Burden of Proof
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 2
Rating: PG-13
Posted: June 26, 2012
The road to what-once-was is long and winding, with no end in sight.
John was so reluctant to break contact with Sherlock because he craved it so badly that there was a physical ache. Every patch of skin where they touched burned with heat. But the hug was beginning to run long (even after accounting for the circumstances of the last time they saw each other and the years that separated them since). The last thing John needed was for Sherlock to deduce the exact depth of John's feelings for him. He barely had time to process it himself.
John Watson loved and was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
The space between their bodies—just mere inches in reality—seemed impossibly wide. John had to taper down the desire to crawl inside his best friend and never leave. He was officially losing his mind.
"Explain." He needed Sherlock to fill the silence. He needed Sherlock to talk and provide data that John could mull over and use to confirm Sherlock's presence.
Sherlock managed to stay seated for almost the first full minute of his explanation, before climbing to his feet to pace frantic and well-practiced circles around boxes. The man was all unrelenting energy and swinging limbs, and John couldn't tear his eyes away. Sherlock barely took a breath as he walked John through what really happened on the roof of St. Bart's.
(Wait, Molly? Molly Hooper?)
"I have a recording of my conversation with Moriarty if you'd like," Sherlock offered as he fiddled with one of his jacket buttons. John shook his head so fast that he thought his neck might snap (maybe when the thought of hearing Moriarty from beyond the grave didn't make him want to vomit anymore).
Sherlock absently palmed his violin briefly in the middle of an off-topic rant about Bulgarian cuisine. The taller man talked for a long while, never taking more than the briefest of pause. John was having a hard time keeping all the information straight and Sherlock was not helping with the overload as he occasionally went off on more nervous tangents. But John couldn't help getting the feeling that there was just as much that Sherlock wasn't telling him.
He didn't feel he had the right to ask though (but he wanted to, he wanted to know everything so badly), because he couldn't reciprocate either. There was no way he could tell Sherlock exactly what he had been doing over the last two years. Or worse, what had just happened last week before returning to London.
John was both relieved and disappointed when Sherlock made no effort to ask after him (the selfish, selfish bastard).
Sherlock had been in London for weeks now, even before the news about Moriarty broke. "Why didn't you call me? Or text me? Or email me?" John finally asked after Sherlock finished recounting his encounter with Sebastian Moran.
"If I did," Sherlock became very still. "Would you have come?"
They stared at each other, holding the other's gaze for far too long to be considered completely platonic to the rest of the world. This had caused the better part of the misunderstandings regarding their relationship in the past. John felt so stupid to be meeting those expectations now.
He dropped his gaze before answering Sherlock's question. "No, probably not."
It was a lie though. John had promised once in front of Sherlock's empty grave that he would cross oceans to meet the man if he only asked. But he wouldn't tell Sherlock that. Just as he wouldn't take his friend into another embrace and never let go. Just as he wouldn't kiss Sherlock to see if those lips were was plump and as lush as they looked. Just as he wouldn't tell the man he had somehow gone and fallen in love with him while he was away—that maybe the feeling had been there for much longer.
"What is it that you want, Sherlock?" He sounded exhausted even to his own ears.
What do you want from me?
"Will you move back?" It didn't even sound like a question coming from Sherlock's mouth. It was more a command—a demand.
His mind froze and started panicking. He didn't know why and Sherlock's eyes were all too bright (too excited).
John immediately lowered his gaze. "I need some time first."
-x-x-x-
John was still dazed when he stumbled past Mary's threshold at a quarter to seven. As soon as he entered the house, he could smell her cooking and concluded they were having Italian for dinner. He made a beeline to the kitchen and to the bottle of red wine sitting on the counter-top at Mary's elbow. He barely acknowledged her greeting as he poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp.
"John, what's wrong?" The sudden onset of alarm was clear in her voice. She placed down her cooking utensil and her alert blue eyes were scanning across the length of his body in search of some sign or injury.
John braced his arms against the counter and let his head hang for several moments. How was he even going to begin to explain this mess to Mary? He started when her hand landed on his bicep and squeezed gently.
