Sherlock Holmes lays in bed, pondering the intricacies of belonging to another person. It had been a very odd day – chasing a serial killer through a minefield of a house, getting shot, John being seriously injured, having a row outside in a thunderstorm. But the strangest of all was the conclusion which they had reached. Of course, John was right, it was only fair that if John was his, he was John's. It was slightly silly that it hadn't occurred to him before, and there was no person on earth he'd rather belong to. Or tolerate belonging to, as it happened. Still, it goes against his nature to allow anyone, even John, the smallest amount of a say in his life.
It always starts small, little concessions made to the happiness of others, family, friends, sexual partners, but soon they've got you on such a short leash you can't even figure out how to get away, and if you try you'll hurt them and it will be all your fault, never theirs, but John doesn't want him tame and safe like that, he said so…
John stirs next to him and he is instantly attentive. The blow from the fire iron had miraculously not shattered anything, but the soft tissue damage and bruising to his lower back is extensive, and John won't walk for at least a week, until the swelling goes down. John does not wake or cry out, and Sherlock relaxes, leaving a hand on his stomach so he can feel the slightest movement, the barest twitch of pain.
After such a day, how could he not do anything John asked of him? He wasn't asking so very much, really. All he wanted was for Sherlock to try not to die anytime soon. And it wasn't like Sherlock really wanted to die all that much, and now less than ever. Just, danger and excitement called to him, made things more tolerable, less boring. He sometimes didn't notice how close he was to death or permanent harm until it had passed.
Death is alluring, always has been, the final new thing, but even when he's bored he knows there's still things here to tempt him, and dying would mean leaving John, unless John came with him and that would be even worse, so he really should try to put it off as long as possible…
He knows John isn't trying to control him, to change him, to pen him up like an animal. He knows he's just trying to make sure they stay each others' for as long as possible. It's actually rather nice, feeling like there's no place he can go that is too distant to return from, that he can never be truly lost because he's John's and John will find him. He should feel trapped, suffocated, by all rights, but he doesn't. .
It's why he has objections to the concept of love. He hates being controlled. And not just by chemicals, but by one's own feelings, other people's feelings. When people love you, they try to obligate you with that love, try to hold you hostage with it, bind you in its silken chords, and when you love them you let them. That's the trouble with love – it's the ultimate excuse, impossible to argue with, the unassailable emotion, carte blanche for dictating someone's existence. Love is supposed to be the purest thing, but in his experience it never is, there is always something else, something more required.
Mummy had done this, well-meaning, adoring, wanting the best for him but entirely unable understand him, it had been an irresistible force, the one person he could never refuse but always failed anyway, then later his brother had done it too and that had been intolerable, and no one else had been permitted to love him since, at least not from up close, well, that wasn't quite true, but it had been so long ago and they had never actually said perhaps they never did…
Ownership is simpler. At least no one is pretending any noble feeling as an excuse, and if you belong to someone it's presumably because they want you as is. Terms can be negotiated rationally. How could possession offer more freedom than love? Perhaps it depended on who you were with. And mutual ownership somehow seems to him to mean more. You aren't pulled into it against your will, it's something you choose proudly, willingly. And it doesn't change with emotions or whims. It's constant and forever. Love rarely is.
John stirs again, tensing a bit either with pain or a bad dream, but it's too early for more medication. Sherlock wants to hold him, but knows any movement would only hurt him more. He settles for turning on his side, as close to John's body as possible without actually touching it beyond that single hand. He closes his eyes and drifts into a very light sleep, thinking how wonderful it is to not be in love with John Watson.
It takes some time for John to heal enough to do anything approaching casework beyond internet research from the bed, which he insists upon doing to keep from losing his mind to cabin fever. It's slow anyway, partially by design, as with John out of commission and Sherlock needing to look after him (plus still hobbling on a sprained ankle), all but the most urgent and fascinating cases are to be avoided. But not a lot interesting is coming in, and this trend continues once John is up and about. There's a minor one, just an afternoon's work, that involves a missing wife on the very day of her marriage. It's diverting enough for a short time, and offers no physical risk to either one of them.
But after that, there is nothing. For the first full day of idleness, Sherlock can entertain himself well enough. There's a test on poisons administered through the skin that he wants run, and he's finally collected all the substances he needs, as well as enough body parts to make it rigorous. Of course it would be more conclusive on living human tissue, but John points out that that would be wrong, even if one was standing ready with the antidote.
It's quite absorbing, not to make a pun, and keeps him occupied for that day and most of the next. John hovers more than usual, clearly alarmed by the presence of so many acutely toxic substances on the kitchen table but not wanting to discourage Sherlock from any healthy activity that prevents him to turning to drugs or anything more destructive in his boredom. Healthy being a relative term here meaning that at least Sherlock wears gloves.
He's not completely insane, and dying in his kitchen while doing a simple experiment would be the height of embarrassment, he can only imagine what Anderson would say…
"Don't you think there might be a better place to do that?" is as far as John will go.
