It had all started out as a confrontation from one friend to another, but John did not expect the turn of events, neither did the egotistic sociopath who now stood stolidly by his side.
The phone inside John Watson's pocket had rung at around noon on a Saturday. He had expected a call from Sherlock, one that would lead him to grit his teeth in annoyance as always. Despite the hesitation, he picked up as he stood on the corner of the street. It was cold that day; the wind had just begun to feel chilly as London welcomed winter into its doorstep. The snow had not yet fallen, but the air was sharp and icy as John breathed in to answer the call.
"Hello," he said, placing his hands in his pockets for warmth.
"John?" a woman had answered.
"Jenny? Oh, hi!" he replied, realizing who the woman was in surprise.
"So, I thought about your offer," she said, pausing to find the right words. "I'm free tomorrow night, so if you're free I'd love to go." She finished her response abruptly as she bit her lips in hopes of his reply.
There was a pause on the other line before John was able to realize what the woman had meant. He stood still facing a crowd cross the street, frozen for a moment's time unable to grasp what was going on.
"Oh uhm," he began, feeling the familiar pitter-patter of excitement in his heart, "yes of course! How does 9 o'clock sound? I can pick you up from your place." He said, and with that he held his breath. Another pause on the other side of the line and he began to pace around. Seconds felt like minutes as he blew on his hands to warm them – the cold air was gusting.
"Yes, that would be perfect," Jenny finally replied, a relieved smile replacing the anxiety on her face.
"I'll see you then," he said, before adding a "goodbye."
"Bye," she said, and with that, she hung up.
John placed his phone back in his pocket, and heaved a sigh of relief as he smiled. He needed a date after all this time, after all the hard work; he needed a break. With a smile on his face, he crossed the street. His phone buzzed yet again – a text this time.
"Your phone was busy, meet me at the flat. SH." It read.
"I'm on my way," he sent back. He sighed; he was on his way back home anyway.
The moment he arrived at 221b Baker Street, he began to feel the same hesitation to even enter the door. He did not know what was waiting behind it once again. He tried to prepare himself to face any antics Sherlock must be pulling off to solve the unsolvable, and despite that, he soon found himself inside the homey apartment. With a sigh, he took the flight of stairs.
He found Sherlock sitting inside the lab, absorbed in a peculiar experiment he was conducting. His partner did not take his eyes away from the microscope the moment he heard John enter the room, neither did he show any signs that he knew he was there at all.
"Sher-" John began.
"John, it's a good idea that you pack your bags now, we're going to Reading in an hour," Sherlock said, his eyes still stuck on the lenses in front of him. For a moment, he parted from the microscope, flicking his hand to look at the watch on his wrist. "Make that half an hour," he added, before digging into his research again.
John was left speechless, his mouth hanging open from the shock. He knew he had a bad feeling about today, a bad feeling about Sherlock. There was something in his bones that told him that he might just ruin another perfect weekend. Why was he even surprised? He asked himself, this was not the first time this happened; Lord knows he should be used to it by now. He sighed.
"How long are we going to be there for?" John asked, trying not to be perplexed by the circumstances.
"Oh, a good day or two," Sherlock replied, getting off his chair to walk into the living room.
"For what?" John said.
"Investigation on a victim found dead inside a lion's cage,"
John followed him with a bewildered look on his face, "what needs to be solved in that?"
"Asides from the chunks bitten off of him, body's sustained blunt trauma, and a stab wound to the chest," he replied, quickly taking a seat on the couch.
"I can't go," John quickly replied.
"Why's that?"
John hesitated to reply, "I have a date."
"Again?" Sherlock asked him, placing his hands together in front of his face, "cancel it."
"No," John retaliated, crossing his arms in front of his chest childishly.
"Who's it with this time?" Sherlock's eyebrow was raised in curiosity. He smiled at the excitement of another guessing game. "Somebody I know?"
"I don't know Sherlock,"
"Ah, it's that girl from the cafè isn't it? What was her name again, Jenny?" Sherlock said with the same cunning eyes, he knew he hit the nail right on the head.
"Yes, it's her," John had given up. "What do you need me for anyway, can't you just go alone just this one time." He was almost begging him.
Sherlock smiled and shot him glance almost as if he knew something. Though, it quickly disappeared once he stood, to be replaced by the peculiar excitement for another investigation. "If it pleases you John, yes of course," he said before getting his belongings.
