So, 'X' here in the title is a variable because I don't know how many. But I'll try to make this atleast thirty. I'll try to update this atleast once a week. Any late updates, entirely the fault of my not-so-creative brain.
Day 1: 21st November, 2014
The Speedy's is a cafe on the ground floor of the apartment building number 221 owned by Mrs. Hudson. It is where she spends most of her time baking things or at scratch cards with Mr. Chaterjee. Sometimes, when Sherlock Holmes deigns to eat, usually Mrs. Hudson makes him some kind of breakfast that will not interfere with his violin playing or his general idea of clashing with the sulks he throws across. But mostly, he spends his time at Speedy's, observing people, honing his deductive skills. He believes that the science of deduction is an ongoing process which can never be perfectly mastered, and since he has nothing productive to do, he sits and he observes.
And if anyone opened up his skull, and peeped into the mental processes of Sherlock's brain, they would see that the connections he makes is incredibly, incredibly obvious.
For example: the man who just entered is dripping wet, and his hair is wet too. That means it must be raining outside.
Sherlock cranes his neck to look outside, and looks pleased with his deduction. It is raining indeed.
But there have been some changes over at 221. For example, the skull is no longer there, Sherlock has stopped solving crimes with his blogger, and Mrs. Hudson isn't there in the flat anymore, or anywhere in the world. Otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have to come down for his breakfast ritual. And now, Sherlock's brother owns apartment building number 221, believing that if there's anything that can make Sherlock feel at home, it's 221B.
Sherlock's eyes track upwards. The man who had been dripping wet comes down and sits across him at his table, to his annoyance. But he doesn't say anything, thinking that he must be polite and blow the man off, lest he should interfere with his mental processes.
"It's raining cats and dogs, isn't it?" the man says, taking his jacket off and setting it on the chair next to him.
"No," Sherlock folds his arms, "It's raining water, otherwise you wouldn't be dripping wet."
The blond man watches him with a sadness Sherlock has never seen before. Not that Sherlock has known much sadness. The corners of his lips quirk and he swallows. Sherlock congratulates himself for having examined such minute details, and decides that he will improve much more tomorrow.
"John," the man says.
Sherlock glances at the hand that the man extends to him. John has his eyes fixed into Sherlock's and frankly he finds it disturbing to find himself at the pinpoint of John's intense scrutiny. Sherlock wonders whether this John man is superior to him in terms of deduction.
In that case, he must extend his hand too, so that he can learn from him without ever having to admit it that he is his apprentice, "I am Sherlock."
If anyone cared to reach into John's chest, they would've found his heart dying in two uneven pieces with a million smaller shards lying around it. Nevertheless, John swallows. "It's a different name," he blurts out without thinking, "but. . . I like it."
Sherlock's eyes light up in excitement at his name being called 'different', like the way John has known his eyes lighting up whenever he finds a corpse. Well, that was appropriate anyway. John was a corpse after all. But he, unthinkingly, takes Sherlock's hands in his, feeling the familiar contours against his skin. Sherlock first frowns a little, taken aback at the gesture, but then he can feel the calluses and the corns on the palms. A lot of them, diverse, and each one different from the next. Interesting. He remembers having learnt from Mycroft that one could perceive a lot from a person's hands and decides to indulge John.
"Is that how you do handshake?" Sherlock asks slyly, as John's hands linger a bit too much.
"Not okay?"
Sherlock giggles like a child at the tickling sensation, and John smiles back, his heart filling with a feeling that he likes but it is too overwhelming. He doesn't have a label to it. John wishes nothing more but to raise Sherlock's hands and kiss them, like he used to, countless times before, together in bed during those lazy Sunday mornings, the mornings which were slow, honey-like and warm lips against lips, and then skin and hands travelling over one another, promising a lifetime together.
"No, not very okay," Sherlock agrees, "Actually my name's William, Sherlock's my middle name. . . one of my two middle names. I don't know why I have two middle names, but. . . I like 'Sherlock' too.""
"It is a beautiful name," John agrees hoarsely, and every second looking into Sherlock's eyes feels like a blade pressed against his shoulder, right where he had been hit by the bullet, and then slowly trickling blood, "As are your eyes."