"John, talk to me."
He kept his eyes fixed on the whorls on the counter-top. "It's Sherlock. I saw him today. He's alive."
Mary had gone completely still at his announcement. He could practically hear the gears in her head churning, much as his had earlier, trying to run through a list of all possible supernatural creatures and phenomenon. People don't just come back from the dead (not without paying a heavy price first). Not that Sherlock had actually been dead, but the infuriating man had always been bent on being unlike the rest of the world.
"Are you sure it's actually him?"
John scrubbed a hand over his weary face. "I think so. He faked his death, Mary, he faked his death this entire time to dismantle Moriarty's network. All that news about Moriarty and Moran last week was basically his coming-back party. What kind of man does all that?"
He finally turned to face her, watching as all sorts of emotions warred for control of her facial features. John suddenly felt self-conscious and selfish. He hadn't even thought about how Mary would feel before bringing this news into her home. Sherlock had come back, but Will was never going to do that. Mary's face had settled into a blank mask, but it was impossible to hide the hurt in her eyes.
"Your Sherlock's an immense bastard," she eventually said.
John squeezed his eyes shut and murmured brokenly, "Yes, yes, he is."
She turned off the heat on the cooker and pulled him into her arms. John didn't bother to resist and welcomed the comfort she offered. Most importantly, she wasn't rejecting him after hearing about Sherlock.
"Is it okay if I stay here for a bit longer? I'm not ready to go back to Baker Street yet."
Her arms tightened around his shoulders. "Of course, you're always welcomed in my house. And we will come up with some truly uncomfortable tests to subject your Sherlock to so we can verify his authenticity. Then I may or may not knock out his teeth for being so cruel."
A dam of warmth burst inside John and he smothered his chuckles in the folds of her hair. For the first time since he saw Sherlock earlier, John actually felt that things might work out with both Sherlock back and Mary standing at his side. He could do this—one step at a time.
-x-x-x-
It was astonishing how quickly John's relief faded despite a night of wine and conversation with Mary ("Definitely need to feed him some holy water"; "And how do I manage that? The man sustains on biscuits and caffeine alone. [Long pause] Do you think holy water still works if you use it to brew tea?"). But standing at the door to Molly's office, just down the hall from the morgue itself, he can't help but think about the betrayal stabbing at his gut.
He knocked on the door. When there was no immediate answer, he wondered if Molly was taking a late lunch or if he should have texted or called ahead of his visit. John was about to walk away—feeling somewhat glad to relegate this particular meeting to another day—when the office door flew open. Molly appeared, clad in her pastel pink scrubs and her disheveled hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail.
"John!" she exclaimed. Surprise flitted across her face before apprehension quickly took its place.
"Is this a bad time?" he asked, watching her shift restlessly.
"No, it's fine. I was just about to take a coffee break. Please come in."
In all the years that he's known Molly, John had never been inside her office. It was actually a shared space with the other morgue attendant (did Andy still work at Bart's?), judging by the two desks facing opposite walls. Molly dragged over the swivel chair from the other desk and offered it to John before sitting in her own chair. John noted the lack of windows contributing to the overall feeling of claustrophobia.
"A bit dreary, wouldn't you say?"
Molly snickered as some of the tension bleed out of her body. "Yeah, it's a good thing I get to spend most of my time in the labs or morgue anyway. But I can't really do paperwork over the slabs."
"Indeed, where would the NHS be without paperwork?" He eyed the stack of manila folders balanced precariously on the edge of her desk. It was the one aspect he missed least about practicing medicine.
"Is this about Sherlock? Did you finally see him?"
Of course, she figured out the reason for his visit today. For better or for worse, Molly had been an accomplice in Sherlock's scheme—the lynchpin even. She was smarter and more perceptive than she was often given credit for. And the sickening feeling of betrayal returned. (Why hadn't Sherlock told him? He was a soldier, he had always been prepared for the risk. Why had he trusted Molly over John—who needed him, who loved him, who would have done close to anything for Sherlock?)
