The Sign of Four Is Just the Sign of One Thing
A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction
Chapter Three
John had to take a few deep breaths before he could open the door to their flat. He supposed he had become too old for skipping every other step of their old, creaking stairs, which was bad news, considering that living with Sherlock meant he had to be in great physical shape or he'd die of a heart attack, either out of physical exertion or anger. The latter was more likely.
When John opened the door, he was half expecting to find a ticking bomb on their coffee table, some poisonous chemicals floating in the air, or at least CIA , FBI or MI6 to be sitting on their sofa with their guns pointing at somebody, but no, nothing of that sort. Sherlock was standing by the window, playing a soothing tune on his violin. John checked the kitchen too, which was an absolute mess – then again, it was its normal state – and Sherlock's bedroom, but all were empty of any sort of danger.
John took a few deep breaths – this time to cool down the rage – as he walked to the sitting room. He coughed deliberately, but Sherlock paid him no heeds, still absorbed, or at least pretending to be, in his music.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock didn't stop playing, but he did turn his head around to glance at John.
"John," was all he said before he turned back to the window, back to his bizarre world. John balled his hands into fists for a few seconds and counted to ten before going to Sherlock; otherwise he'd probably break all those pearly white teeth. He had every intention of making Sherlock listen to him, even if it meant throwing that god-damn violin out the window.
"You called me, told me there was an emergency. Never mind the words you said; you called. You never call. So you better be in imminent danger or so help me God," John didn't finish his sentence. Threatening Sherlock was never a good idea. Sherlock always took it as a personal challenge to do worse than before, and he succeeded every single time.
Sherlock stopped playing and after a few painful seconds, set his violin down on the desk, turned around and faced John with those calculating eye.
"I did call." He said and looked down at John, as if nothing had happened.
"Why?"
"Why are you so angry?"
"Why am I so – " John stopped mid-question, turned his back to Sherlock, paced back and forth a few times before facing Sherlock again with a pointing finger aimed at Sherlock's chest. " I was in the middle of a date. A very good one I might add. I was having a lovely dinner and a lovely time and then you call and ask me to come home for an emergency. I come home and everything's just fine. You better have an at least, half –adequate explanation or the emergency might just happen."
I just threatened him. Lord help me.
Sherlock flopped down on the sofa like they were having the most mundane conversation of all time. "Oh, I've done much worse. Why are you so angry this time?"
"That's not the point." John knew Sherlock was playing a mind game, and he refused to take the bait. Not this time
"That's exactly the point. Surely there are hundreds of girls out there like Mary Morstan? plain, gullible, boring, good."
John hadn't told him about Mary. So Sherlock Holmes was paying attention to his personal life after all, which was the last thing he needed.
"So you want to sabotage my dates. Is that it?"
"I'm not the one doing the sabotaging. You came here all on your own."
"I thought you were on fire! You certainly sounded liked it; 'John please come, please.' What do you want this time? Tea? Milk? The thumbs in the fridge? Your cocaine?" John shouted the last word out, losing the last bit of control he was holding on to.
Sherlock only closed his eyes and heaved out a sigh, as if the answer to the question was just too stupid to enunciate.
"It was a test." Sherlock said after much eye rolling.
"A test?" John couldn't help but to repeat the word, the pronunciation alien to his own ears.
"Don't worry. You failed," Sherlock offered as an explanation as he stood up and walked back to the god-damn window, delicately rested his stupid violin on his shoulder and started to play a stupid melancholy melody, as though adding to the weight of John's failure. Though what John had failed at, he wasn't quite sure about.
And he wasn't going to think about it either.
Bloody stupid, moronic, mad, thick, dim-witted, senseless prick! John thought as he slammed the door shut on his way out.
After spending a terrible, restless night on Mike Stamford's couch (He usually preferred Greg's couch, but the D.I. hadn't been home and he didn't have many choices left), John spent the whole day trying to avoid Sherlock or thinking about Sherlock, but the endeavor turned out to be much more difficult than he'd originally thought.
Mike seemed to think of him and Sherlock as a couple. There was just no point in him trying to persuade Mike otherwise. The man was quite unyielding in his convictions, and he believed that John's anger just proved how much he cared for Sherlock.
