherlock took a few feet of space between him and the minglers before purposefully spilling his wine on the floor.
"Oh would you be dears and help me clean this up?"Sherlock directed in the general direction of the minglers. Moriarty held up information provider man and Sherlock almost audibly gagged at the fact that he had used the word 'dears' while talking to human beings.
Sherlock stood abruptly and walked over towards where the man stood looking terrified and used next to a villainous looking Moriarty. "Done?" Sherlock asked quickly and smoothly. Moriarty pulled a quick smile and answered just a fast. "Yup," He flashed a flashdrive out of his pocket quickly, one that he had forced, or rather frightened, the man into giving him. James and Holmes walked out of the party, when Sherlock had to use the restroom. "Quickly darling," Moriarty said mockingly before getting some punch after having just walked back into the flat.
Sherlock didn't really have to go to the restroom, he had to call John and let him know of his progress, and to ask him to inform Lestrade. Just before he got to the restroom, he felt his bottom being pinched. A plump man, the one from earlier who had called him a 'handsome devil' emerged from behind him. "Tight little thing aren't you?" the older man teased. Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes had just had his bottom pinched by an old fat man with an unhealthy comb-over.
"I'm sorry, but did you just squeeze my arse?" Sherlock implored, blinking only once. Sherlock was tired, and he did not want to deal with this. The man nodded and smiled cheekily. "Okay, how do I say this? No," Sherlock looked at the man, sort of half angry and half amused. The man stared back and answered, "Come on, you've only been with him a year, and he doesn't appreciate you," the plump man's voice dropped to a low whisper. "….And I don't even think he's gay, I saw him checking out that young caterer, the one in the black dress?" Sherlock looked at the man, ready to walk away. "Wait a moment, what about your husband?" The man smiled and waved his hand in a dismissive manner. "I don't even think he'd care."
The man then proceeded to step way closer to Sherlock, so close that Sherlock could smell the sour wine on his breath. "Um…. No." Sherlock whirled around and that was the end of that.