"He did tell you, right? That he did it to save your life." Molly leaned forward in her seat, eager to explain and eager to dispel any misunderstanding.
John knew that. Sherlock had explained Moriarty's final play and the three gunmen assigned to himself, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't begrudge Sherlock for trying to save them—for wanting to save them. But John could sure as hell question Sherlock's methods and all the other moving cogs in his grand plan, especially inviting Molly, who had looked him in the eye afterwards (after the funeral; inviting him to holiday parties) and lied through her teeth, to be his accomplice.
"You knew from the start." John couldn't stop the bitterness from bleeding through. "You never said a thing."
She folded her hands in her lap and went preternaturally still. "I'm sorry, but Sherlock asked me to keep it a secret."
Molly (so-obviously-in-love-with-Sherlock Molly) must have been so flattered to be the only one to keep Sherlock Holmes' great secret. Bile and nausea (and bone-grating jealousy) swirled together in a sickening maelstrom. Why her? Why Molly Hooper of all people?
"Because I don't count, not like you." Her sudden declaration broke his dark reverie. John hadn't realized he had spoken his last thought aloud. Molly was watching him with a small sad smile that made her look years older.
"What?"
"Before he even knew about Greg or Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock knew Jim was going to target you. He had already planned everything in order to save you. It was always about you, John."
He blinked in disbelief, waiting for her words to sink in. He couldn't swallow past the heavy feeling lodged in his throat. "No, he did it to beat Moriarty."
It was all for the game, the thrill of the hunt. Those were the things Sherlock cared about. Because Sherlock didn't feel things, not like other people and certainly not for other people (which is fine, it's all fine).
"If you say so," Molly's expression said she was disinclined to believe his line of reasoning. "You know Sherlock far better than I do."
Did he really?
Molly's break was over so he walked her to the morgue after she locked up her office. They stood awkwardly at the morgue's entrance, neither sure of what else to say as they would surely see each other again in he near future. After a moment's indecision, he embraced her briefly and whispered, "Thank you for being there for him." Because no matter what his conflicted feelings about her involvement, Molly Hooper had helped Sherlock to survive so that he could eventually return to London. He had to thank her for at least that much.
John made it less than several meters away from the morgue when Sherlock turned a corner. They both stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Probably would have been in people's way if the basement wasn't usually deserted on principle. Sherlock's eyes swept up and down the length of John's body. No doubt deducing what he had for breakfast or how he slept.
John squared his shoulders and marched toward his friend. "Sherlock," he offered a small smile in greeting. "How are you doing?"
The tension bled out of Sherlock. There was no noticeable change in his posture or stance (just the smoothing out of certain lines on Sherlock's face and the smallest change in the shape of his eyes), and anyone else wouldn't have noticed the change. But John wasn't just anyone else. He lived with this madman for over a year.
He loved this madman for even longer.
"John," Sherlock canted his head a few degrees to the right. Then he straightened, trying to make himself all tall and imperious (God, John missed this arrogance; why the hell did he miss that?). "Have you thought about what we talked about?"
Right, the flatshare—221B Baker Street again. The thought still sat uncomfortably with John. He shouldn't let Sherlock weasel back into his life so easily. Not after what he did or knowing how the detective was going to eat up all of John's time or thoughts before he could blink. John shouldn't, but some part of him already knew he was going to relent (it was the only solution of all possible solutions). But John could still maintain some illusion of control over his life (himself) until then.
"I'll ring you. We can talk about this later. I'm afraid I have somewhere to be." He dodged around the other man and headed for the stairwell. He wasn't going to wait around for the lift so that Sherlock would have more time to harass him.
"John!"
John saw the twitch coursing through Sherlock's right arm. It was a prelude to Sherlock trying to physically detain him, to force him to listen to the list of reasons well-rehearsed from Sherlock's mind. So John broke into a run, slipping past the taller man's uneasy grasp while feeling the faintest tug on his jacket sleeve. He didn't look back before ducking into the stairs, and Sherlock didn't follow.
John may be in love, but he refused to play the lovesick fool.
