Tea for both of us
I knelt down next to the body. Bah… Really, I'll always miss Moriarty's phenomenal challenges. This is nothing, bleak. Piece of cake. Apple cake probably. Ate it this morning before going to school and being killed by a single blow to the head. Mother must have maid it, she'll be the woman crying at the other side of the police lines. Sorry miss, restricted. Crime investigation. But you'll be actively involved pretty soon.
Not sure what needs to be investigated. All was clear, now it's crystal. Will speak to mother now. If Lestrade lets me. I can hear him thinking, prepares himself to ask that one question. Every time the same bloody question. "So, what have you got?" Lestrades says standing next to me looking sad. Had a row with his wife apparently. Nothing to do with looking sad at the moment, though. Little unknown boy dead. Sentiment, strange thing. Little boys constantly die. This one just happen to die with our knowing. I sign, stand up. "Let me speak to the mother." –"With your ways of questioning? Please, Sherlock, the woman's in shock. " – "I'll go to her now, or you'll be solving this one alone." Lestrade frowned and nodded. Good boy. John also stood up next to me after taking a look at the body. "Sherlock, the child, he had-" In interrupting, I don't face him, for I would be smirking at his statement. –"I know John, that's why I want to talk to her first". I pointed at the mother and walked straight towards her. John followed me. He always does.
Strange though, the kind of thing I feel when I know he has seen something I would notice but normal people wouldn't. Warm glow in my chest. I guess I'm proud. Found myself an intelligent friend. He too must have maid the connection by now. This time I really couldn't help smirking at that thought. Better keep it in. That does take effort. The woman sees me approaching now. Runs at me. "Oh God, what happened to my boy!" Sob sob sob. "Who did this to him?" Her voice sounded raw now. I rolled my eyes. - "Would you please stop the theatre and tell me where you hid it." Her eyes flew open in disbelieve. –"Wha-," the woman uttered. I could see a sparkle in those grey eyes. So she also loves challenges, danger. Yes, she probably was a good fit for the man. She loved him more than her own son. Proof is lying on the ground in a pile of blood. Suddenly, I felt an arm pulling me away from her. "Sherlock! Really, Mrs Greendale just lost her son, you could be a bit more considerate," pleaded John as he continued to drag me away. I freed myself from his grip. How could he not see? Just then, he saw the bruises. It was so obvious. I looked in his eyes. Confusion, disappointment. Idiot. "John. Shut up." I turned away before I could see his facial expressions change. He'll understand in a second. Didn't want to cope with a roommate row now. More pressing problems to solve. Trivial, yes, but still, more pressing.
"So, where?" I asked her again. She came closer. Hair dyed. Bruise on the right side of her neck. Barely there, but still. "I won't tell," she whispered. - "Oh, have it your way." Let's see. It must have happened only an hour ago. They live in the neighbourhood. Boy walked to school. Low rent houses only couple of blocks away. Lover must have gone out, followed boy. Grabbed him into this dark street. Lowers blunt instrument, probably pipe he took at home. Boom. Bam. She followed him, sees her boy on the ground. Yells perhaps. No. No. Wrong. Just stares at him. Maybe even smiles, to tell him it's ok. She's fine with it, because she loves the pain. Because she loves him. Offers help, takes pipe. Now what did she do with it. She's stupid. She would have stood there. Now what was in her eyesight. The skip. Easy-peasy. I run towards it, take the handle and open it. Well, moderately stupid. She had the decency to burry it a bit under the garbage. I search for it, pull it out – of course there's still blood on it - and stick it in the air triumphantly. "Found it!". Lestrade approaches, his face twitched, as if I did something inappropriate. "You can arrest her now". –"Arrest who?" "The mother, didn't you hear me back then?" –"What for?" Argh, I still crave for the day to be able to talk to people the way I talk to myself. Without words. "She saw her boyfriend murder her son and hid the weapon to protect him." I wave the pipe in front of his face. More explanation perhaps? "Look, the boy's blood is sticking on it. You'll find both their fingerprints on it." I was missing something. A "Fantastic", or perhaps even a "Brilliant". Where was it? I looked around. Where was John? There. He was still standing at the place I left him. Meanwhile Lestrade was muttering something unimportant. John was looking at me, noticed I was staring back and turned to leave. I had upset him.
"Sherlock, you alright?" Lestrade asked. "As I was saying, how did you get all that from one look?"
