Authors Note:
Hi guys! Hope you enjoy this story of curious Sherlock and secretive John. I'm hoping to have about 1-2 more chapters written. Thoughts?
I'd like to thank timenspace who read over this story for me. She is a wonderful author, so make sure to go check out some of her stories when you get the chance!
I also want to thank KatheeHDS for making me laugh my pants off at her review to Special Day.
Thank you both for being so supportive!
And thank you to everyone else for reading and reviewing!
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Chapter 1
"Tea?" John asked as he made his way into the living room. The rays of the morning sun crept in through the messily closed blinds. He knew the answer of course was going to simply be no, but his asking had become like a habit. Sherlock was sprawled out across the couch with his fingertips resting on his chin, staring at the ceiling. His violin was packed away in its case in the corner with no obvious signs that he had been playing last night. Of course, that would have meant John would have heard him playing, even though he had become accustomed to the late night screeching, that it was possible John might have just slept through it all.
There was no answer from Sherlock. He didn't even shake his head; he just continued to stare at the ceiling.
"Been there all night?" John asked, walking leisurely into the kitchen and putting on the kettle. Again there was no answer from Sherlock. John sighed and got the milk out of the fridge.
Great, he thought bitterly as he poured the last of the milk from its carton. He added that to his mental checklist of chores he had to get done today. He finished making his tea and carefully carried it over to his chair, picking his book off the table.
John had hardly made a dent in his book since he had bought it over a month ago. He tried to read a page here and there every so often, but the Lord knows that John hardly had enough time for that because he always had something more important to do, like go gallivanting down the busy streets of London solving murders with his flat mate.
John took a sip of his tea and placed it down on the table, turning the page in his book.
His eyes skimmed over the words, but he was starting to realize how virtually uninterested he was. His eyes kept glancing up to look at Sherlock's still figure lying silently on the couch, and then they'd dart back down as if afraid he might start staring too long.
The room was just too damned quiet. John doubted for a moment that Sherlock even knew he was in the room.
As if on cue, the detective spoke.
"You're staring, John," his voice said, breaking the silence that enclosed the living room.
John's eyes opened wider for a split second and he glanced down at his book, realizing that he had started to stare at Sherlock's near lifeless body for well over a minute.
John stood up abruptly, trading his book for his tea and walking towards the kitchen. Colour rose to his cheeks.
"Yes, um, sorry. So what have you been sitting there thinking about?" he asked, taking advantage of the fact Sherlock was probably still listening to change the subject.
"Just... Things," Sherlock replied, in a careless voice that seemed a little out of place for some reason, but John wasn't sure why.
"Things?" he asked, losing appetite for his tea, dumping it into the sink.
Sherlock didn't reply, he just slowly nodded and got up off the couch, his silk blue robe swaying with his body as he easily regained his balance.
His eyes darted around the room and finally he came to focus on John.
"You went to bed an hour later than usual last night, John," Sherlock stated, stretching his back.
John rolled his eyes. "And? You didn't sleep last night did you." It was more of a statement than a question.
"You're a man of habit, John. Unless there is some urgent reason for you to be out late you are almost always asleep at the same time every night. But last night you were on your computer up at least an hour later than usual. Why?"
John shrugged his shoulders and tried his best to look like he thought nothing of Sherlock's comments. "No reason. Am I not allowed to stay up late?"
Sherlock walked over to the window and opened the blinds, wincing from the obnoxiously bright light. "It's not so much as being allowed to, John. It's just that that isn't something you do. Besides, I couldn't concentrate with that constant hum of your computer."
"You could hear it from the couch?"
Sherlock ignored the question. "Its not just tonight though, it was the past few nights. On and off. And there were other noises, like you were moving some papers around or something. What have you been doing?" he said, spinning around to look at John again.
John held his breath for a moment, and then turned to rinse out his tea.
"Nothing," he replied nonchalantly.
"You're hiding something from me. I spent all night trying to figure it out," Sherlock said, his tone implying that he had no luck.
"Sherlock. I'm not hiding anything. I stayed up late last night because..." John paused. He couldn't tell Sherlock what he had been doing, but he had also failed to come up with a good lie.
"John. If you're going to come up with some excuse, please come up with something past 'because'."
"Sherlock. Not everything I do should be important to you! I was just on my computer late last night. Lost track of time. Please just forget about it," John told him, making his way out of the living room. He quickly opened the door to his bedroom and slipped in, closing it behind him.
He tried to his best to stay quiet as he picked up his laptop and a large scrapbook and shoved them in the bottom of his closet.
Too obvious, he thought. And looked for somewhere else to stash them. Somewhere Sherlock probably wouldn't look.
XXX
Sherlock's body faced the window onto Baker Street, but his eyes were closed. He strained his ears to hear the small scuffles coming from John's bedroom.
Closet, he thought. Blatantly obvious. How disappointing.
He was looking forward to the hunt for John's things, but now that he knew where they would be, it was hardly as fun. He'd expected more from John.
He took a place back on the couch, for lack of anything better to do, and continued thinking of what John could possibly be doing.
It was 15 minutes later when John emerged from his bedroom. He was wearing a thick sweater and had just combed his hair.
"Going to the store to get some milk," John said cautiously, watching Sherlock's expression.
Sherlock hummed in reply, his body going back to the state John had found him earlier that morning; hands on his chin, eyes on the ceiling.
John started out the living room door, but thought of something right before he left.
"Sherlock? Don't even think about going into my room."
Sherlock turned to look at John and nodded, a small grin at his lips. "John. Have you not come to trust me yet?" he said, hoping John would be satisfied.
Obviously he wasn't. Instead he just gave him a look and sighed, making his way down the stairs.
