Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its fabulous characters.
A/N: So, it's been a while! Life has just been so hectic lately that I've barely had the chance to get my hands on a keyboard, let alone write out a whole new story. In the past few months I discovered BBC's "Sherlock", thought it was absolutely amazing, and then proceeded to become completely obsessed. One particular aspect of the fandom that caught my eye was, understandably, the match-made-in-heaven couple, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I simply could not resist writing a fanfic for them.
Anyway: Here is the first part of the story. Part 2 will be posted within at least the next two weeks, depending on how much free time I have between now and then. Being that this is my first non-Harry potter fan fiction, I'm a bit nervous about how it will be received, so feedback and criticism would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy!
Sherlock knew from the moment he entered the room that something about this man was different; something in his clothes, his stance, his gait; the way he stood tall and proud like a soldier but radiated soft, unyielding compassion like a doctor. He only vaguely registered that Mike had brought him here as a potential flat mate, because his mind was too preoccupied with deducing all of the complexities and intricacies of the man called John Watson. It was immediately apparent that wherever he'd served – Afghanistan or Iraq – he had not left willingly; clearly an injury and judging by the self conscious way he continued to rub his left shoulder, a bullet wound. An ugly one at that; something he would only allow the most trusted people to see.
(Midway through deducing Sherlock's mind halted because he found himself with the irrational desire to be one of those people and see the wound, and that was such a ridiculous thought that it took him a second to recollect himself and continue)
His phone was obviously a gift from a family member – "Harry" was engraved in its case, so clearly a brother – but all was not well between them, otherwise why would he be searching for a flat mate when he had a perfectly well sibling to offer dwelling arrangements? Ah. His brother was an alcoholic, then; that much was evident from the fumbled scratches on the phone's charging outlet. As for character, John was a typical, charismatic, easy-going bloke that laughed when jokes weren't funny to save someone the embarrassment and pretended all was well to spare a mate the trouble. He was the kind to remember birthdays and charm a girl's parents and fondly ruffle a small child's hair. He should have been boring to Sherlock because of all his normality. He should've become an irrelevant bundle of facts once the deductions had been made, much like the others had, but something made Sherlock pause.
Right beneath the surface, directly underneath John's polite smiles and steady stride, there was a spark of something familiar; something Sherlock had seen in his own eyes and seldom in any one else's.
The love of danger.
It was the addiction to the intoxicating rush of chasing criminals down dark alleyways or, in John's case, dressing a possibly fatal wound in the middle of a warzone with limited supplies and finite time and hands that had to be steady otherwise those feeble stitches would tear. It was the craving for piecing together clues to solve the puzzles to find the criminal and emerge victorious or saving someone's life in a world shrouded in death and feeling as if, for that one moment, it would all be worth it just to see this young man live.
Now that he knew what to look for, he could practically feel it radiating from John's skin. The want for danger, the need for the chase; the lust for excitement. And dull, insipid citizen life had none of those things that John craved; Sherlock knew the feeling all too well. This specific brand of restlessness created a busy, electric hum that vibrated in the nerves and reverberated throughout the mind as a result of inactivity. It was the same unrest that Sherlock felt when there were no cases, no murders, nothing to solve or fix or find or busy himself with.
John's hands shook but it was not from anxiety or trauma – as he knew John's therapist had diagnosed – it was from longing. He missed the war in all of its perilous allure.
In Sherlock's opinion that made him one of the most interesting men in London. (And his was the only opinion that really counted, anyway)
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He questioned, casually, as if inquiring about the store he'd purchased his shoes from.
John straightened and stared at him, head tilted slightly to the left in question. "Afghanistan. How'd you know that?"
And so Sherlock explained in a long stream of observations and conclusions, hardly stopping to take a breath and not even bothering to look at John while he did so. The entire time he remained hunched over his microscope, examining a slide of coagulated saliva. Once he'd finished, the room fell into silence and he found himself reluctant to look back up at John. Usually people glared at him, called him a freak or a stalker or worse, for reducing their lives to facts and coldly spoken data. Despite what he saw in John, he wasn't entirely certain he'd be any different from the others in this regard. As the seconds ticked by, it was becoming increasingly more likely that he would call him a nosy git and storm off, dashing any chance Sherlock had at getting a decent flat mate.
Damn. He really should have been more tactful. Of course John wouldn't want to be picked apart like that; he was a proud soldier after all and probably valued his privacy. Sherlock felt a deep, achingly familiar sense of dread shroud him, because any second now John was going to leave and all of his potential and interesting qualities would leave with him. Sherlock would, once again, be alone with Mycroft and the goldfish.
He finally dared to glance up, fully prepared to form a stiff apology and goodbye, but he saw something so unexpected that his mind was wiped entirely blank and the words died on his lips.
John was smiling.
"That was…amazing. That was bloody brilliant," John said at last, voice filled unabashedly with awe. He grinned and gripped the edge of the counter as if the sheer force of Sherlockian wonder made it difficult to remain steady.
Sherlock's pale eyes immediately searched John's for any semblance of dishonesty or sarcasm. But, no, there was just…amazement. John maintained a dazzling smile under his scrutiny, eyes bright with interest and marvel, and Sherlock quickly decided that John meant what he said. He felt his face heat at the unexpected – and absolutely rare – appreciation. He looked away, suddenly awkward.
"Was it?" He asked slowly, because a part of him still had doubts.
John smiled easily and nodded. He looked a bit bewildered, though, as if the fact that Sherlock needed affirmation on this was ridiculous because it was so obvious. "Yes, of course it was,"
And at that, Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and the tension left his form.
Minutes later, Sherlock enigmatically made arrangements for them to look at a flat, knowing full well John would be intrigued enough to go despite the vague details, before officially introducing himself in such a lavish, melodramatic fashion that he was sure his name would be etched into John's memory as long as he lived.
The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. For some reason he even had the gall to wink.
Then he exited with a theatrical swish of his black coat and waited at 221b for John's inevitable arrival.
John Watson managed to change his mind that day, and he continues to do so from every moment onward. This frustrates Sherlock because he is rarely wrong; especially not about basic absolutions such as the fact that people are idiots. Yet, somehow, John proves him incorrect again and again, continuously shattering his previously unshakable views of the world.
People are basically selfish and cruel, which he quickly learned upon entering primary school and promptly being called freak. Yet John is the kindest, most selfless man he knows.
People despise him for his mind, for his intelligence and skill, and take every opportunity to attempt to bring him down. Yet John offers only praise and admiration when he displays his genius.
People always leave; they only stay as long as is convenient for them and then they go. Yet John has provided steadfast company at 221b and does not appear to want to leave any time soon. He is constant; he is dependable.
