My newest obsession and a new style.
No plans to continue as of yet.
...I need to leave before I suffocate myself in you...
It's almost time for lunch when he arrives back at Baker Street.
Sherlock pauses outside the door, listening, [recognizable stride: John Watson, angry] with his fingertips pressed against the worn wood grains [vibrations: objects being stacked roughly, most likely books] and sighs internally.
John has been avoiding him for the last thirty-six hours [ten minutes and forty-seven seconds, forty-eight…] since their case had come to it's thrilling reveal.
It's his favorite part, the climax of colliding situations, the pitting of his intelligence against the world.
Adrenalin and the determination not lose, no matter the odds, crescendoing into a single stretching moment as everything hangs in teetering balance. The scales always tip in his favor, in the end.
John though, had-has-evidentially not been pleased with the results.
One need not be a genius to deduce that much, though, Sherlock was [dull thud indicates books are stacked in a container, likely cardboard]. Undoubtedly so.
A part of him wants to turn around and return later when John has calmed himself, as he always does; Sherlock will admit he is utterly perplexed by the contradictions that the other man embodies.
Such an average [notice tightening of jaw at the word, clearly insecure] man on the surface.
A straightforward individual, a military person.
Orderly and straight-laced, John is socially quite competent if unable, or unwilling, to commit to a deeper relationship, though he has an almost constant stream of women [dislikes public displays of affections, leans away from lingering contact].
Yet, John craves the adrenaline, the thrill of it all the same way that he does.
And the most irritatingly confusing fact Sherlock must accept- John accepts him, expects him. Perhaps that's the paradox of it all.
John is interesting because Sherlock cannot seem to shake him, to get under his skin and make him afraid. Most people clutch their secrets tightly [cheating, again] more so when he's around, making it easier for him to see them [with the mailman, how quaint].
But John: nothing.
Nothing but wonder and admiration and the it wasn't obvious to me.
Which only succeeds in making Sherlock more determined to draw his secrets out from his veins, like drawing blood. Analyze under the microscope, diagnose and side-step Molly's painful attraction to him [nails painted, color: Fiery Seduction].
Like an open book, John opens himself willingly, without being asked or manipulated. Sherlock reads between the lines, splitting the pages, tears open the spine.
If he were the sort of man to admit a weakness [over-confidence, quick dismissal, isolation of potential allies] Sherlock might say that he's testing John. Ripping him apart to see if he leaves.
Sherlock stops stalling and opens the door.
[Boxes everywhere: haphazardly stacked in anger, some taped shut, most not.]
"John?"
It comes out more uncertain then he intends it too, shock—what an unpleasant falling sensation, this is why he avoids it—making the word a bit unsteady, to someone who is listening for it [note: erase Mycroft's audio recording device].
The previously tense shoulders hunch further, his position screaming defensiveness.
John turns slowly, strip of duct tape [core size: three inches, less than one left, excellent cross tear-ability for one-handed applications] dangling from his right hand, not meeting his eyes.
"Sherlock," wearily spoken, almost broken, "I'm leaving."
He means to say that is the logical conclusion. The plan is to twist his mouth, disdainfully and roll his eyes at the dramatics of the situation, turn away and good riddance.
Instead he asks, "Why?"
And yes, he will definitely need to destroy Mycroft's newest toys. They arrive every Agnolia and Adonia like clockwork, his brother's way of bantering [1].
John still won't meet his eyes and Sherlock finds it distracting [torso turned away, crossed arms; still angry] because it feels like he's missing something, something essential to the picture and more than anything, he hates not understanding.
"You know why."
Sherlock dismisses the accusation with a wave of his hand, annoyance in the flick of his wrist. He hates justifying himself.
"Because I left you? Really, come now, you were perfectly safe the entire-"
"You left me," John says, most definitely broken [hoarse voice: raw from screaming or possibly crying].
The sound hits him as hard as a kick to the stomach, though logically he knows that's nonsense. Too much time spent reading that damn blog.
Sherlock pauses, derailed. Simply looks.
[Rumpled clothes, deep bruised eyes. Hasn't slept since the case, hasn't changed his clothes.]
John turns towards his box again, smoothing the tape over it. His whole body is hunched inward, collapsing in on himself [combined effects of sleep depravation and shock] all the lines of his body curving inward protectively.
"I didn't leave you," Sherlock says but it tastes sour in his mouth.
Across the room, John lets out a strangled laugh, his fingers tightening against the table edge [knuckles whiten; using pain to focus, find control]. He decides immediately that he doesn't like it. There is something off balance here, a piece that chaffs and itches.
When John speaks again, it's that same tone of voice. Choked, fighting for control.
"I thought you were dead," he says, as if that explains everything [accelerated heart rate, bowed head] and maybe it does. "Sherlock, I thought-"
He breaks off, taking a deep breathe. Steadies himself.
Sherlock takes a step forward, then one back. He hates, hates uncertainty.
John squares his shoulders, instinctively shifting his center of weight for maximum stability [one point six inches under the sternum] and widens his stance. The posture of a soldier preparing for the storm to hit, for the tide to rush him.
He turns, quicker than Sherlock expects him to, a sneak attack.
Clever soldier boy.