-x-x-x-
John's decision to not immediately move back to 221B was vindicated before the end of the week when Sherlock was revealed to be very much not dead. It started with a series of photos taken by a discerning London citizen while trailing a man she recognized as Sherlock Holmes into a Tesco. The photos apparently went viral within hours of being posted online. Then the 24-hour news cycle picked up on the online speculation (seriously and jokingly ranging from clones to an actor in an upcoming biopic) and it took off from there.
Baker Street was once again mobbed by the press. John dreaded to think about exactly how Sherlock was dealing with the renewed media attention.
Your marksmanship would be most appreciated right now. Then again it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel with how packed they are. SH
John stared at the message for five whole minutes before responding.
They'd probably leave you alone if you gave a statement. Or give a few interviews.
I'd rather be tortured by Japanese mobsters. Again. SH
God, he really hoped Sherlock was just kidding.
You could have Mycroft prepare one on your behalf.
There was no immediate reply. Which was odd because Sherlock always felt compelled to have the last word and John doubted that pretending to be dead made Sherlock feel less inclined to do otherwise. So he was forced to assume that Sherlock had finally lost his temper and possibly killed or traumatized some of the reporters with one of his ungodly experiments.
He shrugged to himself and returned to packing rock salt into empty shotgun rounds. As long as he wasn't expected to bail his old flatmate out of jail...
-x-x-x-
When a statement was released the next day revealing Sherlock's consultant role in MI5 and Interpol's Moriarty investigation, John burst into uncontrollable laughter at the breakfast table. It was an utterly ridiculous tale about how Sherlock's fake demise was engineered as part of the undercover operation to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network. Mary was so startled by the sound that she spilled her bowl of milk and cereal on the kitchen lino.
"What the hell, John?" She cursed before bending down to wipe the floor with a tea towel.
For some reason, listening to her blaspheme set off another fit of giggles. Then he looked down at the old archive photo of Sherlock in a deerstalker paired with the article and began howling anew. He had to clutch his sides to keep from hurting and falling out of his chair. Mary gaped at him like he had lost his mind—when really, anyone that knew Sherlock could see the cover story was complete bollocks.
He slid the paper across the table and pointed to the story in question. She scrunched her brow together as she skimmed the first few lines and remained confused when she looked up at him. "I don't get it."
That was because she'd never met Sherlock—didn't know him in spite of all the stories John told her. Because if she knew him, she'd see why. Except he wasn't sure how to begin to explain the hilarity of the situation to her. God, he missed Sherlock so much right now. Sherlock must be fuming right now.
The text alert chime from his mobile sounded positively livid. It must be from Sherlock.
Be prepared to post bail on my behalf. I am going to murder Mycroft. SH
He was vibrating with unsuppressed glee as he replied: You'd have to leave the flat somehow first. He doubted the reporters were going to leave the front stoop any time soon after this bombshell.
I'm never going to live this down. Immediately retiring to the countryside to raise bees. SH
Really? Bees? Why bees?
Shut up, they're interesting. SH
And Mycroft's allergic to them. The perfect murder weapon. SH
John actually felt kind of sorry for Mycroft there. He had seen enough cases of near-fatal anaphylactic shock in his A&E experience to know it wasn't a pretty sight.
Not a terribly creative murder weapon though.
Irrelevant, it's effective. Will need to have him stung the next time he comes by the flat. SH
On principle, I have to advise against fratricide. Because apparently no one else will.
If you'd move back, you could stop me yourself. Or help. Either works. SH
We'll see.
I'd be doing both of us a favor if I did kill Mycroft. SH
John's face hurt from smiling. He wondered if he really had cause to feel this happy. But Sherlock was reaching out to him—albeit in his own awkward and endearing way. When Mary gently squeezed his good shoulder on her way out to work, John felt lighter than he's had in years.
-x-x-x-
John wasn't surprised when Lestrade finally contacted him and invited him out for a night of drinks. In fact, he was more surprised that the DS hadn't sought him out sooner. Sliding into the stool next to Lestrade, John greeted, "We have to stop meeting like this."