People are stupid and dull. Yet John is clever, albeit in a more subdued way than Sherlock. He is far more intelligent that Sherlock believes he is aware of, and there are moments when he sees John's own brand of genius shine through in the form of a shrewdly phrased question or seemingly pointless, but ultimately vital, observation.
John appears to be the loophole to everything he knows about people. As small, blonde speck within the fine print, if you will.
Sherlock prides himself on his vast knowledge and endless reserves of logic and reason. He relishes that he can hear a word like pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism and effortlessly explain that it is a medical condition in which one's blood contains normal levels of phosphorus and calcium. He finds comfort in the fact that he can name all of the bones in the human hand as easily as some might recite the alphabet; Distal phalange, proximal phalange, trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, ulna, etcetera. Give him a puzzle and he'll solve it in the time it takes you to raise an expectant brow. Tell him a handful of vague details and he'll piece together entire crime scenes. Spout a random word and he'll promptly define it.
Electroencephalograph: noun; an instrument for measuring the brain's electric impulses
Ichthyophthalmite: noun; a hydrous silicate of calcium and potassium relating to zeolites
His head is constantly swimming with information, facts, equations, theories, all swirling around in a whirlpool of endless thought. All sorts of knowledge, from the number of skin cells on the pad of one's thumb to the periodic table, bounce ceaselessly around inside his skull and he loves it.
There are 206 bones in the human body even though at birth there are 300. This is due to the fact that by the time the average person reaches adulthood many of the bones have fused together.
The chemical equation of cellular respiration is C6 H12 O6+6O2 6CO2+6H2O.
He takes all of those facts, all of that knowledge, and he holds them close like a treasure, like a shield, like a security blanket, because knowledge never fails him. Puzzles can always be solved and equations will always have an answer. He seeks and finds comfort in the steady absolution of facts. Everything has a definition, an unchanging, consistent meaning.
But, once again, John proves to be the exception to all of his neat, tidy logic.
Because the one thing he cannot define, the one thing that refuses to be neatly categorized and stowed away for later use, is John.
Yes, Sherlock knows exactly how many bones John has in his foot, the amount of blood that pulses through his entire body at any given moment, and the intricate, weaving map of veins and tendons and muscles that stretch across the expanse of his form like a red-and-blue lined road map. He knows when John went to bed judging by where the handle of his mug is facing in the morning and the current status of his dating life by the way he knots his shoelaces. He knows that John served as an army doctor in Afghanistan, has an estranged sister, prefers no sugar in his tea, possesses an ungodly amount of jumpers, despises talk shows, loves the thrill of the chase just as much as he, and staunchly refuses to cancel plans if he's promised that he will go. Sherlock knows all of this about John, so he should be able to construct a decent definition and just be done with it.
But the problem is John is always changing. Well, not changing so much as shifting: turning a certain way or saying a certain thing that adds yet anther layer to Sherlock's idea of him.
Some days he is every part doctor, when he scolds Sherlock for some careless experiment or another as he carefully blots at the resulting wound with a damp cloth, going on about why explosive chemicals and thin glass beakers ought not to be mixed. But if Sherlock winces because of either the peroxide or force of the blotting, John's eyes soften with concern and he stops to see if he's okay.
Other times, he is steadfastly loyal. When Donovan says something snide No one likes you, freak, John straightens, shoulders back and chin high like a man preparing for battle, and makes a point of clapping Sherlock's shoulder and starting a conversation with his focus undividedly on him as if to say I do; I like him. And as they walk away, engrossed in their subject because it's undoubtedly more interesting than Donovan's drivel, John makes sure to shoot an unpleasant look at her, just so she knows her opinions are not welcome.
When they run down the dark alleyways, splashing through black puddles and hopping haphazardly over rubbish bins, Sherlock sees a side of John that is reckless, adventurous, clever, quick-thinking, and hopelessly addicted to the rush of danger. When they stop chasing the man or running away from the man – whichever; they've done both equally often – and they are hunched over, hands on their knees, breathing hard into the night air, Sherlock steals a glance at John and finds his eyes glowing with delirious excitement that is so bright it's nearly blinding. His shining eyes are like the blue, smoldering center of a fire; unbearably bright and so alluring that he finds himself wanting to look deeper, step closer, reach in and grab whatever makes him look so radiant. Then John laughs sort of breathlessly as if to say I can't believe we're bloody at this again, a dazzling smile stretching his lips, and Sherlock quickly joins him because he can't believe it either.
Sherlock recalls the pool incident in which he held all three of their lives – Moriarty, John, himself – in his hands, or more specifically, in the gun that he had aimed at the semtex-laced jacket. He remembers John meeting his eyes and nodding once, slowly but certainly, silently telling him that he trusted Sherlock and whatever actions he needed to take. That John was a mixture of brave soldier and utterly trusting colleague and fearless man all wrapped into one.
And there's more; so much more. Every single day he spends with him, a new detail is added, more data surfaces, and yet another facet is added to the endlessly complex being that is John Hamish Watson.
(The middle name is an excellent example of unexpected information)
The fact that he cannot fully understand John frustrates him more than it should. Sherlock knows he is human – however reluctantly – and understands that as a human he cannot logically know everything. Regardless, that knowledge does nothing to quell the curiosity burning up his mind and eating through his thoughts.
Along with his inability to define John himself, he is also unable to define what they are as a pair. Colleagues? Yes, technically, but saying it that way makes them sound too unfamiliar with each other. Flat mates? Also true, but even worse than colleagues because it implies that their relationship is something born only from a mutual need for housing. Friends? Well…
The dilemma there is quite simply that Sherlock has never had a 'friend' and therefore has nothing to hold him and John in comparison to. He's seen others socialize with their 'friends' and from what he has observed and deduced, they are merely people that one enjoys being around sometimes and occasionally having a laugh with. He's heard Lestrade casually mention that he and Donovan are friends, and given that woman's generally unappealing nature, that makes Sherlock question the validity of such a label. He also knows Mrs. Hudson considers Martha Scott from down the street a friend, and yet she's always happy to gossip about the woman's troublesome teenage nephew and ridiculous cat-sweater collection.
'Friend' simply seems too meaningless a word to apply to John.
Sherlock realizes that his desire to define their relationship surpasses his desire to define John himself. He supposes he can live with never fully knowing his flat mate – its does make life rather exciting – but he what he can't live with is the giant question mark connecting both of their names in his mind palace. Because that signifies a lack of information, meaning the room in which John-related thoughts are designated is incomplete.
Sherlock cannot be satisfied with incompletion. So, he does what he does best and decides the only way to find out is by collecting data and drawing conclusions.
