John
At 1:32 in the morning I am jolted awake by his violin. It's a poor mask. Sudden as his song started it ended and I can hear him muttering to himself. This was clockwork to me, listening. Tonight there was something different. Heavy.
I lurch out of bed. I hear the lock box open. I stand now and throw my door open, a loud enough bang to startle him. I stand in the darkened hall and watch him.
Sherlock jumps and stares at me like a trapped animal. I know he can't see me, but I can see him and the thing in his hands. Rage burns in me, a betrayal I knew would happen. He fluidly regains composure, running his tongue over his lips in a gesture that can only be seen as… nervous. He lets out a strangled laugh and runs a painfully beautiful hand through his hair. He knows I've caught him but Sherlock doesn't get nervous or intimidated. It was only nights like this that you saw the human in him at all.
"John, don't be so dramatic. You startled me." The madman says, staring longingly at his prize. "You want tea?" he inquires.
"You put that bloody thing down now" I bark at him. Sherlock shakes at my voice, a considerably alarming sign for the usually stoic sociopath. "Chamomile it is" He answers for me and puts the object in the pocket of his jeans, unwashed for three days now. I move toward him and he absconds through to the kitchen. Following him I persist. "Holmes, I said put it down. Actually you can put it back in the lock box." I cast a glance over my shoulder. "How'd you get into that anyway?" I asked, though I knew he'd turn it around and make me sound dumb.
"I watched you open it. You don't do a good job of hiding numbers, John." His eyes graze my body in a queer and uncomfortable way. "Or much of anything really" He pouts and turns to the unboiled pot. I growl out of anger. "Put. It. Back" I command. My partner rolls his eyes. "John, I don't see why it means so much that I-"
"Doesn't matter" I dead pan
he grumbles. "I am a big boy, John" Sherlock says with caustic contempt. "You are a mildly unstable high functioning sociopath" I shoot back at him, but we both know it just rolls off him. "You are also going on no sleep for almost four days." He purses his lips. "My sleep is of no concern to you!" he sighs. I arch an eyebrow and bitterly reply "Bloody hell it's my concern, you're my flat mate." I can't rip my eyes from his pocket.
We're both shocked by the wailing of the tea pot. Sherlock smiles and pours two cups of tea. He puts a sugar cube in his, but leaves one out of mine. I see him shaking. I approach him from behind and see his lips moving in what looks like a prayer but I know isn't one. His eyes dart around sightlessly. Subconsiously I place my hand on his shoulder.
"Watson, stop it. Don't pity me." He hisses. "I don't pity you" I swear. "just give it to me." My friend sets his green eyes on me, harsh and burning and infinetly pained. "Why does it matter if I have-" I cut him off. "Give me my goddamn pistol or so help me-"
"What?" Sherlock antagonizes. He turns and pins me, his height a clear advantage. "What would you possibly do? You wonder why I keep people at bay? IT'S BECAUSE THEY ONLY WANT TO CONTROL ME!" he shouts in my face. The smell of unbrushed teeth mingles with a scent I don't associate with Holmes. Alcohol. I lock eyes with him. Slowly, I pull my military rifle from his pocket and move out from under him. As I cross the flat he stays staring at the wall. I throw the gun in the metal box and slam the door shut. "I have never tried to control you. Only keep you safe" I say simply
He mutters something incoherent. I look over at him. He was falling apart like this more often. He tore the flat to pieces most every week now. Nights like this were less frequent but were becoming more severe. I had to hide the gun to save him and every time it reminded more and more of life with Harriet.
Sherlock still hadn't moved. He draws in another tight shaky breath. After a minute he lets it go, but blinks rapidly and I have to stop what I'm doing to make sure I'm seeing this right. Sherlock is crying?
"Sorry, John" He whispers. "I shouldn't become so…unhinged around you. I know I disturb you." I am taken aback by the apology. Sherlock only apologizes when something bad is about to happen. I watch my companion closely, the lankiness of his body that had begun to look hollow. He was graceful where others would be awkward. Here though, vulnerable and closed off, he was just Sherlock. "Don't apologize." I tell him. He nods and sits down with his tea. Street lights outside paint his gaunt cheeks orange. His eyes take in the wonder of London as if he were passing an unknown, unremarkable city on the highway or seeing a place from a book. Wistful but disconnected.
"Well then, I'm totally knackered. Goodnight." I say and turn off to my room. "But I do scare you John. I can see it in your eyes." He says more to himself than anything. I look over my shoulders one last time. I don't say anything, just shoulder the depression and go to my room. Its 1:40 am. I know when I wake up he'll be gone. Just like always.
