DISCLAIMER: CHARACTERS ARE NOT MINE. PLOT IS.
A/N: WARNING: SLASH AHEAD
"You're honestly as normal as everyone else out there, worse than Anderson, even." It's like a verbal slap, or a metaphorical stab to the heart. Logically, John knows Sherlock's simply frustrated. The case is at a standstill, and John knows for a fact that he hasn't eaten or slept in at least 24 hours. Also, Anderson and Donovan seem to have suddenly taken up Sherlock-Insulting as if it is an Olympic Sport, rather than what passes as a hobby to them.
And yet.
Emotionally, John's vulnerable. John is ordinary, and dull, and an idiot. Whereas Sherlock is wonderful, and brilliant, and extraordinary. This brings up John's exact fear- why is Sherlock with him, if he is as dull-as normal-as everyone else? It's been nagging at the back of John's brain since they kissed after the Pool Incident. John knows this is just Sherlock lashing out at whatever's closest, but it still manages to bring back the agony in his psychosomatic limp. Clenching his teeth and inhaling slowly, John switches to soldier mode. Shoulders back, chin up, face expressionless, muscles tensed just slightly. Dismay and something else, something like confusion or alarm, is dawning on his friend's face.
"Right. Okay, then. I'll just be going out. Don't wait up. Try to eat something. Or sleep. Don't use too many nicotine patches, despite this being a three-patch problem, or maybe more like an eight-patch problem," he reminds his partner carefully, before descending the stairs. Even after that wretched comment, even as his heart breaks, John still cannot stop watching out for Sherlock.
That night, he walks aimlessly. No destination in mind. Just the need to keep moving.
(A still target is an easy target, Major!)
He's limping heavily, gaining glances of skittishness and pity from passerby. John's thoughts are-quiet. It worries him that the shake in his hand is back. More pronounced than even the Warehouse Kidnapping. Everything is more pronounced. In a way, though, John feels strangely ashamed of himself. He's making a real hash of things. For God's sake, he's certainly not a teenage girl pining over her ex. Sherlock had only lost his temper. They aren't even breaking up.
Possibly.
John shakes his head fiercely, making his way back to Baker Street. If he stayed up all night, he'd be in much worse condition the next day. Unsurprisingly, the steps pose a problem. Bloody Holmes brothers. Bloody addiction to danger. No doubt, the three together are what encouraged this sudden dramatic streak. And he used to have such a calm head about him.
It's a shame, really.
With a heavy sigh, John uses his right hand to show the CCTV camera following his movements a very rude gesture. It seems to give a sympathetic swirl.
'Oh, God, I've 'round the bend,' John despairs.
He makes his way into the apartment achingly slowly, the seventeen steps-Sherlock's counted-to the flat with misery. Rolling his eyes at himself-for God's sake, he invaded Afghanistan!-John makes his way up the stairs. He's only halfway up, when his leg gives out.
John staggers into the railing with a grunt edged with a whimper, and hears the sudden quiet, where Sherlock had been pacing frantically. Wincing, he forced himself to ignore the (false) pain and continue. Keep calm and carry on, as the saying goes.
When John enters the flat, he meets Sherlock's eyes. If Sherlock really had seen the light, well, John won't complain. Honestly, he's surprised Sherlock's lasted this long, tolerating him. If not, then John would apologize for over-reacting, see if he got an apology for the comment, and they'd move on. No need for hyperbole.
The smoke-grey eyes are unusually pained and filled with regret and hesitance. Ah. Okay, then. Obviously, Sherlock was trying to find a way to break up with him. Right. Squaring his shoulders, John inhales slowly.
"So, we set some boundaries, then? Or, if you'd rather, I can move out. You certainly can't leave-this was practically made for you. It's not much trouble, really. Would you like a cuppa?"
John's actually quite proud of himself. His voice barely wavered. He'll break down later, perhaps in the shower, where the water melds with his tears.
'This will be like ripping my heart out, and burying it in ice,' John thinks, thoughts true to his natural affinity to writing. Sherlock suddenly comes to life, following John into the kitchen.