Sherlock walks down the morgue corridor brusquely, eyes trained keenly on the nervous looking woman holding a bag of toes at the end. As he gets closer, her cheeks visibly tint and her eyes fall to something on the floor.
"H-hello, Sherlock. I, er, I kept these at exactly negative eighteen degrees Celsius like you asked,"
He gracefully swipes the bag from her and drops it into his coat pocket without a second glance. "Thank you, Molly," He says, smoothly. "Actually there were two reasons why I came here to see you,"
Her eyes widen and a brief look of panic flickers across her face. "Oh, no, did you want the fingers too? Because I'm afraid those were accidentally thrown out by one of the doctors last weekend. I-I'm sure the dumpsters might still be in the lot, we could go check," She looks distressed and possibly on the verge of tears – or worse, an endless stream of apologetic babble – so he makes a point of cutting her off.
"No need to worry, Molly, I actually forgot about the fingers entirely," He hadn't forgotten about the fingers and in fact needs them for an upcoming experiment, but he doesn't want to upset Molly so he lies. He needs her in a good state of mind for what he is about to ask, anyway.
She seems shocked at his uncharacteristic display of consideration, but the relief on her face is palpable and her typical manner of shy happiness returns. "What did you need?"
"Well, it's a question, actually, that I'd like you to answer,"
"Okay, what do you need to know?" She asks, pleasantly. "I can go grab some of the medical records we have in the back, we've recently added a few new folders of diseases and their effects on the immune system, as well as several lab write-ups on this fantastic, recently discovered mold called-"
"Actually, Molly," He cuts in, "I was hoping to speak to you about your view on something personal,"
She raises a brow in surprise, because it is not often that he comes to her seeking advice on non-cadaver related subjects. "Er, okay, what do you want to know?"
He clears his throat awkwardly and suddenly becomes aware that they are alone in an empty hallway. He decides that he'd rather have this conversation without her attention undividedly on him, because what he is about to ask is bloody uncomfortable enough without those large, calf-like eyes staring at him.
"Would you mind if we had this conversation in the lab?" He asks pointedly. He needs a familiar setting, at least, given how unfamiliar everything else about this conversation will be. He is well aware the request is silly but feels nonetheless relieved that she doesn't comment on it. Instead she just smiles and nods like an eager puppy, immediately turning on her heel and beginning the short walk to the lab with a bounce in her step. In the back of his mind, he notes the dilatation of her pupils, increased color in her cheeks, and smile on her face and wonders what she thinks he wishes to discuss with her. She doesn't think he's going to…ask her out, right? For one horrifying moment he contemplates a scenario in which Molly is under such an impression and because of it, tries to do something horrid like hug him. Egad, or worse; kiss him.
He mentally groans and thinks that perhaps he shouldn't have told a very obviously infatuated Molly Hooper that he wished to speak of something personal and demand to continue the conversation in a relatively private room, after being uncharacteristically nice to her. Of course she would draw conclusions.
As he continues walking, he attempts to prepare an adequate statement of rejection.
When they reach the lab, Molly steps inside and flicks on the heavy switch by the door, flooding the room in clinical, bright light. She makes a beeline for a tray of Petri dishes filled with what appear to be several types of poisonous molds, already donning her customary goggles and gloves. She grins down at the tray and holds one of the dishes up to the light, examining the mold through its clear underside.
"You might want to take a look at these later, Sherlock," She says, eagerly, "We've just started growing them. They're rather uncomplicated in composition, but utterly deadly if mixed with certain chemicals, or exposed to certain temperatures,"
Sherlock has to bite down the urge to stride over, sweep the entire tray into his arms, and spend the rest of the afternoon examining and taking notes. He came here with a purpose; there is always time for experimenting with Chaetomium, Fusarium, and other such interesting types of mold.
After one last glance at the tray, Molly turns back to face him, eyes bright. "So what did you want to ask me, Sherlock?" She smiles dazzlingly, cheeks colored a deep, saturated pink.
He decides then that the best way to deal with this situation is to be as blunt and straight-forward as possible; he'll just come right out with it.
"Molly Hooper, what are John and I?"
She stops smiling immediately, her expression melting into confusion and surprise at his abrupt shift in subject. She is utterly blank for the moment it takes her brain to catch up and recognize the question.
"You…and John?" She asks, still puzzled.
"Yes, John and I. What are we?" He repeats, impatiently. Honestly, what is so complicated about this question?
"You want my opinion on this?"
No, I want the Queen's opinion. Of course I want yours; why else would I ask you?
"Yes," replies Sherlock, shortly.
She furrows her brow and considers the question for a long moment. After some time she finally meets his eyes again, looking somewhat amused.
"I think you two are friends, very close friends in fact. Is there any reason why you need to know this all of a sudden?"
He ignores the latter part of her response. "Molly, the qualifications of a 'friend' are very loose and very minimal. Why, the definition itself is so meaningless that I could say Anderson and I are bloody friends! It simply isn't the correct term; it is not enough,"
"So you're more than friends?"
"Yes, obviously," He snaps. How could she, for one minute, think that John Watson is worth no more than the meager title of 'friend'? It baffles him that the thought has even crossed her mind.
"Well, how about this: you tell me how you feel about John, what you think of him, and I'll tell you what you two are in more certain terms," She suggests, carefully.
He nods, appeased. This logical approach is certainly something he can abide by.
"I respect John, find him interesting and a worthy companion, consider him a good man, and enjoy his presence,"
Molly raises an amused eye brow. "But you're telling me that you're not friends?"
"No. The title is too inadequate,"
"Well," She says slowly, vainly attempting to work a smile from her mouth, "You've pretty much just described the definition of a friend, so yes; I reckon you and John are friends,"
"But…no. We aren't. We can't be. I mean, Molly, for god's sake, Anderson is someone's friend! How can John be put in the same category as Anderson?" He doesn't bother attempting to mask the blatant horror in his tone. John is, in no way, shape, or form, even slightly similar to Anderson, so they definitely should not be put under the same label, no matter how broad.
Molly's lips quirk and she shakes her head, seemingly endeared by his antics. He doesn't know what the hell is so humorous, because there is nothing remotely funny about Anderson and John being spoken in the same sentence, let alone grouped under a mutual title.
"Sherlock, 'friend' means something different to everyone. There is no blanket definition to it, because it changes depending on the context, the people involved, and their relationships. And besides, if you two aren't friends, then what else could you possibly be?"
He huffs impatiently. "And so we arrive back to my original question,"
Molly sighs and busies herself with removing her gloves. "Sherlock, why not just ask John yourself? I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you,"
Sherlock narrows his eyes at her currently bowed head and scowls. She's lucky that she's too preoccupied with those gloves to notice, because it's a rather fierce scowl. If Sherlock could just 'ask John' then why would he be here bothering with her at all? Obviously he can't, otherwise he would be speaking with John right this minute! Molly is intelligent but good lord she can be daft.