Once again, John had not a word to say in reply. He saw Sherlock put his scarf on followed by his coat. It all happened quickly, but he couldn't say anything back. Was he trying to make him feel guilty? The smile on his flatmate's face was teasing him. Sherlock was almost out the door then when John spoke. "Thanks," that was all he said.
Sherlock looked back at him with a smile before disappearing out the door. Damn, now he felt guilty.
The sky was bleak the following day. It was even colder than it had been, and John had just left the flat. Mrs. Hudson had wished him good luck on his date as she began with a short story about one of her nephews. John had already forgotten what it was about, his mind was somewhere else.
The sun was slowly setting ahead of him, and it was only then did he realize that he had been wandering around aimlessly for quite a while. He had forgotten the girl's address. Embarrassed, he called Jenny to ask for directions, apologizing as he looked at the time. What was wrong with him today? He had asked himself.
His date happily gave him the directions, and with every step, John felt his head getting heavier, his chest tightening all the same. All of this though, he ignored once he saw Jenny waiting in front of her doorstep.
"I was scared you would get lost," she simply said as she took him by the arm.
He only nodded in reply with a smile. From there, they walked; he said not a word as the clicking of the woman's heels rang down the street.
The headache did not cease even when they reached the restaurant. He was lucky to get reservations; all the tables were almost full when they walked in the luxurious bistro. The bus boy seemed to be having a good day as he led them to their table. John pulled up the chair for his date, smiling as she said her thank you.
He kept his eyes on her as he went around to sit on the table, but as he did, the world around him spun. Quickly he took his seat, taking in a deep breath as he pressed tightly on his temples. He closed his eyes, as he felt his headache worsen with every pulse.
"John," he heard.
He looked up, seeing Jenny holding the menu with a worried face. She moved in closer to reach for him, placing her hand on his arm. "Are you alright?" she asked.
"Mhm," he replied, trying to conjure up a smile. He was feeling light headed.
"You look pale," Jenny added, gesturing to call for a waiter.
He felt his breath get shallower, his body turning into lead. He saw Jenny talk to the waiter, saw her lips articulate to ask for a glass of water, but everything else was beginning to get out of focus. He placed the palm of his hand on his forehead, keeping his balance, and he felt it warm against his own skin. His breath was hot, his chest tightening, and soon enough, everything became black.
Something around John had prevented him from moving, something comforting enough that he did not want to part from his slumber. He groaned as he felt the wakefulness seeping in to his bones. His body felt way too heavy, his head still pounding in strife. The covers around him were warm, and he gripped tight on it as he held his eyes firmly shut.
He heard a creak coming from a door, and with that, he opened his eyes to see that he was home. He was lying in a bed that was not his own, though he knew exactly where he was. He sat up, realizing he was in Sherlock's bedroom, his head resting in his friend's bed. It felt more comfortable than his, but all he wanted was to go back to sleep.
He looked around in confusion, his mind still in a daze, but he soon took notice of the figure standing by the doorway - Sherlock.
"What am I doing here?" John asked in a slur, his head hurting as if he had just been hit with a frying pan.
He saw Sherlock walk closer to his right in a hurry; the lights were off, the shutters closed to mask away the moonlight. "Fever," Sherlock said, "and evidently a bad one with the state you're in."
"What happened to Jenny?" John asked, placing his hands over his face.
"Left after right when you fainted – didn't know how to deal with a man sprawled flat on the floor," Sherlock replied. "I told you to cancel it with her,"
John placed buried his face into his hands, exalting a deep and frustrated sigh. He looked at Sherlock for a second, licking his lips as he fought off the drowsiness.
"Can you please not tell me what to do Sherlock?" he said in annoyance.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, crossing his arms at John's response. He saw John waver for a bit as he yawned, but his answer did not bother him a single bit. He couldn't utter a reply though; he was at a loss for words.
"If you'd stop dating the wrong women, I'd stop telling you what to do," Sherlock said, but John had not seemed to hear it.
"Why am I in your room?" John tried to stand then, almost falling out of the bed in Sherlock's comfortable sheets. He still felt the dizziness upon him like a plague, but he scrambled to get up.
Sherlock stood still moving not an inch as John stood beside him, but his friend was looking towards the door, determined to get out. "EMT's brought you here, told Mrs. Hudson that you should rest it off," he said to him. But yet again, his voice had not seemed to reach John.