"I get angry at my wife all the time, too, you know, but deep down, I know I'll always love her." Mike had said early in the morning as the said wife prepared a very delicious breakfast for them. The comparison was quite rigged. Lisa was nothing like Sherlock. She was nice, sweet and caring; didn't terrorize people on a regular basis; treated guests with respect; didn't play the violin at ungodly hours; didn't leave dangerous chemicals lying around the house; didn't draw things on the wall; didn't make John chase criminals all around London; didn't smoke; didn't do drugs; and certainly didn't confiscate people's private stuff. They weren't in a relationship anyway. Rigged comparison; all rigged.
John spent the rest of the morning with Sarah at the clinic. He didn't officially work there anymore – with his crazy schedule, it was impossible – but he did go there sometimes to help out. It helped him feel normal from time to time which was always a blessing. Sarah didn't have to say anything for John to know what she was thinking. The look she gave him was enough.
The whole London thinks we're together.
Everything was so incredibly normal without Sherlock around that John couldn't help but to miss the stupid prick a little bit, which was completely ridiculous because that had been his intention the whole day, and now that he had it, he didn't want it anymore.
He waited the entire afternoon waiting for Sherlock to send him a text but didn't get any– he wasn't waiting for any apologies or anything close to that, but he had hoped a case would turn up. Cases always helped them resolve their issues - John went to Bart's without really knowing why. Molly was there, and talking to him without thinking of Sherlock was an absurd idea simply because she talked about nothing but Sherlock. To be fair, it was the only think they had in common, and John realized begrudgingly that he didn't mind it much. It was always impossible to stay mad at the detective for too long; not because he was cute or irresistible, but because if John wanted to stay mad at him, he had to stay mad until the day he died, and there was just no point in that. Molly told John about the cases Sherlock had solve before he knew him, and John couldn't help but be amazed, delighted and irritated all at the same time. He always had to deal with extreme paradoxical emotions when it came to the mad detective.
He was just out of Bart's when his phone buzzed.
Come pik me up.
Citerion.
_Sh
John raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sherlock and typos? That was a first. He sighed, irritated all over again. It was around nine. He was tired and hungry; just wanted to go home, cook them a simple meal and pretend nothing had happened. Sherlock, though, always had other ideas.
Why can't you go yourself?
_JW
He knew it was a useless question to ask. There were never straightforward explanations when it came to Sherlock, but John couldn't help it. It must be something interesting for Sherlock to make typos.
Drunk
_Sh
Things kept getting weirder and weirder. As much as Sherlock was fond of cigarettes and drugs, he didn't share the sentiment about any alcoholic drink. Was this some ploy to attract his attention? Or was it another test?
Get a cab.
_JW
He'd be an idiot to walk right into another one of Sherlock's traps. John waited for five minutes but there was no reply which meant only one thing: Sherlock was going to wait for him until he showed up.
John was half-tempted to ignore Sherlock and go home. That'd certainly teach him a lesson, but damn it! Sherlock knew how to play, and he did it well. John was already intrigued. Why was he at the criterion? Why was he drunk? John was itching to find out.
Fuck it.
Criterion wasn't far away from Bart's and John decided to take a walk. Some waiting would do Sherlock good, and it would give John some time to puzzle out what was going on.
London was at its coldest and small snowflakes were falling down, illuminated under the city lights. John rubbed his hands together to warm them up. He stopped short in his tracks as he spotted his tall friend outside the restaurant's door, resting his head on the wall like a lost soul. Was he really that drunk?
John walked closer and, sure, Sherlock looked dead drunk. He hadn't even noticed John, his eyes down, his mouth hanging slightly open and giggling every now and then. His scarf and gloves were missing and his nose and cheeks had turned red from the cold. John didn't want to admit it; he really didn't, but Sherlock looked almost . . . cute.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock's head turned up at the sound and he grinned like an idiot.
"John!" He slurred and raised a hand to grab his coat sleeve, trying to bring him down. John resisted and tried to make the man stand up instead which turned out to be quite difficult. Despite being thin, Sherlock was heavy and it took some extra effort to keep him upright and get a cab at the same time.