He's past the point of censoring himself, so he simply says out loud what he has just thought. Molly responds by looking bemused.
"And why can't you ask John?"
"Because, Molly, the information that I am collecting is for the strict purpose of filling his room in my mind palace and what occurs in my mind palace is no one's business, especially not his. Besides, people tend to lie or sugarcoat, anyway; if I asked him he might tell me something he doesn't actually believe, just to appease me. Not to mention the fact that my fixation on the subject might disturb him, in turn making him question his comfort at Baker Street and eventually prompting him to leave. And, obviously, I don't plan on allowing that to happen. This experiment is solely for my own purposes, so John does not need to know anything about it. I need solid, concrete information, which can only be achieved by garnering facts and observations and drawing a conclusion," He replies in one, terse breath.
For a moment her face is utterly blank, as it usually is after he extensively explains something in that deep, enunciated drawl of his. Then a large, ridiculous smile breaks across her face and she giggles into her hand. He stares at her with nearly comical confusion, completely thrown off by her response.
"What? What is funny?" He demands.
She shakes her head and grins at him once more. "Sherlock Holmes, do you realize how completely sweet you are being?" Her laughter is revived at the sight of his appalled expression. "You've just admitted to several rather endearing things. To start, you've disclosed that you have an entire room in your mind palace for John. As long as I've known you, I have never heard of a person taking up a corner – let alone a room – of your precious mental space, and yet you've known John for less than a year and he has already done so. Second, you've confessed that you need John's company, which isn't surprising as I already gathered as much, but for you to admit it? That's certainly impressive. And, lastly, this is honest-to-god the furthest you've ever delved into an experiment that wasn't crime-related; especially because this directly pertains to a person, something that has always managed to escape your interest," She smiles at him and raises an eyebrow. "If you two aren't friends, then I really, really do not know what else to call it,"
Molly has a point. His behavior is rather unusual when it comes to John – unusual in a positive way, he supposes – so it's only logical to draw the conclusion that the cause is something equally as odd. They are…friends. Hm. He rolls the word around in his mouth for a moment before speaking it out loud.
"Friends?" He tries, experimentally. It feels odd on his tongue.
She nods serenely and leans back against the counter. "Yes, friends. Although, er, if I didn't know better, I'd say…" She purposefully trails off and the conspiratorial smile returns, albeit a bit softer this time. "Well, judging by your blatant admiration of him alone, I'd say you have a crush on him, Sherlock,"
His eyes blow wide open and he finds himself at loss for words. A crush?
Molly manages to contain herself for an impressive ten seconds before dissolving into laughter, her eyes merry and bright. "I'm only kidding, Sherlock. No need to look as if you've seen a ghost,"
He merely blinks.
After a few moments, she sobers somewhat – the smile remains, though – and considers him, contemplatively. "Or at least I think I was kidding. Do you, Sherlock? Have a, er, crush on John, I mean?" She clears her throat awkwardly.
Well, he thinks to himself, if he had any preconceived ideas about how uncomfortable this conversation was going to become, then they've been greatly exceeded. He closes his eyes and wonders why they're talking about him hypothetically fancying John when there are so many other things they ought to be discussing and that he'd much rather prefer.
"John is not interested in men, Molly. If you couldn't tell as much from the endless parade of women going to and from the flat, then you're far more obtuse than I'd assumed," He snaps, impatiently.
He waits for the hurt to flash across her features, for her mouth to tighten and her eyes to dim in offense, but instead she just keeps staring at him as if she hadn't even heard the bite in his tone. She looks surprised, if anything.
"Sherlock," she begins, slowly, "You do realize that you didn't deny fancying John, right? You just said he wasn't interested. You said nothing about how you feel,"
He stops glaring at her and straightens. He mentally reviews his own words and realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that his knee-jerk response to Molly's accusation was not to deny its truth, but to point out the logical reasons why John would not be interested. His brow furrows and he feels himself sinking deeper into his mind palace to mull this over. For a moment of introspection he attempts to answer Molly's question in the privacy of his mind:
Does he fancy John?
He considers all of the ridiculous jumpers, perfectly brewed cups of tea, gentle smiles, conspiratorial glances, steady hands, bright eyes, loud, contagious laughter, and he decides that he certainly feels some form of affection and care for John. He knows that he'd rather die than allow John to be hurt, or even worse, taken away from him, and he is well aware that John is the only person whose company he truly enjoys. He recognizes the gentle warmth that blooms in his chest at John's smiles or awe-filled compliments, along with the deep, unshakable calm that engulfs him whenever John is within arm's reach. He acknowledges it, he really does.
The problem is this: where is the line drawn between romantic feelings and platonic feelings? Just because he lo- cares for John, does that mean he wants to be with him? Or is this how people typically feel in friendships? Sherlock wouldn't know, as he's never experienced either as long as he's been alive. It's ridiculous to think that a thirty-five year old man would have utterly no experience with love or friendship, but that is simply the way Sherlock is and because of it he is completely clueless.
He blinks once, twice, and refocuses on Molly who has been watching him uncertainly from her position near the counter, a look of concern coloring her features.
"Sherlock?" she questions carefully.
"I don't know, Molly. I don't think I fancy John, but then again, how can I be sure? I deeply care for him and I like him quite a lot, but does that mean I think of him romantically?" He furrows his brow in genuine frustration. He despises not knowing things and this particular subject has always been a difficult spot for him, something he endlessly struggles to wrap his mind around. Why do human emotions have to be so bloody complicated?
She bites her lip and looks reluctant, as if steeling herself to say something uncomfortable, before her features settle and she looks decisive. With a deep breath she asks, "Do you think of John sexually?"
He nearly jerks back at her completely uncharacteristic bluntness, only just managing to control the automatic response of flinching. "No, no of course not," he replies quickly and with complete certainty, "I mean, I've thought about maybe…maybe hugging John – I've done that once or twice and it wasn't bad – but I certainly am not harboring any kind of sexual frustration over him,"
"And kissing?"
He considers this for a moment. He and John, being the reckless, danger-hungry people they are, have gotten themselves in several very strange positions over the past year, most involving both high levels of adrenaline and rather close proximity; in other words, the perfect situation for a dramatic kiss. Sherlock recalls once being literally tied to John – some shoddy jewel thief that was promptly caught and convicted mere minutes after he'd haphazardly bound the two of them – their noses nearly touching and close enough to easily edge forward and close the inches between them with a kiss.