The police officer snorted and John accepted the extra pint offered to him. Lestrade was even grayer than he last remembered. With a pang of guilt, John realized he hadn't seen the man since Molly's Christmas party.
"How are things down at the Yard?" John asked.
"It's been a mess, but you probably guessed that. But it is nice not being treated like the leper of the department anymore. What about you? How are you holding up?" Lestrade gave him a significant look. "Sherlock said you two already talked."
"Surprisingly well. Has he gone to see you yet?"
"I went to see him actually, as soon as I saw the papers. It was probably a good thing as some of those reporters were ready to break down the front door. The first thing he asked me for as soon as I walked in the door was for a case. No 'hello' or explanation. I nearly socked the bastard right there."
"Oh, I know the feeling," John sighed. "Poor Mrs. H, trapped with Sherlock like that. He must be even more batty than usual."
"Tell me about it. Where have you been hiding? I noticed you've barely been mentioned in the news and you two used to be inseparable."
"With Mary, she lives in South Harrow. It only gets bad when I come into central London."
"Mary from the party?"
John nodded.
"Good on you, mate."
He was glad Lestrade chose not to ask any further questions about the nature of his relationship with Mary. They lapsed into a few minutes of silence as they watched the football game. Sometimes, he could feel people's stares on his back but did his best to ignore them. Nowadays, John often got significant passing glances from passersby.
Lestrade was the first one to speak again. "He apologized, you know?"
"Really? Sherlock did?"
"Well, his exact words were more along the line of 'Lestrade, it's unfortunate that you were placed in a difficult situation that you obviously didn't have the capability to resolve yourself'."
"Please tell me you punched him after that."
"I may have tried."
They looked at each other with similar shit-eating grins. When John's mobile chirped in his jacket, he drew it out to read the message.
At least return the skull if you're unwilling to move back in the meanwhile. SH
"He bugging you with non-stop texts too? He keeps sending me tips about petty crimes that aren't even in my division. I told him that I no longer had the authority to let him on crime scenes anymore. And you know what he said? He was working on getting me promoted again." Lestrade was rolling his eyes in exasperation, but there was a touch of fondness in the way his eyes crinkled.
He passed his phone over so the other man could read the message too. "Sherlock's just eager to have things return to the way they were."
"Can't say I blame him. Are you really considering moving back in with him?" Lestrade pointed at the message on the screen.
"It's a nice flat." John protested. He didn't like the tone of Lestrade's question.
"Look, I'm not opposed to getting the band back together. God knows having you around always made Sherlock easier to deal with. But think about your own life, John. You two were practically joined at the hip before. Now might be a good time to establish some new boundaries and give yourself some space. What about Mary?"
"What about her? We're not dating or whatever you're thinking. She's just a friend."
"Geeze, Watson, is that how fucked up all your relationships are now? Okay, fine, so Mary's a friend. But what about in the future? Or if you meet some other bird? You and Sherlock could still remain friends without moving back with him. I've seen how he used to run you ragged. Do you think that's going to change now?"
John stared into his beer, turning Lestrade's words over and over again inside his head. He had already considered a lot of the same thing since Sherlock first returned. He knows that if he went back to Sherlock—if he let Sherlock back into his life, John was never going to let go of him again. That he would do everything in his power to keep Sherlock for the rest of his days. But such a possessive and needy realization was best kept to himself. Instead, John tried to shrug noncommittally. "It's ridiculous really. He's been back for less than two weeks, but I already can't imagine life without him."
When he looked up at his drinking companion again, Lestrade wore an expression that could only read "you poor sod" and patted John over the back as a show of support.
-x-x-x-
Over the next two weeks, he and Mary closed two cases together: a poltergeist haunting a family in Slough and a small group of demons wrecking havoc in Southfields. The jobs helped to keep John occupied in the times between Sherlock's texts.
At first, the text conversations started once per day and usually limited to the early afternoon hours. Soon, they were coming at all hours of the day, whether John replied or not. Some were trivia facts about honey bees that Sherlock apparently felt necessary to share. Then there were the scathing deductions about the few reporters and paparazzi still brave enough to hang around Baker Street. Even more were attempts to convince John to move back to the flat asap, complete with idle threats of experimenting on John's leftover properties or of turning his old bedroom into a laboratory if he didn't return soon. Each time Sherlock asked, John found himself internally caving to the suggestion more and more.