John forces himself to meet his eyes through sheer will power [tightening of the brow, deepening of frown lines] and the betrayal is clearer, sharper than anything he could say. An open book, in all its worn vulnerability.
"I can't do this anymore."
Sherlock opens his mouth to [but…] and can't.
"I'm sorry, " he says. And he really is, bleeding guilt and accusation.
A messy, complicated contradiction wrapped in fragile pieces that are fraying at the seams; he runs a hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes and exhales slowly. Sherlock still says nothing; what? It won't click, the pieces, even though the words are clear. John looks at him, waiting for something, anything possibly, and he can do nothing but look back.
The silence stretches thinly, uncomfortably.
So John takes the box on the desk and leaves. He pauses before brushing by Sherlock, looking past him out the windows [looking at something, likely someone, his ride possibly] and Sherlock turns too [a friend probably, not the new girlfriend, too early for that] but sees nothing out of the ordinary.
"I'll… I'll be by to get the rest."
And with that, John is gone, figure disappearing down the flight of steps without looking back.
Distantly, Sherlock can hear the turning of the doorknob [unnecessary jostling, box position making the knob hard to grasp] and the quiet squeak of hinges. And then, the door simply shuts. A hollow, empty thud.
Everything is utterly, overwhelmingly still.
[But… he can't just…]
And then, slipping into the open window from the street, John's voice, falsely cheerful: "All done."
No, it is certainly not, not if Sherlock has anything to say about it and goddamnit, he's Sherlock Holmes and he always has something to say, always has an answer.
Steps taken two at a time, stomach clenching with the possibility that John is already gone, disappeared into a cab [ones that frequent the area: FR9247, BW3107…] and driven off, gone, Sherlock bursts through the front door like a tidal wave and, yes, maybe John is right to brace himself.
He expects the shocked look on John's face.
He does not expect the lack of surprise on Lestrade's.
Sherlock Holmes rocks back slightly on his heels [his soleus muscles tightening in his legs, maintaining balance] taking in the new development in, well, not exactly in stride.
"Him?" Sherlock says, shoving the accusation in John's face, "You're moving in with him?"
John features shift from shocked to relieved to angry in a heartbeat [face flushing, harsher breathing, straightening of the spine] trying to contain his rising fury as he faces Sherlock, empty-handed.
Lestrade shifts the box to his other side, glancing between them uneasily. His hand lingers on John's shoulder, looking comfortable and friendly and like it's there all the time.
It's not; he would have noticed.
"Yes, Sherlock," John says, struggling for calm, "Greg has graciously invited me to lodge with him for a while."
Sherlock steps closer unconsciously, voice rising and dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, and what does his wife think of that? You want to intrude on the poor man now while he's trying to save his marriage?"
And suddenly, John explodes.
He steps forward as if to push Sherlock away and for a brief, terrible moment he closes his eyes and waits for impact [twist body at the waist to avoid concrete ledge]. Instead, shaking hands are twisted in the front of Sherlock's shirt and he's drawn forward.
Face-to-face, John's whole body a coiled spring of anger and Sherlock forces himself to take a breath.
"They got divorced a month ago, you stupid sod, because she was cheating on him, remember?"
Sherlock's eyes flicker to Lestrade's hands and, yes, the ring isn't there. A moment of internal panic—how long hasn't he noticed that?—before it registers [red irritated skin of the ring finger, clearly removed today for the first time in years].
He points this out to John, who twists his hands into him harder.
"That's not the bleeding point."
He wants to ask then what is but doesn't, the blue eyes drilling into him, desperately searching his face for an answer he doesn't know the question to. He can feel it at the edges, just of out his reach.
The frustration; it chokes the air, twists the anger and the tension together, them together. He's finding it hard to breathe properly, a light-headed sensation flitting behind his eyes.
Lestrade coughs awkwardly; they don't look at him.
"I'll, uh, be in the car, then. Take your time."
John tries to nod but their faces are too close together. Their foreheads bumps together lightly [skin heated: possibly fever, probably heightened emotions] and stay that way, touching.
"It's not the point," John says roughly, anger bleached from his voice, leaving it cracking and raw, "They put me in the mental ward, Sherlock. You let them-"
His voice fades, draining away alongside the sharp anger. Sherlock has the sickening realization that this time he's gone to far, pushed to hard and John wasn't braced because he was expecting it from everybody else but, dear god, not from him.
Because it's not really anger; it's hurt.
"I can't do this anymore," John says and his fingers slip from the fabric of Sherlock's shirt [cotton, imported illegally from South America- it doesn't matter]. One of them sways forward, foreheads pressed together tighter, faces tilting toward each other dangerously.
And then it's gone; John steps back, steps away.
"I'm sorry."
Just like that, he leaves. The car pulls away.
"I came back," Sherlock says, desperately.
Nobody hears him.
[Too little, too late.]
1. Agonalia: January 1st & 9th
During this festival the Romans gave dates, figs, and honey sealed in white jars to the god Janus. Such gifts, and also money, would be given to family members as well.
Adonia: July
During this festival a household's female members would climb onto the roof of the house and plant the "Garden of Adonis". These gardens contained fast-growing plants. For eight days the women would tend to the plants, and then neglect them. After the plants had died the women would mourn for them.