And yet they had not.
Why? Perhaps it was because John would not stop giggling like a bloody schoolgirl, since the situation was – once again – so utterly ridiculous and simultaneously dangerous that the only thing to do was laugh. He had been resolutely ignoring John's childish – but undeniably amusing – antics, instead staring at the shelf behind him where the thief had clearly left his poor excuse of a knife and thus their way out. He'd wasted no time in tricking the simpleton into retrieving it – honestly, though, where was the fun if the criminal was an idiot – then freeing them from their restraints. As the police had arrived and Sherlock was brushing off the lapel of his coat – the ropes had done some slight damage to the material, unfortunately – John had looked at him with an amazed, unabashedly adoring expression on his face and let out a small laugh of disbelief, as he usually did when Sherlock impressed him. Sherlock himself hardly considered their escape noteworthy, but since it always pleased him to see John like that, he didn't bother refuting the inevitable stream of praise that came next.
Later, on the cab ride home, when John had been going on about something or another (probably more exclamations about how great this would look on his blog), Sherlock had found himself feeling somewhat dazed and enthralled by the shining, bright look in John's eyes. They were like whirl pools – sparkling cerulean dotted by flecks of dark blue – and Sherlock felt as if he were being swallowed whole. It was strange, but he experienced the briefest urge to lean in and stop John's rapidly moving mouth with his own. It wasn't a sexual impulse – something fiery, passionate, or lustful – Sherlock had simply wanted to be closer to John. Even though they were already sitting a bit more intimately than usual – inches from being pressed together shoulder to thigh – he'd wanted to get even closer, even deeper and further, because John was so alive and brilliant and he was glowing and grinning and Sherlock desperately wanted to be a part of such unadulterated joy. Sherlock felt drawn to him in the same way a moth was attracted to a flame. Both John and fire were blindingly bright with an indefinable magnetism that beckoned the viewer closer, nearer, further, all in the hopes of absorbing even a fraction of their warmth.
Sherlock had wanted to touch that flame.
He'd wanted to thread his fingers through John's hair, flatten his palms over the excited rise and fall of his chest, brush fingertips down the bridge of his nose, run a thumb over the grinning swell of his bottom lip, grab the sides of his face and peer into his cloudless blue eyes and fall utterly into their depths. He'd wanted to wrap his arms around John and just hold him there tightly, his face buried inches deep into his shampoo-smelling hair, John's nose pressed unceremoniously into his collarbones. He wished that he could crawl inside John's head, behind his blue eyes, inside his bones, and within the red and blue crisscrosses of veins to discover what it would be like to be so loved and so brave and so bloody interesting.
Sherlock had never experienced such impulses before and felt rather shaken as the tide of unexpected emotion crashed and gradually ebbed away, while John, unaware, continued to speak happily of the case beside him. He'd been glad that John was still rather poor at deducing, otherwise his rigid posture and clenched fists would have been clear indicators of his inner turmoil.
"Sherlock," In the time he has spent reliving his memories and mulling over their meanings, Molly has crossed the room and placed a small hand on his arm. "You've been staring at empty air for about five minutes now, are you alright?"
He says nothing, only glances pointedly at her hand resting on his bicep. She looks startled and quickly retracts it, faint blush staining her cheeks. After a beat of recovery she says, "Okay, so obviously the subject of kissing hit a nerve," She pauses to consider the implications of why that is and the blush immediately returns with vengeance. "Oh…oh. So then you've…you…h-have you and John, er, kissed before, then?" Molly fumbles.
He rolls his eyes, about to complain about what a stupid question that is, but then bites it back under the recognition that it isn't a terribly unreasonable conclusion to draw.
"No, we have not." Sherlock responds, succinctly.
Except, well, that isn't exactly true.
There was one instance a few weeks ago in which he and John had been watching some awful show on telly and John had fallen asleep beside him on the sofa, despite his earlier insistence that the show was brilliant and "kept him on the edge of his seat". Sherlock glanced over at his soundly-sleeping flatmate and rolled his eyes, mentally begging to differ. After watching John sleep for a few minutes, his eyes flickering over every detail from the blonde hue of his eyelashes to the small crease of concentration that formed between his brows, Sherlock found himself feeling, once again, hopelessly curious. Sherlock carefully rose from his end of the couch, mindful not to disturb John, before walking around their coffee table and crouching down right beside John's peacefully slumbering form. His eyes darted across the tanned landscape of his flatmate's face, jumping from eyebrows to nose to ears to hair to…lips. With increasing interest he peered closer at John's mouth, somewhat thin and pink and rather pleasantly shaped. He thought back to all of the times he'd seen it curve into a smile or smirk, or even an angry pout, and he felt a strange surge of affection blossom within his chest. He wasn't sure what compelled him to do so, but without further thought he leaned forward and experimentally pressed his lips to John's forehead. John's skin was warm and familiar and up-close it smelled of tea, body soap, sweet fabric softener, and another scent that was entirely John. It'd made Sherlock feel dazed and comfortable and unbearably warm. He'd closed his eyes and kept his lips there, soft and scarcely brushing John's forehead, temporarily shutting down his thoughts and basking in the feeling.
However, as soon as it occurred to Sherlock that he was kissing his flat mate while he slept, he jerked back and blinked out of the haze, mentally promising to never do such a thing again.
And so far he hasn't, though not for lack of wanting to.
His mind grinds to a halt as he considers that last thought. Not for lack of wanting to? So then he does want to kiss John again? Just as his thoughts begin to scramble and jumble even further, it occurs to him that perhaps he shouldn't be having these very private realizations in a lab with Molly Hooper.
"Er, Sherlock, don't take offense if this isn't the case, but it really does seem like perhaps you –"
Sherlock cuts her off with a halting hand motion and equally uninviting expression. "Molly, thank you for your time, but I really must be off," he announces abruptly, pulling his coat back on in a very no-nonsense manner. Before Molly even has the chance to reply, he has swept from the room, his long, swift stride making it impossible for her to keep up.
"Good day, Molly Hooper," He calls over shoulder as he pushes the doors open dramatically. Molly stares after him, bemused, wondering what on earth just happened.
Sherlock is sprawled elegantly across the couch, eyes closed and completely submerged in his mind palace, when John walks in haphazardly balancing several bags of shopping in his arms. Sherlock blinks one eye open to peer at his heavily laden flat mate and then immediately shuts it again, blatantly ignoring John's need for assistance. He is in the middle of contemplating am important case and cannot afford distractions, and because John is the most distracting thing on the planet, he cannot give him more than a brief glance. If he dares to look at his flat mate for more than that, he'll become the same hopelessly-infatuated sod that he's been for the past few weeks, scanning every one of John's movements and gestures as if they were the most important things in the word.