"Not unless you let me turn your room into a laboratory, finally," Sherlock answers, glued to the microscope. But they have talked about this before. Even though John rarely sleeps there, he says he needs one corner of the flat that is just his, and guaranteed not to have had poison, body parts, blood, or narcotics in it. Sherlock also knows that John is wary of cluttering up his bedroom, realising that the spareness and strict order of it is as important to Sherlock's state of mind as the ability to perform medical experiments on the table, keep eyeballs in the microwave, and leave piles of papers and evidence about the flat. Sherlock is grateful for this, so he doesn't press the issue much.
He thinks he wouldn't mind a little more clutter if it was John's clutter, it's not like he's a slob, he's actually quite neat, but not in the regulated, precise way that Sherlock's obsessive compulsive nature presents in his personal space, leading to the sock index and the suits hung in exact order by colour and style and a very bad day if any of it gets muddled…
Day three leaves him with less compelling experiments, which he slogs through in a bad temper. Day four, John manages to distract him for most of the morning by refusing to allow him to get out of bed, and succeeds in tiring him out enough to tolerate the rest of the day, barely.
Day five… that's the one. His thoughts inevitably turn to the wonderful stimulation even a small amount of cocaine can provide. He never promised John he wouldn't do it again and John never actually asked him to, though it's obvious that's what he wants. He just asked him to think carefully about it, about them, before he took the risk.
John had also said as much as he hates it, please, please Sherlock if you really must at least don't do it when I'm not here, I couldn't handle coming home to that if you ever made a mistake, at least let me be there in case something happens, and Sherlock does promise this, but John's face when he sees him high is unbearable, even when he says nothing, so he might as well have promised never to do it again…
By the middle of the morning of the fifth day, Sherlock is jumping out of his skin, pacing, chain smoking so aggressively John doesn't dare to comment but just opens every window in the flat, breaking small items, and picking at the wallpaper until a visible bare patch appears above the couch. He's determined not to succumb, and he doesn't have any in the flat anyway, but dear God it's completely wretched, how can anyone stand to be this inactive, how can they survive without some kind of stimulation?
At 09:15 John puts down the paper he has been reading as he ignores Sherlock's tantrums, stands up, and says firmly, "That's it. Enough. We're going to play a game."
Sherlock is surprised enough to pause his manic wanderings. "We only have three board games and you've sworn never to play at least two of them with me ever again. That leaves Battleship, which you always lose."
"Yes, but at least you follow the rules. Anyway, not a board game. Get dressed and I'll show you."
A new game, one that does not need a board but does require clothes, he has no idea what this could be possibly be, unless it's sports which John should know better than to attempt with him, a single kick while trying to get him to play footie once had easily convinced John of the futility of that cause…
Intrigued, Sherlock obeys and follows John outside. John confiscates his phone and says, "All right. You're so proud of how well you know London, so I'm going to give you an address and we'll see who gets there first. Clock starts from when I say it, no GPS allowed for you. I get GPS because I'm not constantly bragging at how well I've memorized every street and alley."
"Hmm," Sherlock says, interested despite his inclination to remain in a sulk. "I suppose it doesn't hurt to hone my skills. But you're not supposed to run yet… am I to walk as well?"
"Nope, run all you like," John tells him. "I'll be in a taxi."
Oh, this is good. This is very, very good…
He hails one and climbs in, rolling down the window. "Ready? 15 Mitre Rd, Waterloo. Go!"
"But that's more than 4 kilometres as the crow flies, and across the river," Sherlock protests.
"Better run fast then," John calls back, as the taxi pulls out into traffic. Sherlock grins wolfishly, closes his eyes for just long enough to map the route in his head, as well as the one the taxi will take, and breaks into his full speed.
"Five out of seven is still very impressive," John tells him as they enter the flat.
"I must be out of practice," grumbles Sherlock, but without any real ill feeling. It had been a more than suitable distraction, innovative and very enjoyable, and he doesn't want John to think he's failed in his attempt. Even if, as Sherlock suspects, this was the human equivalent of taking one's destructive terrier on a run to tire him out before it completely devastates your home.
It wasn't better than the cocaine, nothing's better than cocaine but it did the trick if only temporarily and he's trying so very hard for John's sake, though John says he should try for his own sake but he can't bring himself to care about that half as much as he does about John's…
Sherlock is pleasantly exhausted, John had taken him in a wild zig-zag around the city. He'd travelled at least 18 kilometres on foot, and has actually worked up an appetite. John goes to assemble something for lunch and Sherlock checks his email, hoping for a case before the boredom ramps up again.
He spots a name in his inbox that he hasn't seen in years, and the accompanying email sketches a picture of what could be potentially be a very interesting case indeed. Even if it is in the country.
Actually, there's not enough information to tell whether the case is interesting, but the person asking for his help and the fact that it's after so many years is enough to make him more than curious…
"John," he calls. "Get packed. We're going north."