Even without physically being there, Sherlock was taking over and filling in all the empty spaces in John's life again.
Despite the fact that John still had no gainful employment and he was sometimes stalked by paparazzi when he left Mary's house, life almost felt normal again. Well, whatever passed for normal when one lived and worked with Sherlock Holmes.
As November came to a close, the text messages alone were no longer enough. Neither were the blurry and often hilarious photos of Sherlock published in the rags or shared online. He missed Sherlock, missed the sound of his voice, missed seeing his face... John buried his face in his pillow, hoping suffocation would spare him the shame of pining like a teenage girl.
His mobile started vibrating loudly against the surface of the nightstand—probably more texts from Sherlock. The skull also sat on the nightstand, mocking him with its macabre grin.
Mrs. Hudson has confiscated my gun. Bring yours at once. SH
The wave of longing that washed over John was as intense as it was painful. Suddenly, he couldn't stand the smell of Mary's house or the all too quiet traffic from her street. As John had always been a man of action, he did the only thing left to do at this point: pack. He stuffed what he could of his clothing into his duffel bag and stowed his Browning under layers of denim. He wrapped and padded the skull with a jumper before dumping it alongside his laptop and his chargers. He was finished packing in ten minutes. He could have been faster—he managed in five while also handling a bag full of weapons when he was on the road.
He hesitated after looking at the time. It was three in the morning. The tube had not yet started running. He could wait another hour or two. John shook his head. No, he couldn't wait any longer.
Mary was waiting at the landing, wrapped in her dressing gown and hair adorably disheveled from sleep.
"You're awake..." He muttered awkwardly.
"Kind of hard not to be with you trampling around like a bull in a china shop in the next room over." She had no right to sound so amused for someone that just climbed out of bed.
John felt the heat from a flush beginning to tinge his cheeks. "Sorry."
"Are you going back then? To Sherlock?"
He nodded.
Mary came closer and brushed a hand lightly over his shoulder. "Good, you were starting to mope, you know? I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did. I would have thought you would have moved back as soon as you two started texting each other like my students."
"Never can get anything past you."
"Just remember, John. You're always welcome in my home. You're my partner, the best partner I've ever had." She looped her arms around his middle and squeezed. He was only able to return the hug with one arm as his other hand was still gripping his bag. Then she drew away, padded back into her room, and closed the door with a gentle thud.
John remained still and allowed the moment to wash over him. But then the urgency from before—the need to see Sherlock—returned again. He retrieved his keys from the bowl by the front door and the keys to the Corsa. The roads were virtually deserted at that time of the night, so he made the trip from Harrow to Central London in just fifteen minutes. Parking took longer—almost ten full minutes—but he found a spot just several blocks away from Baker Street. He ran the last three blocks with his bag slung over one shoulder.
He reached into his pocket for the key to 221B. When he left the flat after Sherlock's explanation all those weeks ago, Mrs. Hudson had been waiting downstairs. She insisted on giving him keys once more, steadfast in her confidence that John would move back.
Even downstairs, he could hear the sound of Sherlock's violin. Sherlock was actually playing for once. Not wanting to disturb his friend, he navigated the stairs to the second floor swiftly but silently. Sherlock had taken to leaving their front door unlocked again (he really should know to do better), because the knob turned without resistance. Sherlock was clad in a dressing gown with his back to the door. John hovered on the landing, not wanting to disturb the music and yet aching to get close enough to watch Sherlock play.
When he finally stepped forward, the floorboard beneath creaked loudly and the music halted abruptly in the middle of a bar. Sherlock turned and they stared at one another across the length of the sitting room.
"John?" Surprise was one of those emotions that tended to smooth out the sharp angles of Sherlock's face—it softened the edges. But Sherlock rarely allowed it to remain visible for long. He took in John's state and the bag now sitting at his feet. "Finally coming home?"