"Yes, don't mind me, I'm just fine!" John snaps, irritated. He grumbles testily to himself while he heaves the bags onto the table with a loud crash. Sherlock listens for the sound that is produced and from it deduces that John has bought an unusual amount of cakes and sweets, meaning he is in need of comfort food and therefore in a bad mood. Attempting to placate him will be pointless, because things are about to become considerably worse once John swings open the fridge and discovers the unfortunate mess that has saturated the shelves, thanks to a particularly leaky bag of thumbs. Sherlock adjusts himself into a more comfortable position and calmly begins the countdown.
Ten…nine…eight
John is rustling around in the bags for the non-perishables first, as per tradition. The cupboard creaks as he puts the tea away along with a sleeve of vanilla – no, chocolate – biscuits
Seven…six…five
Now he's trying to recall if he picked up the right brand of coffee. He is turning it in his hands, muttering that he should've written down the name from the previous can to make sure he bought the correct one. He sets it down in its customary spot, annoyed, and moves on to the milk and yogurt.
Three… two…
Holding the carton, opening the door…
One.
"Sherlock Holmes what the bloody hell is this?"
Sherlock removes his steepled fingers from his lips and sighs. No matter what he says John will be furious with him, probably yell about responsibility and cleanliness and other such dull things, and then say he needs to 'get some air' (which is actually code for 'take a long angry walk to the pub, sit around with idiots that I used to like back in uni, grow tired of people in general, miss the comfort of 221B, and return home in a much better mood'). Which Sherlock is fine with, by the way. He simply wishes he could skip the part where John is upset with him; he hates seeing those typically bright, sparkling eyes turn dark and stormy with anger. However, as it is unavoidable, he decides to just rip off the metaphorical band aid and face the inevitable.
"It is the congealed liquid residue that leaked from my bag of thumbs. Mrs. Hudson probably moved them when she was restocking the fridge and tore the bag by mistake," he calls, wondering if John can hear him over all of that loud banging he is doing in the kitchen. Sounds of pots and pans clattering on the counter and cupboards slamming fill the small flat. Oh, the music of the angered domestic, Sherlock thinks to himself, fighting the urge to press his hands over his ears rather immaturely in an attempt to block out the noise.
John rounds the corner with a box of uncooked pasta in his hand, probably the next thing he plans to angrily shove into the cabinets, and simply stares at him.
"And you didn't clean it up why?" John asks in a composed, colorless tone. A less observant person might even say he looks calm. However, since Sherlock knows John the way he knows almost everything else – with frightening accuracy and complete familiarity – he notices that John's shoulders are hiked up just enough to show the tension in his muscles, his fists tremble faintly with the suppressed urge to hit something, and there is a steady flush of anger crawling from his collar across his face. He is also flexing his fingers ever so slightly.
"John," he says, slowly.
"Sherlock," John replies, evenly. He clenches his jaw and flexes his fingers again. "Is it really so bloody difficult to clean up after yourself, Sherlock?" he asks, but judging by the way he rapidly continues speaking he isn't looking for a response. "Because it truly puzzles me that a man of your mental ability cannot manage to do something as simple as clean up a spill. Put away some beakers. Wrap up a damned disembodied head and not leave it on display like this is some kind of horror factory. Is it really that hard for you, Sherlock?" his volume is beginning to climb now, the box of spaghetti long forgotten on the countertop. "Because if it is, Sherlock, if it is truly beyond your realm of understanding, then just tell me now and I'll never dare to ask you to perform such a task again, alright? Is that alright, Your Highness?" he spits, angry and unreasonable and thisclose to saying something truly scathing.
"I…" Sherlock pauses and considers his next words. His kneejerk response is to dismiss the mess with an uninterested wave of his hand and move on to more important things instead. It's just a sticky shelf, after all. If John chooses to overreact then he can do so somewhere other than here; perhaps on one of his trips to 'get some air'.
It should be the easiest thing in the world to simply reply with I fail to see how this warrants such a reaction. Perhaps you ought to consider the real source of your anger that undoubtedly stems from your thankless job instead of wasting time by scolding me.
But he doesn't; he can't. The words simply won't leave his lips, no matter how he tries, because he cares about John's bad day at work and as reluctant as he is to admit it, he feels sorry. He hates the way John is looking at him – angry, disappointed, and annoyed – and even though he knows those feelings are misdirected and fleeting, it doesn't make it hurt any less. He experiences, for the first time in a while, the pressing urge to just apologize because the thought of leaving things as they are is too unbearable. He bites the inside of his cheek and wishes John would just stop glaring at him already because it feels bloody awful.
"I'm sorry, John," he says at last, his voice sounding oddly small.
John blinks, completely thrown off by his response. "What?" The anger melts from his face in seconds and his arms fall limply to his sides.
"I said I'm sorry. I'll try to be neater next time around," he repeats, a bit stiffly this time. The words sound strange coming from him and he can tell John feels the same, because he peers at Sherlock as if he's just grown a third eye.
John continues to look confused until something in his expression clears and a realization dawns on him. "Bloody hell, you're ill, aren't you?" John asks, immediately flying into 'concerned doctor' mode. He crouches down beside the sofa and presses a warm hand to Sherlock's forehead, his eyes flickering rapidly across his face. "You don't appear to be sick, but I can't rule out hallucinogenic poisons, can I? Perhaps someone slipped something into your drink while we were on that case earlier. Unlikely, yes, but you did leave your cup unattended for a bit, so someone clever could've easily snuck over, " Sherlock indignantly protests, pushing futilely at John's persistent, worried hands as they attempt to feel his pulse and check his pupil dilation. "Sherlock, quit moving about will you?" he mutters absently as he attempts to examine Sherlock's displeased, narrowed eyes. This is truly ridiculous, Sherlock thinks to himself.
"John," he interjects impatiently, fully prepared to end all of this nonsense because he is absolutely not ill.
John ignores Sherlock and rises from the floor in favor of the spot across from him. When Sherlock shows no intention of moving, John sighs exasperatedly.
"Okay, Sherlock, the most I can effectively do from this position is give you a foot rub, so kindly move?" John drops a pillow beside his thigh and pats it, "Put your head here; it'll be easier for me to inspect your eyes and heart rate," he explains, digging into his pocket for the compact flashlight he frequently uses at the clinic and makes a habit of always carrying.
Sherlock knows with utter certainty that curling up beside John's leg to be blatantly stared at and prodded is an awful idea. Hell, he can't even be within the same room as John without losing his damned mind, let alone being literally pinned down by his gaze and careful, concerned hands.