"Come on. Let's get you home." John pushed Sherlock into the cab, went in after him and gave the cabbie the address. Beside stopping the cab two times so Sherlock could throw up out the window, it was quite an interesting ride. John tried to hide his smile as Sherlock talked a mixture of English, French and Spanish – John had no idea Sherlock could talk Spanish – and pointed at imaginary things on the road. It wasn't the first time John was seeing him so unhinged - Sherlock had pretty much the same after the Woman had shot him - but it had been different then. The whole police took advantage of that situation, taking films and photos as if Sherlock was some celebrity, but this time felt more . . . private, and therefore, much more enjoyable.
John shook his head as he helped Sherlock out the car, paid the cabbie with the taller man draped all over him, and tried to take him upstairs as quietly as he could. Mrs. Hudson was most probably asleep at this hour, but they made quite a scene going up, bumping into each other, hitting the wall and missing steps as they tried to reach the door. As John finally managed to unlock the door and get them both in, they were both breathless from exertion and laughter and John had mostly forgotten he'd been angry at Sherlock the day before.
Sherlock curled up on the sofa without taking his coat off and John went to get him a glass of water. When he came back to the sitting room, Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, his precious coat discarded at some corner.
"What are you doing up? Sit down before you fall down and hit your head somewhere. We don't want you to have brain damage. Do we?"
It didn't seem like Sherlock had heard what he'd said. Or at least the words didn't register. He stumbled a few steps forward towards John, and John rushed forward to catch him. The glass tilted and water dripped on Sherlock's pants.
"Damn it." John stretched his hand and put the glass on the coffee table with great difficulty. He tried to move Sherlock back to the couch, but Sherlock stood firm.
"Seriously, Sherlock, you need to sit down."
"John." Sherlock said as he tried to stand straight, his hands tightly gripping John's shoulder's. John stood frozen, wondering what Sherlock was going to say. There was a look in his eyes that seemed to speak of . . . trouble.
"John," Sherlock repeated his name, as though John was supposed to figure everything out by it, but John wasn't Sherlock, and all he could do was wait for Sherlock to say more.
But Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned down until they were face to face, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck and smelling of wine. John's eyes widened a bit, anticipating what was going to happen next. Was he guessing right? Was Sherlock . . . no, of course not. Why in hell would Sherlock want to ki –
Oh.
Sherlock did kiss him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to John's in a very drunk kiss. John stood paralyzed for a few seconds, eyes wide open, honestly not knowing what to think or act as Sherlock clumsily moved his lips and the tip of his tongue against John's lips, and that was when John realized:
No taste of alcohol.
Fuck.
John pushed Sherlock backwards forcefully. Sherlock stumbled back a few steps and grabbed the table to cushion his fall, clearly still trying to act drunk.
"Stop the acting. Just stop it." John almost shouted, his words hoarse for no good reason; his lips still tingling.
The transformation was . . . magnificent. Sherlock stood up; his back straight as he stared John in the eye with no trace of remorse, surprise or shame. If anything, he almost looked amused. Of course John had seen Sherlock act; loads of times, but it had always been for a case, for some client. This time, the acting was much more personal and hurt on levels John didn't know he was capable of feeling.
Why Sherlock? Why?
"Why?" John asked between gritted teeth, trying very hard to stay still and not do anything stupid.
"I'm not sure you want to know." Sherlock said languidly, the amused smile still on his lips
"That's never stopped you before."
Sherlock, the bastard, actually chuckled and looked at John with a glint in his eyes. Either he'd missed the anger and disbelief on John's face or he didn't care.
"Fine, take a seat." Sherlock said as he threw himself down on the chair.
"I don't want to sit down." John replied, suddenly remembering his first encounter with Mycroft. Damn the Holmes brothers.
"Was this another one of your tests?" John asked as he moved to stand in front of Sherlock, towering over him for once. He almost felt . . . humiliated. Sherlock's tests were something he was quite used to, but they had never been this personal, as thought there was an unspoken agreement between them to leave each other's emotions alone.
An agreement Sherlock had broken tonight.
"I had to make sure." Sherlock finally offered as an explanation.
"Sherlock," John said slowly, "I don't want cryptic remarks and eye rolls tonight. Explain." John had to know. He had to know what Sherlock was doing with their lives.
"Fine." Sherlock said as he stood up and walked to the other side of the room. John recognized the look on his face. He's seen it plenty enough, especially when he had observed things others hadn't and wanted to dazzle everybody within the two-mile radius with his genius, and John knew, he just knew he was going to hear some ugly truths that he most probably wasn't ready to hear. Sherlock was probably going to give him some bullet-proof evidence that John was gay after all.
