Lost souls inn
CH.2
The floorboards creaked as the two men limbered up the staircase, white knuckle grips on the bannister railing. Without a word, the two men entered the flat and separated, John heading for his bedroom and Sherlock, still primed with unknown fuel stores, stalked towards the window, setting himself up for a night of composing.
On a normal night, John would have intercepted Sherlock at the foot of the chair and dragged him up to his room, insisting that sleep was in fact a necessary part of biological functioning and that yes he did know what he was talking about because he was a bloody doctor.
But tonight was different. He didn't care if his housemate didn't sleep for another week. He just wanted to sleep. And that's what he did, or, tried to do anyway.
After stripping to his underpants, too tired to adorn his sleeping clothes, he slid under the heavy duvet cover and tried to lull himself to sleep. But his head buzzed with anticipation and several times he twitched violently just as sleep attempted to smother him. With every twitch came another pang of pain and another jolt down his leg, his toes curling from the discomfort.
His face contorted into a tight grimace as he tried to sooth the piercing pain. He rubbed small but hard circles into the area the pain originated and he became habituated to it after a while. From here he could relax, almost forget about the discomfort for a brief moment. He exhaled a heavy sigh which bounced from his lips in a rasp. He chuckled and turned on his side, onto the better leg.
Just as John's eyes began to flutter and his organs sank into their own sleeping patterns, he heard a buzz on the nightstand and a lifetime of unfortunate military reflexes sent another spasm of pain down his leg. He gasped as his toes once again curled outwards, the onset of a cramp settling into the arch of his foot.
"No no no no no!" John mouthed. He took three very deep breathes, holding the oxygen into his chest and exhaling for longer than he thought possible, concentrate on the feel of his lungs filling with air.
Within ten seconds, his body had relaxed and he began to breath normally again. He smiled sheepishly to himself, proud of the meditation he had taught himself while off duty.
He reached over and grabbed the phone off the night stand, straightening himself before calling the screen to life.
He pushed the small button on the side of the mobile and the screen glowed with life.
It was another envelope.
It was another envelope.
His eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted with shock.
IT WAS ANOTHER ENVELOPE.
His heart pounded in his chest and he looked frantically around the room, much to his disappointment. He half expected to see Sherlock looming over him with a smart remark and an unhelpful piece of relationship advice. But Sherlock wasn't there. He was alone. In his room. It was just him and the small white envelope and the all too familiar name.
He had studied the text messages he had received from the detective inspector several times after when himself and Sherlock were driving, but he was always met with a smirk and a snarky comment. So he stopped looking at the messages and simply thumbed the exterior of the casing in his pocket, feeling somehow closer to the sender of the messages in question.
With a cartoonish gulp he opened the message:
Can't sleep.
Thinking about tomorrow night-
GL
John's breath caught in his throat as he imagined the tall, silvery man reading out the messages, his voice curling around the letters. The soft 'a' in 'can't' and the high 'i' in 'night' made John's skin break out in bold goosebumps. He read and reread the words over and over, extrapolating hidden meanings from the words.
Maybe he was regretting it. Maybe he is too rattled with guilt to tell John he is after getting cold feet and wants to abort the whole thing, to which John would crawl under a large stone and die for an extended period of time.
Maybe it is all a cunning scheme to emotionally manipulate John and Sherlock is in on it. No one he was so pleased when Lestrade text first. It was all part of the plan.
John had almost convinced himself to climb out of the bed and confront Sherlock and his diabolical plan before the phone once again vibrated, sending a shiver up his arm.
He opened the message wearily:
Stop over-reacting.
Can't wait to finally get my hands on you,
Captain Watson-
GL
John just about stopped himself from squealing like a pre-pubescent girl at a One Direction concert. His heart pounded so hard he feared it would jump right out of its cavity.
He traced the words with his fingers and mouthed along to them, before shaking his head vigorously.
"You are a grown man, a grown heterosexual man,"
He shook his head again, remembering what Sherlock had said earlier that night.
"Ok ok maybe just a grown man. But besides, I can't get involved with a co-worker."
He mulled over that for a second. Greg was a very respectable, highly sought after detective inspector of New Scotland Yard. He wouldn't jeopardise his career over a fling.
"But what if it's not just a fling? What if he is serious?"
He stared out his bedroom window, contemplating his life with one Greg Lestrade. A two man apartment, movie nights in with popcorn and cans of beer, holidays to the seaside, an alter and a long flowing veil…
John straightened on the bed and shuffled, shaking images of him in a long white dress with ribbons in his hair out of his head.
"I need sleep" John thought before lying back in the bed and curling the duvet over his shoulders.
He suddenly remembered that he hadn't replied to the message and threw the covers back over and brought the phone back to his face.
He 'can't wait to get his hands on me'? Does he want this to get physical? And so soon? What do you do with two men? There would be so many… parts to touch and caress and stroke and lick and bite and suck and…
John felt a familiar stirring in the base of his stomach and he started to panic.
"Oh no, I'm not ready for this."
John jumped out of the bed and began to pace, the phone still in his hand.
He stood and looked at the phone, taking deep mind-clearing breaths.
"Fuck it" he though, letting his fingers work the buttons on the phone.
Can't wait either.
It'll be nice to meet outside of a grizzly crime scene.
Detective Inspector Lestrade-
JW
He hit the send button before he backed down. And then the phone flashed:
Message Sent.
He made his way back towards the bed and settled himself under the covers. He had worked himself into a tizzy over nothing. He laughed to himself, almost out loud.
The phone beeped again:
Crime scenes don't really set the mood I'm going for
But I'm sure we could work our way around that
Until tomorrow-
GL
John now eagerly tapped the buttons, once his fears had been all but dulled.
Until then-
JW
John smiled, a smile so genuine he had forgotten how good it felt, so free from social pressure or medical courtesy.
With that he tucked the covers back over him and within minutes he had dozed into a dreamless, restful sleep.