He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He should just say that he is not ill in that sharp, brittle tone of his, then primly rise from the couch and claim that the apology was due to some kind of mental lapse. That's what he should do. That's what he must do.
That's what he doesn't do.
As he flips his position and settles his head on the Union Jack pillow four-point-five inches from John's left thigh, he concludes that a disregard for logic is just one of the many side-effects of infatuation.
John's expression briefly flickers with triumph, before he leans down to press his fingers to Sherlock's neck in search of his pulse. Sherlock freezes. John's hand feels warm and oddly soothing against his cool skin and he unconsciously relaxes into the touch. Even though this place on his body is one of the most vulnerable – the throat can be crushed, maimed, and smashed in several very simple ways, after all – he feels no sense of danger or alarm when John's fingers gently brush against the hardy throb of his carotid artery, nor does he mind when John uses his other hand to sweep his hair back from his forehead in search of fever. It feels strangely wonderful to be doted upon so attentively, especially by John's careful, unwittingly affectionate hands. He closes his eyes for a moment and melts into the feeling, completely deaf to the concerned muttering John does under his breath as he inspects. John doesn't seem to be aware of it, but the entire time his eyes are sweeping his face and forming a possible diagnosis, his hands continue to absently rake through Sherlock's hair even though there is no longer a need to search for fever. It feels rather pleasant.
"How are your hydration levels?" asks John.
"Mm fine,"
"Really. Well, how many glasses of water have you had in the past three days? Because I'm fairly certain you and I have different ideas of what passes for 'fine'"
Why must John ask about such useless things? Who cares about water? Water is boring. What isn't boring, however, is the way John's fingers are kneading Sherlock's scalp and raking through his thick hair, causing laser-hot sparks of pleasure to shoot down his spine. Mm. Thoughts blur into each other and he forgets what John has just asked, far too preoccupied with the blissful massage.
"Okay, pulse is normal, pupil dilatation normal, no fever…Sherlock, did you just moan?" John asks, abruptly breaking his own stream of analysis with a strange look on his face. Sherlock stiffens and opens his eyes. Did he just moan?He can not quite recall, but considering the delicious feeling John's gently massaging fingers had been supplying, he cannot give a firm statement of denial. He mentally sighs because it is now a matter of seconds before John realizes what he's been doing and immediately stops. He doesn't bother with a countdown this time.
John proves him correct, as usual, when he glances down at his preoccupied hands and looks startled to find them tangled rather deeply in Sherlock's dark, raven curls. "Wait, what am I doing?" He asks, taken aback, as if someone else put his hands there for him. He immediately pulls them free, careful not to catch any knots on the way. "Er, sorry about that," he amends, awkwardly.
Sherlock sits up, ending their contact completely (much to his regret). "John,"
John just blinks, clearly still focused on the fact that he was just massaging his flat mate's head mere seconds previous. "Yes?" he asks, slowly.
"John, I'm okay. I'm not ill and I haven't been poisoned or brainwashed or abducted by extraterrestrials or whatever other conclusions you were bound to jump to. I'm completely fine," he repeats, sitting up and placing his hands on John's shoulders to calm him. As soon as he does so he becomes very aware of their proximity once again and has to force himself to pull his hands back.
"You're not sick," John repeats, blankly. Bit by bit blush splotches his cheeks and his expression turns embarrassed. "Then why the bloody hell did you just let me inspect you?" he asks, mortified.
"You were insistent that there was a problem, despite my protests. It seemed wiser to simply let you do what you wanted rather than attempt to convey logic," he answers succinctly, sounding far more composed than he actually is. He completely brushes over the supposed moan and is extremely relived when John does the same. (Sherlock has a feeling that has more to do with John's forgetfulness rather than his willingness to look over something suggestive, but he'll gladly take what he can get)
"Well, yes, of course I thought something was wrong! You said…well, you, er," John's brow furrows as he attempts to articulate an account of what happened. "You said sorry," he finishes simply, expression bewildered.
"Yes? And?" Sherlock asks, impatiently. Really, it's a bit disappointing that John's first reaction to a genuine apology is to check for signs of poison, drugs, or illness. He supposes it has not occurred to John that he apologized simply to please him. Though, Sherlock cannot truly blame him for being unaware because that line of reasoning makes even less sense than the others, given own rather barren historywith emotions and caring.
"You apologized and you meant it," John concludes at last, looking somewhere between mystified and pleased. He finally decides to lean more towards the latter and smiles warmly, his hand extending to grip Sherlock's shoulder amicably. Sherlock flinches away, but not out of repulsion, rather because of the pleasant-but-strange sparks that seem to explode from wherever John's skin meets his. It is alien and distracting and Sherlock cannot control the gut-reaction of jerking away from it. He regrets it immediately when John takes the motion differently and pulls his hand back, a distressed look on his face. He clearly thinks Sherlock is angry with him for being loud, irrational, and unreasonable. Sherlock is too busy trying to ignore the pleasant warmth that pulsates from his shoulder where John touched him to bother refuting John's very incorrect conclusion. He couldn't possibly be less angry at the moment, actually. But John can't read minds so he sighs and chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, before looking back up to meet Sherlock's eyes with an apologetic gaze of his own.
"Sherlock, you did not need to apologize. I was being irrational and crabby because of something that happened at work; it had nothing to do with you and your spilled thumbs," he smiles slightly at the odd phrase, "I was quite out of line and you did not deserve to have abuse shouted at you. If anyone should be sorry here, it's me,"
"It's quite alright, John. That snappy woman had no right to yell at you today; no wonder you were in a rubbish mood," he commiserates in the most sympathetic voice he can muster. He truly does care and wish to comfort John, but he's just so bloody awful at it that sometimes he must resort to plain-old acting and hope for the best.
"How'd you know she – actually, I don't want to know," John decides. "Either way, I feel much better now, so it no longer matters,"
"Sure it does. You've been waiting all day to rant about it." Sherlock adjusts himself so that he and John are facing each other from opposite sides of the couch. "I'm, as they say, 'all ears',"
John grins at that. "Alright, alright, since you asked," he clears his throat and settles himself against a cushion. "She was rather large, giant-like to be honest…"
For the three nights that follow, he lays awake, staring at the ceiling, asking himself how something as simple as John brushing hair from his forehead can make fireworks explode behind his eyelids and set his veins thrumming. Just the memory of it sends warmth flooding through his chest.
He tosses and turns restlessly. He is no closer to defining his relationship with John than he was weeks ago when he consulted Molly. With a resigned sigh, he decides that it is time to ask for a second opinion. It's not spectactualrly late yet, so he reaches on his nightstand for his mobile and taps in a famialr number.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering if perhaps we could have tea tomorrow? There are a few things I wish to discuss…"
"You know, Sherlock, I can't say this comes as a shock. If anything, I'm surprised it took you this long to come to your senses," Mrs. Hudson says warmly, pushing a plate of biscuits in his direction, a smile lightening her features.