Sherlock waited until he heard the door closing shut behind John that he sprung up and made his way to John's bedroom.
Sherlock's hand gripped the doorknob and without a second thought he pushed it open. His eyes were scanning John's room. He had only been in there on occasion, just to grab something or to grab John himself - usually to extract him for a case or some such business.
However, he had not really taken the time to study the room. Usually John kept things tidy; he would notice if something was out of place. It smelled like John, or rather John smelled like it, but whichever it was, it didn't matter. It smelled good. Like John's black tea, a dash of cinnamon and the faintest smell of a cologne that was opened somewhere in the room, but not one John wore often. It was obviously a gift; John wouldn't have bought himself something so... Expensive. Sherlock had noticed it before, sometimes when John was going out on a date, but mostly when John and him went out to dinner together. He never made any mention of it, but that didn't mean he didn't appreciate it.
Sherlock took a step in experimentally. He felt odd entering the room. Everything was so... Ordinary... Yet it was all so interesting to him anyway, just because it was John's. Bedrooms, he realized, were one of the most sure-fire ways to figuring a person out. He knew his room was an amazingly close representation of who he was; it looked as though all of his knowledge had thrown itself at every available spot in the room to be used in some way - experiments, notes, books.
Sherlock could probably deduce almost anything he didn't know about John just by standing in his room and taking a look through his things.
But he couldn't. For the minute he had spent glancing around him, nothing new presented itself.
Sherlock knew almost everything about John, but he was far from understanding him, which is basically like knowing nothing. This intrigued him, but also frustrated him at times.
Sherlock turned himself towards John's closet. He guessed he had about half an hour to figure out what it was John had been up to the nights past.
Sherlock opened the door and knelt down, reaching for what he guessed was John's laptop.
Just a computer case; no computer.
Sherlock got up and turned around, his eyes searching even harder now. He knew that it was in there somewhere.
His next guess was the nightstand beside John's bed. The bed was made, but in a clumsy fashion, as though John had just thrown down his duvet across the mattress and not given it another thought. Also unusual. John usually took the time to tidy such things. He must have been in a hurry.
Sherlock pulled open the drawer to the bedside table but there was no computer. He checked under the bed, even under John's pillow, though it was very obvious it wasn't there.
Where was it?
Something that Sherlock hadn't noticed before caught his eye. One of John's dresser drawers was only half shut. There were socks caught in the side, and it all looked very out of place from the otherwise neat and tidy dresser. Sherlock hadn't noticed it previously since he had been expecting John to leave it somewhere obvious. Hadn't he learned enough about John by know to realize he was much too clever for that? Had John closed his drawer properly, it might have taken Sherlock longer to find the laptop. John obviously trusted Sherlock enough to assume he wouldn't go into his room, but hid it anyway, just for security sake, and then probably didn't give a second thought about it. There was a small twinge of guilt across his mind, resembling a light buzz in his ear that he brushed away.
He didn't have enough time to worry himself about what John might think. He had to know.
He crossed the room in a few shot steps and pulled the drawer open, causing a sock to fall on the ground in the process. Sherlock reached down and scooped it up, placing it back into the drawer. John's room was generally tidy apart from the closet, the bed, and the various papers and books he had lying around, so it was safe to assume that a sock on the floor wouldn't go unnoticed. Sherlock wasn't going to leave any traces of his being there.
The laptop was buried under some socks and boxers, and there seemed to be some sort of large book underneath it. There was a pair of scissors thrown carelessly into the pile of socks as well. He reached his hand in to pull out the laptop, assuming the rest was somewhat unimportant for now.
There was a faint noise from downstairs. A click of a key being turned in a lock, followed by murmurs and an opening door.
Sherlock froze and listened. It was John and Mrs. Hudson. He frantically looked at the clock. John wasn't expected home for another 15 minutes.
Sherlock took his hands off of the laptop, closed the drawer and examined the room, making sure everything was exactly the same as it had been before.
Had the door been open or shut? His mind was racing as he tried to remember.
Shut. It had definitely been shut.
He quietly closed the door and without hesitation made his way back to the couch. He lay back down, putting his hands to his chin.
Act normal, Sherlock thought.
John strolled into the living room holding two cartons of milk.
"Home so soon?" Sherlock asked him. He held his breath, thinking that he might have spoken earlier than usual.
John didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.
"I actually never left."
Sherlock didn't say anything.
"I was just at Speedy's the whole time. Mrs. Hudson had seen me walking by and waved me in, told me that she already picked us up some milk. I joined her for a coffee. Didn't even make it to the store," he said, smiling a little bit as he put the milk in the fridge and turned around to look at his flat mate, who hadn't seemed to have moved from that position since he had left. "Have you been sitting there the whole time?"
Sherlock glanced from the ceiling to John's face, and looked back up again without replying.
He suspected John would take that as a yes, which he did. Mostly. John shrugged. "I'm assuming you don't want lunch. I'm not hungry either. I'll be in my bedroom."
He walked over to his room, taking his coat off in the process and hanging it up on the coat rack.
You've been spending an awful lot of time in there, Sherlock almost heard himself say. Too risky. But then again, he hadn't done anything wrong. He'd walked into John's room. End of story.
He opened his mouth to speak, but John had already left.
Instead he just sat there staring at the ceiling.
Would he be betraying John's trust by looking at what it was John was doing?
He silently wondered to himself whether or not John had ever studied Sherlock's room before. He had been in numerous times to force Sherlock into sleeping, but had he seen what it was Sherlock had been doing?
If he had, Sherlock was positive he would have noticed a change in John, whether for better or worse. He assumed it would be the latter.
Sherlock heard the hum of a laptop coming from John's bedroom.
He closed his eyes for a moment, getting bored of studying the ceiling.