"Yeah." John was unable to stop the smile creeping across his lips.
The grin that Sherlock gave in return—so small, almost shy, and yet so genuine—made John's heart soar.
-x-x-x-
Readjusting to living with Sherlock Holmes again was an extremely trying exercise in saint-grade patience. It was a bit like attempting to build a house of cards. The slightest errant twitch (Sherlock's mercurial moods, the way he callously invaded John's privacy and personal space, or his lengthy and cutting dissertations of John's apparent failing for the day) would send the entire structure tumbling down, leaving John to rebuild the foundation less sturdy each time over.
It was reliving those first six months with Sherlock again (before the Pool, before Moriarty personally stormed into their lives like a particularly destructive hurricane). But they had been virtual strangers then, not yet settled in the strange friendship that neither had expected or gone looking for. It only made their current situation more excruciating, because they knew each other now (or each of them is equally convinced they do).
The worst part of it all was how John struggled constantly with his feelings for Sherlock. For a while he could trick himself into old routines from the before, but then the smallest little thing would knock him off his equilibrium. It could be anything: the accidental brushing of fingers when passing mugs of tea or looking up and seeing sunlight catch in Sherlock's curls. In the before, John would have barely registered these incidents.
But now that he's admitted to himself that he was in love with Sherlock...
If John had taken to staring at his flatmate more or for longer periods of time, Sherlock made no mention of it. John feared that the day he could no longer use Sherlock's sudden return as the excuse for his own odd behavior would soon come. Because when it did, Sherlock might start probing for the real reason.
Then there were the days where Sherlock reminded him of how it might be for the best that John's love remained unrequited and unacknowledged.
-x-x-x-
John returned from a hunter's pub soaked in alcohol and other people's blood. It was not his lucky night. First, he had to go without Mary, who was busy with school things, to pick up the information promised to them about a potential case. Someone(s) had already beaten them to the punch. Before he could leave empty-handed, he ended up helping to break up a nasty brawl between two well-known rivals, which was immediately followed by doctoring some rather ungrateful hunters. His flatmate was nowhere in sight when he came through the door, his absence flooding John with relief for once. He didn't want to explain to Sherlock or need the detective to try and deduce him. He went straight to the bathroom, peeled off his clothes, and took a long relaxing shower. His clothing were a mess, so he filled the sink with water and left them to soak in it. With nothing else to wear, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out into the hallway.
Where Sherlock had apparently been waiting for him. John supposed he should count himself lucky that the man hadn't just barged in (they've had a number of conversations about that in the past).
"Oh good, John, I was hoping you could..." Sherlock trailed off as his eyes were immediately drawn to the black flames and pentagram tattooed on John's right shoulder. In the next three seconds, the same set of eyes raked over John's naked torso, lingering ever so briefly on the spots that sported the scarred tokens of his adventures with Mary. Leave it to Sherlock to do something as perfectly intrusive and creepy like keeping a mental catalog of John's scars in that mind palace of his.
Sherlock's gaze snapped up to John's face before resettling once again on the tattoo. "You didn't used to have that."
Sherlock was a such bloody hypocrite, because for all his whining about John constantly stating the obvious, Sherlock often did the same.
"Do you mind?" John snapped, clutching the towel tighter to his hips and feeling more exposed than he has ever felt before.
The stupid git didn't move and instead reached out with one hand toward the tattoo. John quickly wheeled back out of the range of touch until his back was planted against the wall. He wished he knew exactly what he was objecting to: Sherlock touching the anti-possession symbol or just Sherlock touching him at all.
The hand reaching out hung in the air for a moment before being snapped back in an elegant and fluid motion. The look on Sherlock's face had John cringing in anticipation of what was coming.