Sherlock glances down at the sweets – plain chocolate, his favorite, and some puffy, raspberry ones that he knows John fancies – and politely accepts one, though he suspects that he wouldn't have had the option of refusing anyway, considering the intent way his landlady is watching him eat it. (Why is everyone in his life so fixated on his dietary habits? Are they really all that interesting?) He deduces that she made them herself and spent a total of two hours baking then decorating them. He genuinely likes Mrs. Hudson and thus feels the need to show some form of appreciation.
Sherlock takes a hearty bite, "Yum," he offers, unconvincingly. Despite his best efforts, the word comes out sounding alien and borderline comical in his deep, unanimated baritone.
Mrs. Hudson chuckles good-naturedly and takes the seat across from him. "Dear, I've known you long enough not to be offended if you don't exclaim praise when eating my baked goods. Thank you for the effort, though," she beams at him. The two settle into comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds coming from the quiet radio in the sitting room. He eats another biscuit to occupy his hands and mouth. Mrs. Hudson looks thoughtful, then decisive.
"Sherlock, dear, now about why you came here…" she purposefully trails off to allow him to switch his mindset to the topic she wishes to discuss.
The topic: John. (Seems as if everything revolves around those four letters these days)
He really shouldn't feel so reluctant to broach this subject, considering he was the one to call Mrs. Hudson yesterday, asking to come over. It was a very uncharacteristic course of action for him to take – consulting other people was trying at best – but he trusted Mrs. Hudson and she already thought they were together anyway, so her input would undoubtedly be of value.
"Yes," he affirms slowly, his voice sounding irritatingly uncertain.
"Well, you didn't say much over the phone, but you did mention it had to do with John? Specifically you and John?" Her eyes glint knowingly, but she says nothing further.
He clears his throat and nods briskly. "Yes, yes it involves John and I," he shifts in his seat, "I've been conducting an experiment recently on relationships – of the platonic and romantic nature – and simply out of curiosity I've been simultaneously gathering data on where John and I stand in those regards. I deemed it prudent to ask you for your view on the subject because you know John and I the best, namely me, and I feel that you can provide very valuable insight,"
She raises a brow and suppresses an endeared smile. She takes her time mentally formulating a response as she unhurriedly pours two new cups of tea. She pushes Sherlock's across the table and sighs, folding her hands before her and settling into her response. "Dear, I'll start by simply saying that I've known you for years and I have never seen you look at anyone – man or woman – the way you look at John Watson. I know you don't have much experience in this area," he tightens his mouth and feels his face heat, "but it's quite clear that you lo –" the phone rings and its loud, shrill, incessant whine immediately cuts her off. She purses her lips and looks torn between the urge to continue the conversation and politely answer the phone. After another beat of hesitation her habits win out and she rises from her spot at the kitchen table, smoothing out her apron, and looks at him apologetically.
"Oh, dear, do excuse me for a moment, will you? In the meantime take a look at that mold growing on the underside of the counter. Terrible stuff, but I suppose you'll find something interesting to do with it," then she hurries off to the sitting room.
For the sake of busying himself, he does examine the mold on the counter, but it turns out to be an uninteresting shade of white that he quickly identifies as common household mildew. Frowning and already sensing the boredom and restlessness kicking in, he returns to his seat at the table. In Mrs. Hudson's small, peach-colored kitchen he feels both out of place and oddly comfortable. The former is mostly due to the considerably awkward task of folding his tall, lanky frame into her petite chairs and somehow bending his long legs at tricky angles in order to fit them beneath the table (Even with the extreme contortionism, his knees still brush its underside). However, other than that, he feels entirely welcome and at peace in her small, potpourri-scented flat, with its embroidered pillows, pastel color themes, and delicious baked goods perpetually cooling on the counter. He supposes he enjoys it because it provides the warm, somewhat motherly environment he lacked as a child.
Minutes trickle by and he continues to let his mind wander from topic to topic, steadfastly ignoring the very loud, persistent voice shouting about Mrs. Hudson's dramatically unfinished sentence. There are not many words beginning with "lo" that she could've intended to finish with, unless she'd planned to say "you loathe him", which he seriously doubts.
So the question is, does he "lo" John? (And no he won't say or even think the word because frankly it's a bit frightening; mostly because of how natural it feels)
In truth he doesn't know. Hell, he barely knows if he wants to kiss John or shake his hand. Friends or partners? Platonic or passionate?
Nothing makes sense.
Thankfully, he is saved from his own rapidly whirring thoughts when Mrs. Hudson reenters the kitchen looking extremely pleased. "Sherlock, you would not guess who that was!" She exclaims, and then laughs gaily when she sees his dead-pan expression in response (because yes, he's certain he actually can guess).
"Oh, dear, it was your brother – "
His face immediately crumples into a scowl and he turns his nose up. "Mycroft in the flesh or via telephone is never good news, Mrs. Hudson,"
She gushes on as if he hadn't spoken. "He had the most wonderful news! He's found a lovely murder case out in the country for you and John! It should take at least a few days to work through – yes dear, even with your genius – and he's even gone through the trouble of booking a nice hotel for the two of you while you're up there," she grins and laughs, shaking her head. "I really don't think the timing could have been more perfect,"
But Sherlock stops listening. His nostrils flare slightly and the tendons in his right hand flex, but his expression remains otherwise devoid of any outward irritation or anger. To the untrained eye he is calm, unperturbed. However, to the keen stare of Mrs. Hudson, it becomes immediately apparent that he is seething. She stops smiling and crinkles her brow in concern.
"Sherlock, dear, this is a good thing!" She insists, placing a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. "This will give you the opportunity to spend some alone time with John and figure out if you prefer him as a friend or…something greater. This is a wonderful opportunity, love; do not waste it simply to spite Mycroft,"
He sighs and drops his forehead into his large palms, wearily raking his fingers through his curls. "Mrs. Hudson my dilemma lies in John's feelings, not my own, though I will admit that they are equally as perplexing. I don't know if what I feel for him is typical among friends or a sign that I am looking for something more. How do I know? How can I possibly find out?" he asks, agitated. Mrs. Hudson eyes him sympathetically.
"Oh, Sherlock, just do what you'd normally do when testing a hypothesis," she pauses and smiles, "Experiment!"
A/N: Part 2 will be posted (hopefully) within the next few weeks! As I said in the first A/N, this is my first Sherlock fanfic and any feedback you guys would be willing to give would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, loves!