Sherlock was still in his coat despite how hot it was inside the house. He had just rushed over back home after Mrs. Hudson's call. And there he stood next to John in worry. His friend said not a word in reassurance; he wanted to make sure he was okay.
"You should really go back to bed," Sherlock said.
John stood still, staring distantly towards the closed door behind Sherlock. The polo shirt he wore was crumpled, the buttons undone to reveal the bleached white undershirt he recently bought. His jeans were hiked up and uneven to reveal his socks. Untidy and ill, he truly looked - his hair a mess from fidgeting too much in his sleep.
"I'll give Jenny a call, tell her I'm sorry," John said in a whisper.
"You don't need to John, she left you there without saying a word,"
"Please again Sherlock, don't tell me what to do,"
"She doesn't deserve your apology John,"
"I'll do what I want," John said, and at that moment, he felt the bed again against his back – the soft, thick sheets breaking his fall. He felt a weight above him, Sherlock holding him by the collar.
"I didn't go back here for nothing John," Sherlock said, saying calmly to his friend, whose face was just a few inches away from his own.
Sherlock's weight on him was heavy, his waist locked in between the aggressor's legs. He's been in this situation before, he was going to get hit, and he just knew it. He did not have the strength to push Sherlock off; he was far too tired to even move.
"I was so close to closing the case, so close," Sherlock said, and John soon saw his friend's free hand tightening into a fist, his left hand still almost choking him by his collar.
He kept his eye on Sherlock, and he breathed heavily, taking in a deep breath to try and fight his friend off, but to no avail, he looked directly into his eyes. Are you really going to do this,he thought to himself, hoping to convey Sherlock the message as he looked up above towards him. After all, even Sherlock would not be crazy enough to beat up a sick man.
He saw Sherlock's fist loosen, felt the tightness at the nape of his neck disappear together with the rage in Sherlock's eyes. His friend stood then, calmly climbing off of him. He stayed there lying on the bed for a while, regaining his breath, but at the same time, he thought, and understood. He was at a loss though; Sherlock had abandoned a case because he worried for him?
John sighed, confused with the circumstances. He never would have imagined this to happen, and with that thought, he sat up, and looked towards Sherlock – his friend's face in disdain.
"You missed a case just because of me," John said, looking Sherlock straight into the eye. He had not intended for it to be a question for he knew. It was reassured with Sherlock's reaction though. It was hidden quite well, but John was able to see it in his friend's face – the childish embarrassment as Sherlock's eyes cast towards the side of the room.
John stood then once again, slowly walking towards his friend. All the way on his toes he went, placing a hand on Sherlock's cheek as he moved his friend's face to mirror his directly. He saw Sherlock's rich, sharp eyes – eyes that knew how to keep a glance, keen eyes they were, knowledgeable too, but they were confused as soon as John leaned in closer to place a kiss on Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock did not break away from him. But when the kiss had ended quickly, disappointment rose from within for he wanted and expected more. Together with that, something grew from within him, a tumultuous veil that took over his sense - begged and tugged for him to keep on going, but above it all, the logic took control.
The moment John broke away from his friend, the moment his heels touched the ground once again, they studied each others eyes, each others lips. Both of them hesitated to dive in for another kiss (or more). Sherlock coughed, placing his balled hand in front of his lips as he looked away. John, too, also found himself looking towards the wall, placing his hands in his pockets and going on the tip of his toes again and again.
"You should get some rest John . . ." Sherlock said, walking towards the door.
"Mhm," John said, heading towards the bed quickly, oddly feeling a little better from the headache. He bit his lips, fidgeting from the racing thoughts as he stood next to the bed.
Sherlock stood halfway in between the doorstep. He looked at John before taking another step. He stuck his head in between the door placing his hands flat onto it. "Uhm, some research to do," he said, pointing down towards the kitchen.
"Uh, Uh huh," John responded, his hand on the pillows.
And with that, Sherlock shut the door behind him. John was able to hear him rush downstairs, but they soon made their way back up again. The door creaked and opened a tiny bit – "Goodnight," Sherlock said.
"Ehm, goodnight-" John said quietly, the response almost a whisper to himself. The footsteps once again rushed their way into the kitchen, and soon enough, he was able to hear the clatter of the Petri dishes, and the test tubes as Sherlock busied himself.
Both their hearts were racing, and the fever still lingered – not of one of illness, but of one that gives.