Sherlock's hands wrap around his slowly as he explores his palms too, but his eyes are not soft and hazy with love. They're intrigued, and they look like they're trying to assess whether John is of any value or not. Finally they relax, and a lazy smile spreads across his cheeks with a small flush of colour. He looks down and mutters, "Thank you," bashfully, like the way he always used to do when his guards were down, or when they had been dissolved by alcohol. Although, there are no guards left now, are there?
John knows he is a masochist sometimes, so he simply says, "You're welcome." His heart breaks when he sees how perfectly his smaller fingers fit in the spaces between those of Sherlock's.
They don't see the waitress looking at them and muttering, "fags". Angelo hisses at her to leave them alone.
"Well. . . you have nice eyes too," Sherlock comments back, "Blue... like the ocean. I've always loved the ocean... so grand and endless, and I have no idea why I am telling you this," he finishes with a giggle.
John forces himself to order something for both of them, lest he be caught with tears in his eyes, something that Sherlock's eyes cannot miss even in this state, "You can tell me... You've always loved the ocean, you say?"
Sherlock thinks hard, uncertainty flickering over his face, "Now that I think about it... I don't know. I just said it..."
"Yeah, happens to me too," he says, wishing if Sherlock could say 'I love you' to him just like that too, "So... got any boyfriend?"
Sherlock tries to remember, wondering why John was asking such a question. He decides to play along like people do when they're being courted, just as an experiment. After all, he's supposed to be a grown up, and going by the number of rom-coms mummy and daddy watch, dating is like a religion to common people. He should do what grownups did.
"No." After some moments of hesitation, he adds, "Do you?"
John responds with a no too. And then, against every single nerve in his body, he asks him out. Sherlock's incredulity is as clear as crystal on his face. John looks down at his neck. He has worn the scarf the wrong way.
Sherlock belatedly realises that he's got himself into a mess by playing along. He didn't think John would want a date so quickly. Well, as long as a date was just two people going out and having fun. . .
"That's very quick of you," Sherlock replies, still confused between friendship and courtship, but this time not letting go of John's hand, and making drenched fireworks exploding in John's stomach, "We've only met fifteen minutes."
John tries to undo that sentence. He did not hear that. He wishes he hadn't heard that. But he has and the more he tries to forget it, the stronger it embeds itself into his mind.
"Yes, I know," he tries to keep his voice steady, although he doubts if Sherlock will be able to tell the difference at all, "I'm just asking you for another. . . time." He does not say 'date'.
This time Sherlock blushes again, excited at having being asked out for the first time.
The Sherlock Holmes that John knew never blushed this freely, and John is at a loss to understand how Sherlock used to be able to control such an involuntary reaction.
Sherlock orders a cappuccino, pausing before he can say the name properly. John orders black coffee without sugar. Ever the intrigued one, Sherlock sips from John's cup of coffee, wondering how coffee tastes without sugar.
"How do you drink this?" Sherlock exclaims, the drama queen in him still not gone, "It's so bitter!"
"I like my coffee to taste like coffee," John replied, "Yours is worse. How do you taste the coffee over all of the sugar?"
They don't speak for sometime. Sherlock steals several glances of John. And then out of blue-
"We can pretend that this is a date instead," he suggests, forgetting their earlier conversation like it has never happened, a tongue darting out and licking the froth away.
John shifts very slightly in his seat, remembering the feel of those lips and that tongue.
"What do people do on dates?"
"I'm not pretending," John speaks, willing his voice to never break down, not in front of the love of his life at least, "I thought I was on a real date with you."
"Well..." Sherlock looks away, a little smile adorning his pink lips, "I suppose that could work out, but you'll need to walk me through it. . . I haven't dated in a while," he lies sheepishly, "what day was it again?"
"Erm," John checks his watch, "21st August, 2014."
Sherlock frowns, "So, it rains this heavily in August, does it?"
"Yeah," John shrugs, "but it's worse in November."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, much like the previous Sherlock and John's heart gives a bitter twinge at that, "Are we really talking about weather on our date, John?"
It feels like an entire universe has opened up when Sherlock takes his name. He has taken John's name on his lips after three full months, and his heart is soaring. He wishes he could've recorded it, only to play it over and over again when he is alone in his tiny beige flat with two small windows and a cane reminding him of the return of the limp in his leg. There were so many times John had hated Sherlock to be able to convince him to buy groceries or go and pay Mycroft a visit just by rolling his name on his tongue. So many times he had dropped the name carelessly.
John wishes he had cherished those times.
"What would you like to talk about?" says he with an inviting smile.