-"I don't feel like stating the obvious right now. If you will excuse me. You can interrogate Mrs Greendale. She'll be happy to play the victim of this apple pie incident." I turned away to follow John. I heard Lestrade shouting "Apple pie what?" I grinned. It'll take him ages to find the connection. Good. Let his brain work a bit. Unless the woman immediately told. That would be dull. Now, where did John go? Must have taken a cap home. Was he upset for me being rude? I had the right to do so. Probably will not make tea for both of us. But I don't need his commentary as to what a great job I did, do I? Am I really that dependant? Absurd. But still, my mind had been expecting those praises. Ah, a cap. Off to Backerstreet then.
John wasn't in our living room. I heard stumbles upstairs. He was in his room. I knocked on his door. Heard him held his breath and release it loudly. "What do you want, Sherlock." I went inside. I had given him his privacy by knocking. He was packing, thoroughly. Obviously not for a holiday. For good. He wanted away then. Surely, what I said couldn't be that bad. "John. Why?" –"Why what, Sherlock." He stopped mid-packing, looked at me with his blue-and-green shirt in his hand. He looks good in that shirt. "Well, it's obvious that you're leaving me. So why?" I scanned his eyes for an answer. Nothing good. Mouth wrinkled. Annoyed, tired, again disappointed. He frowned and stared to the ground. "Yes you would find that obvious, wouldn't you." It came out as a mere whisper. Then he looked up. "So why don't you use those deducting skills of yours and find it out yourself. On your own. Like you always do," he shouted. He closed his luggage, picked it up and started to head to the door. John tossed the shirt on the ground and walked past me . I picked it up immediately - couldn't stand the sight of it being wrinkled - turned around and grabbed his wrist. "John". I looked at him. He seemed to be in pain. No wounds, so emotional pain. Not my area. But still, I can't afford to lose him to this trivial dispute. Why not? Hmm, good question. No John would mean being alone. Alone has always been fine, yes, but that was before John. Now I'll be lonely. Those days after my faked death were terrible. It took me three weeks to trace all of Moriarty's henchmen. I knew I hurt him then and therefore wanted him to know I was safe. Space felt empty without him. No, he must definitely stay.
"Let go, Sherlock, or I'll force you." Oh, he would. His voice sounded low and certain. But I will not let go. Never. " I quickly placed his shirt on the bed. John, I know I was a bit rude, but since when did you decide to take off for such a thing?" He shook his head, made a strong movement with his hand and freed himself. "This isn't going to work," he signed. "What? You need me, John, I know you do. You were a wrack after Moriarty." John turned in the doorway. His hair grew brighter in the sunlight. His eyes darkened. "It's always been about you. That's just all that matters, isn't it? Well I was a wrack indeed. Of course you're right. But now I'll be fine thank you very much." He started walking again. He meant it. Shit. What kind of scene was this. "You can't leave." –"Of course I can, I told you, I had enough". "I need you, John". There I had said it. And it was true. I knew John heard it, the truth in it, because he turned once again.
"Bullocks". -"No, John, I need you." –"Why?" "Oh, don't ask that, I don't know why." John snorted. "You don't need me. You just need a house and someone to pet your ego. You realise what you did to me by faking your death, didn't you? Hmm, of course, you noticed my limp, my sleep deprivation, my weight loss. Those led to an easy deduction, right? I need the trill of the hunt. Or at least according to your thoughts." So he didn't need the hunt? What did he mean by that? Probably something emotional, between friends. Need to study that behaviour more. Some knowledge about the topic would have come in handy now. "But, Sherlock, you came back, which was great. I came home, thought I had started to hallucinate, because I heard your violin. The music sounded just like you". –"Not Bach," I stated. "What?" –"You asked me what it was, a couple of days later, you guessed it was Bach." –"Hu? Ok then, whatever… So I started to run, saw you playing in the living room. Just like you did before… before your suicide. And I was so happy. But you just turned around, smirked, and continued to play. Like that violin was more important than me. Like you missed it more than me. Like it would be obvious that I was still there. You know I went away to calm down then." He said my music was more important? But I played it for him. Didn't he notice how much effort I had put into the delivery, into producing the perfect melody? For him. To fill up the emptiness. –"I thought you went out for milk," was all I could reply. – "Yes, I brought some back, didn't I. The thing is, Sherlock, nothing has changed. I really don't know what I'm doing at your side. You don't even notice I'm there. I think I have to find some meaning to my life." He looked into my eyes. I was scanning him. He noticed and frowned. So I locked my eyes onto his. He breathed in. "Ok well.." He started to head for the stairs.