Sherlock shifted back onto the heels of his feet and launched into sting of deductions. "The edges of the design are jagged, signifying a less than experienced tattoo artist or even an unlicensed one. It makes sense as you are hardly a man of the inclination to spend upwards of a hundred pounds an hour on body art. Then there's the question of why you even got it in the first place. While tattoos are no longer as stigmatized or the sole purview of criminal like they once were, a majority of the people who get them are usually of specific sub- or counter-cultures. Though you were military once, you're hardly one of those meatheads eager to mark themselves up. If you were, you would have had one from long before we met. Of the rest, tattoos are most often done to commemorate an important or life-changing event: the affirmation of a new romantic entanglement, in memory of a loved one, for religious reasons—"
"Or maybe because I wanted to." John cut in. He didn't know for sure whether or not Sherlock had "to prevent demonic possession" as an item on his list of reasons. He didn't want to find out either.
Sherlock replied with the we-both-know-what's-really-going-on look and John had to grit his teeth. He was so overcome with the sudden urge to deck the tall bastard.
"Then there is the matter of the design, a pentagram, an occult image. But you're not inclined toward that spiritual or New Age hogwash—you haven't been to church since before you were shipped out to Afghanistan. So the design is neither of your preference or for your own benefit. Judging by the discoloration, you've have it for about two years. Now what possibly could have happened then to prompt you to do this? The only change in your lifestyle during that time of which I am aware of is your association with Mary Morstan."
He tensed at the mention of Mary. How the hell did Sherlock know about Mary? John had been going out of his way to keep them apart. Mary had been so enraged on John's behalf and he was afraid of what Sherlock may be able to deduce if he met her. Was this Mycroft's doing? Why did Sherlock even care about Mary (definitely cared enough to not just immediately delete her like so many of John's ex-girlfriends)?
His flatmate's tone was laced with utter disdain when he continued, "So it is related to Ms. Morstan somehow. Perhaps one of your ill-fated attempts to win her affection? I suppose she could fancy herself Wiccan, but not enough data at this time to know for sure."
Now was probably not the time to mention that Mary's mother had been a proper witch and that Mary herself had enough spellbooks to supply a coven or five.
John scrubbed the heels of his hand into his face. This interrogation was draining. He was naked and Sherlock was sticking his nose into places where it didn't belong. He was scared that somehow Sherlock might see through him, even if John logically knew there was no way the madman would be able to deduce the existence of ghosts and demons with no prior knowledge. He was starting to get cold. He just wanted to go upstairs and crawl into his warm bed. "Yes, Sherlock, you're absolutely right, it was a really stupid attempt to try and impress Mary. I am an idiot after all."
John's gaze roamed to the wall over Sherlock's shoulder suddenly squared with tension. He could feel Sherlock staring and focusing with all the resources of his admittedly incredible mind. After neither of them moved for some time, John finally gave in and met the other man's gaze.
Sherlock was glaring. "You're lying."
John figured he'd hang himself either way, so he said nothing.
Sherlock took that as reason to crowd into his space, trapping John against the wall. "What are you hiding?" he demanded.
The new proximity sent his pulse skyrocketing and he mentally admonished his traitorous body. John mustered all the anger he could (too easily, his free hand is flexing in itch of another impending fight) and glared right back. "I don't have to tell you everything, Sherlock. You don't have the right to know everything about me."
"Why not?" Sherlock countered, utterly petulant like a child denied his favorite toy. His response shouldn't be surprising to John, but it still was.
"You just don't."
With that, John ducked around Sherlock and trampled up the stairs. He closed his bedroom door with a slam that shook the windows, locked it, and didn't emerge from his room until almost noon the next day. In retaliation, Sherlock didn't return to the flat for another two days until John was sick with worry. They fought for real then—their first proper row since John moved back, complete with shouting and threats of grievous bodily harm and objects thrown.
The entire experience left him feeling raw and used. John was forced to admit that even though he was in love with Sherlock or even if the man himself was willing, he would have to be mad (even madder than he already was hunting after murderers and creatures of the night) to enter into a relationship with Sherlock bloody Holmes.
I'm going away for vacation next week, so don't expect any updates in the meanwhile. I'll try to make good use of the time away and build a nice buffer of writing for y'all.
Thanks to DramaStar-Mel for commenting last chapter. And thank you to everyone that alerted, favorited, and read as well! See you in two weeks!