"You've deduced that I'm no longer interested in continuing a relationship with you," Sherlock summarizes flatly. John winces. See-there's that lack of tact he'd shown Molly with Jim-from-IT-who-was-really-the-psychopath-Moriarty. Someone really ought to teach Sherlock about letting someone down easy. You could still hand out the truth and be kind about it. Not always, but sometimes…
"I hate it when you do that, you know that, right?" John mutters, eyes drifting shut as he leans against the fridge.
"Wrong." John opens one eye. What the hell?
"I think I'd know if I liked it or not, Sherlock," he sighs with exasperation. There isn't any fondness in his tone-THERE ISN'T.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, a familiar expression on his face. It's his 'You-are-extremely-dense-why-do-I-accept-your-company-again?' face. John stifles a snicker.
"I was being facetious," he reminds him. Sherlock rolls his eyes again.
"Your deduction was wrong. I'm…sorry," he says stiffly. John blinks, and wonders when the last time was that his lover apologized.
"You're…sorry? For what? Deducing what I've deduced?" he asks, feeling unusually slow. He blames it on the pain located right by his fourth rib-his heart, actually. Sherlock stares at the ceiling for a moment, with an all-suffering look on his face. John wants to laugh at the familiarity. His flatmate strides forward and pulls John into a brief, but passionate snog.
"Oh. Well. I'm glad. Thank you, I think," John says when they pull away. Sherlock looks awkward and apologetic.
"I-….I'm sorry," he chokes out, clearing his throat. John smiles widely, running his fingers through the wild curls. "I don't-Your face after I said that-It was Not Good. It…reminded me of what I felt when I thought you were Moriarty. Tonight, your face looked more haunted than when I first met you. I hurt you, all because you were closest. And then you didn't get mad. You just…accepted it. I…wanted to curl up and steadily decompose under my bed when you left, limping with that goddamned psychosomatic limp! So, I'm sorry, terribly sorry and I will probably do it again, but I'll try not to and you can-you can leave if that doesn't seem acceptable," Sherlock says quickly, looking suddenly like a small child. John opens and closes his mouth several times. Finally, he only manages to stutter,
"Did you just apologize? With more than one word? With an explanation? And emotions?" Sherlock sniffs, looking a little put-out.
"Yes, so I'd appreciate it if you could adequately respond, rather than just gape it me like a suffocating goldfish. It's quite unbecoming, if you didn't realize." John can't help it. He roars with laughter. They're both making a mountain out of a molehill now. It's fantastic, really. Without thinking, he pulls Sherlock back in for a kiss. Sherlock returns it with bruising abandon, as if trying to crawl into his chest. John returns the favor, pulling Sherlock flush against him and fingers tugging on the long-ish, dark locks. He nips Sherlock's lower lip, hard enough to draw blood.
'There, you wanker. That's for your comment earlier,' he almost giggles. Sherlock hisses, ducking his head to John's neck. A hickey is left before they draw away, knees trembling.
"Sherlock. I will never, ever leave unless you ask me to, or I die. I. Love. You," John says fiercely. Sherlock smiles widely, kissing John's nose before bounding into the other room.
"Love you, too!" he throws over his shoulder. That's when John gets the text.
Glad to know you and my brother made up. I do worry about him, you know. No matter. Will repay with coffee and a warm meal tomorrow, in exchange for more information about the argument? –Mycroft.
John grins fondly at the direction of his boyfriend. He wouldn't exchange anything about Sherlock for the world.
Piss off, Mycroft. –John Watson, MD
And then, John and Mycroft both receive a text.
Mycroft-Leave my boyfriend alone. He's mine…..But if you feel like locking Anderson and Donovan in a spider-infested closet for 24 hours, I won't disable any of the CCTV cameras around London anymore.- SH
Well, all's well that ends well, John Watson supposes.
Constructive criticism welcome, but no flames please. I think my Sherlock was an itty bit OOC, but I could be wrong. Your view?
Hope you liked it! =D