"You?" he suggests weakly, "because I'm sure I'll come up with something about myself as we go."
John manages a fake laugh at that, something that Sherlock is no longer able to tell. The overwhelming feeling is there in his chest again, and it rises like bile in his throat, mixing horribly with the sandwich that he gulps down to keep himself from throwing up. It is against the rules of biology, he knows that the more he'll eat, the more he's going to throw up later, but if Sherlock can defy them, why not he? He did that twice, didn't he?
"I'm a doctor. I treat people when they're sick."
"Sick? What sort of 'sick'? Injuries? Or infections or surgery or general practice?" Sherlock asks in genuine confusion, and John has to stop himself from punching Sherlock in the face in the hope that his brains get all mixed up and that he becomes the cold piece of brilliance who was a little too ticklish in his right knee and who kissed like he wanted to steal every breath from John and deny him a chance to live.
"All sorts, but because I went to the army, I was usually treating more injuries than germs."
"Hmm..." Sherlock stares into a distance infinite miles away from where John is sitting now, "What sort of person becomes a doctor only to go to the army? Why would a healer go to war?"
It's almost his breaking point, and John excuses himself to go to the lavatory. Sherlock shrugs and innocently allows him to.
Once the door is securely bolted behind him, once the world is against him, behind the barrier of the four walls, John tries to cry. Tears don't come to him. They simply blur his vision, but they don't make their descent down his cheeks. He looks at his watch. It is November the 21st, but the watch is still stuck on 21st August, 2014, choosing not to move on, like him, or like Sherlock, like a sickening iteration of days and routines over and over again, much like his life before Sherlock.
Why would a healer go to war?
Sherlock had been the first one to discover the answer. That it was imprinted deep in his bones, beneath the knotted, rising flesh of his bullet wound, where the bone still holds the scrape marks, the shatter line, the physical memory of breaking and bleeding into foreign sand.
But now, it's just Sherlock remaining, not Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He has lost everything without even being conscious of it, and he's still laughing away like a child.
John puts on his most charming smile, and saunters comfortably out of the washroom. Sherlock is looking at him excitedly, tucking into his meal and talking with food in his mouth, and it is an altogether different scene to watch. He has never thought he would get to see it.
Their conversation carries and flows normally as it breaks the remaining pieces of John's broken heart to see Sherlock's brilliant mind lying waste like that, and for the first time, it feels like Sherlock is just as ordinary man.
Nothing like Sherlock Holmes, who could kiss to kill, but a different man who was afraid to open his mouth to him. Because when this Sherlock kisses him, it's still slow and experimental, but it's still sweet and honey-like with the toe-curling sensation as he tentatively wraps his arm around John's shoulders, as they stand in the rain and John's hands travel all over his back like he is a drowning man, but it's not the same. It's intuitive, and not with the single-minded intensity that Sherlock Holmes possessed.
Maybe because Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes were two different people.
Or maybe because John has changed. At this moment, anything is possible.
But one thing is certain. It is nothing like how Sherlock Holmes kissed John. But nevertheless, even if it hurts him, John kisses back, slowly plying his mouth open. Sherlock seems to hesitate, but then he opens his mouth against John's, touching his tongue with his tentatively, still experimenting as his grip on John becomes stronger. He doesn't taste of cigarette anymore. He tastes of nothingness and confusion and bewilderment and mint toothpaste.
John knows he's being wrong, that Sherlock doesn't want it. That he's uncomfortable. . . simply playing along.
But he can't help it. He can't.
Sherlock breaks away breathlessly, sounding like he's begging to John to continue this, this phase of novel joy and excitement and the new feelings in him.
"So. . . I'll see you. . . this evening?"
"Tomorrow."
Tomorrow?"
John only promises a hollow promise, knowing fully well that that tomorrow is never going to arrive.
"Yes."
"I stay upstairs," his face is expectant, "221B."
John restrains himself from revealing to him that he knows. But just to show Sherlock that he's going to remember it, he writes down the address on the paper. Sherlock's happiness seems to triple at that.
With a chaste goodbye kiss, he throws away the paper, and just stands near 221, waiting for a cab so that he can go home and mend his heart, only to have it broken the next day, over and over again.
He tries to cry, knowing that this way his tears would be run down by the rain, but they still don't come.
So... guess what's wrong with Sherlock?
Did you notice something wrong with the date that John gave him when Sherlock casually asked him?