He really was going now. What. to. do. Shit, I wasn't good at this. Emotions. It hurt. It always did. Maybe I should do what I always wanted. Just go with it. He'll leave anyway. So I ran to him. Grabbed him from behind, waved my arms around him and squeezed him into me. His hair smelled of coconut and John, which made me smile into his neck. "I. need. You," I slowly stated. John stiffened. His luggage still in his right hand. "No, you don't Sherlock," he signed. I buried me nose deeper in his neck. Being this close to him was… Indescribable. It felt like being sick, but in a good way. Still, it felt dangerous, like I was vulnerable. I need the trill of the hunt. Oh… Us knows us. I see. "John, I understand." –"What, Sherlock." I loosened my grip. Not much. He turned, his face being inches away from mine. –"What you said before, I do understand." His eyes lightened up, a bit. –"Why?" he asked. This was important. I knew what to say. But somehow, I found it hard. Words usually don't disturb me. But right now I was terrified. God, if he left, I could just commit suicide. For real this time.
"I know now." John smiled a bit, but looked so uncertain. As if he knew he was hoping against all odds that I was thinking he thought I was never capable of thinking. My stomach twitched again. It was getting worse. I wanted him to be happy. I let go of him, just a bit, and grabbed his hands, letting his luggage fall on the ground. He gasped at the touch. I intertwined our fingers. A blush was spreading on his face. He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Feeling extremely happy and sick at the same time. God, this was like a kind of drug. Need words, find them. "I… I need you because you belong to me. Not for my ego, which is really not as enormous as you think. I'm egotistical, yes, but not selfish. I need you as my partner, my equal in not being equal but in fulfilling me. Because that is what you do. Every day..." He started to look at my shoes. Those were nicely polished, yes, but hardly interesting matter at the time being. I place my right hand on his chin and made him look up. "John, how dare you think you could be missed. That music? Not Bach? Indeed it wasn't. I made it. For you. I thought about the melody while killing Moriarty's men. It kind of filled the emptiness you left. I wanted to play it as perfectly as possible. For you. I'm sorry, I know I'm sometimes incomprehensible. Or most of the time. But please, I can learn. For you." His eyes sparkled and his mouth was open, yet he didn't seem able to say a word.
I wanted to kiss him. I could feel the urge. Strange. Never felt it. I was frightened. But I needed to do it. It felt like I would explode if I didn't. I placed my forehead against his. A barrier to settle my emotions. We both signed. "Sherlock…" –"Sshh, let me think." I wasn't really thinking. My vision was blurred by these feelings I was going through. He made our noses touch. Better make the aching stop. I leaned forward, my lips touched his. Tingling feeling. Electric. Made me and him shiver. I smiled. He smiled too. I continued and kissed him. Gently. I really didn't know what I was doing. But it felt right. For him too. At least that was something I could deduce from his glowing face. His eyes were still shut. "John." I cupped his face. I needed him to look at me. Blue ones on mine. I prepared myself. Breathed one more time because elsewise I would rattle those words all at once. I didn't want that. I needed it to be slow and clear. "I think I love you." John's mouth crinkled. He waited a bit before replying. –"I'm not gay," he laughed back. "Hmm, me neither. I only seem able to look at you that way. Not any other man, or even woman. You triggered something." -"Look at me that way? Do you feel it, Sherlock. Here?" John placed his right hand on my chest, directly over my heart. It pounded furiously at this gesture. He continued to look at my face, scanning me. Like I always do. His face showing uncertainty. He really thought I was incapable. Well, nothing wrong with that assumption, for I also thought the similar thing before John arrived. But seeing my reaction to his touch, his face lit up. He knew now.
"It aches, John. It aches so much." –"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" He signed and smirked. He got close, until we were nose to nose again. I could hardly resist kissing him for the second time, but at the same time I was afraid. What was I doing? It would only complicate our relationship. But then again, from the beginning, we were heading towards this … situation, weren't we? "It's alright, Sherlock." I kept staring at the ground, our shoes, feeling his whisper on my skin. "No need to be anxious. I had no idea you could reciprocate, as mates I thought back then. But, indeed, it's love, isn't it." I looked up at him, creating a bit more space between us. "Must have been all the time. But, we'll make the aching go away now." I scanned his eyes. "You will stay?" John grinned. "Daft man, I'll always stay. I don't mind your experiments, your blunt rudeness, your madness. I love all of it. Because I. love. You." He made the latter extra clear by pressing his hand deeper onto my chest at each word. I couldn't help grinning back. "Good." I nodded. "Right then. I'm quite new to this, so –" John crashed his lips onto mine. Heaven. Silent blankness in my mind. At last some peace and quiet. He stopped. I grumbled in disagreement. He took my shoulders and pulled me away. "First, I want to hear our melody." I laughed. He did understand me quite well. I walked towards the window and grabbed my violin. Before I started I turned around and gave him my most honest smile. I recalled the notes, pulled my bow across the strings and lost myself in playing. Only this time he was there next to me. We closed our eyes and found each other as we were both lost in the melody.