"I had to make sure my speculations were true."
"Your speculations?" John asked slowly, trying not to aggravate him. There was a high chance Sherlock would give up on explaining. It had happened more often than not.
"That you're in love with me."
John only blinked in response. Of all the things he'd expected to hear, this wasn't one of them. Then again, everything was unexpected when it came to Sherlock Holmes.
"Come on, John! Even you must have seen it by now!" Sherlock had that face again. The face he showed whenever he was dealing with idiots.
"No, not really."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "You might as well accept it now before I pile fact upon fact for you against your reasoning that you're straight and you don't love me that way."
"I must insist." John felt numb, detached from his body. He almost didn't believe they were having this conversation.
"I've known it for a long time, obviously, but it was before The Woman's case. She told you, and now things have changed."
"What? You're afraid I might profess my undying love for you? Or jump you? John couldn't help but ask, his face blank.
Sherlock had the audacity to laugh.
"On the contrary, you're going to go out of your way to prove yourself otherwise."
John just looked at John. Sherlock sighed, irritated.
"Surely, you've seen it by now!" Sherlock's voice was turning to that irritated tone he always acquired when people didn't observe what he did.
"Sarah, Jess, Mary. Sweet, nice, boring. Nothing at all like me. All so angelic. All so incredibly boring. All so feminine. How could you possibly love me if you're in love with them? You're a man. You're oh so masculine. Look at the girls hanging on your arm. They certainly are no threat to your self-image as a soldier. A man." Sherlock paused to assess John's reaction. John didn't show anything.
"These beliefs are stupid and middle-class, of course, but it's too idiotic for you to try so hard with them and fail." Because they're not me was left unsaid. What was interesting, however, was the look on Sherlock's face. He almost looked . . . hurt. Well, as hurt as Sherlock Holmes could look.
John stayed still, half wanting to run out of the room before things went out of control, half curious to hear the rest of Sherlock's reasoning. He was feeling hot all over; partly because he still had his coat on, partly because the words were getting under his skin in a way he hadn't anticipated.
"Come on, we're practically in a relationship already. Everybody else sees it except you. I'm fine with things the way they are. You're fine with things they are. Well, you were until the Woman's case. Now you won't stop thinking about it. You're just so afraid you might be gay after all , at least unconsciously, that you're going out of your way to prove the world otherwise. Frankly, it's tiring to watch and a waste of your time."
John stayed silent for a long time, having no idea what to say to anything Sherlock was saying. Was he saying what John thought he was saying? And if the answer was yes, how was John was going to deal with it?
"You want to start a relationship." John said carefully, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. Well, at least this was familiar territory.
"You commonplace people with your commonplace needs and commonplace definitions of everything! I know exactly what I want and I have it, but not you, no. You can't walk on grey areas. It all has to be black and white. Gay or straight. Single or married. You can't take uncertainty. It'll drive you crazy. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your voice. You don't know what's happening. You're not sure if you want to love me. You won't accept not knowing, and you'll leave and marry some boring girl just to be certain what you're doing." And I don't want that. John was absolutely certain Sherlock was going to say it, but he didn't.
"Oh. So you're trying to be gracious and help me out by having a relationship that's close to my definition of a relationship." John was almost sure this was what Sherlock was trying to say.
"To a point." Sherlock finally broke the eye contact they were holding the entire time. He almost looked . . . hesitant.
"That's why I kissed you. I had to make sure."
"Of what?" John's breath hitched in his throat, and he wasn't exactly sure why.
"Two reasons. One to see if you reacted, which you did, and two to see if I could," Sherlock faltered for one tiny moment before resuming his rapid fire. "To see if I could find it stimulating."
John knew he'd be damned for eternity for asking, but he did anyway. "And?"
"I didn't. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to. I've known for a long time. I actually find it to be a relief not to be sexually stimulated by anything. If I could get rid of eating and sleeping, I most certainly would. Oh, don't look like that. It's nothing personal."
"I'm not looking like anything."
"Of course not."
"Sherlock," John said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. "You want us to have a relationship when you're asexual and I'm not gay?"
'You're certainly not completely straight either. I hate limited definitions. I suggest you stop trying to define yourselves by them. It's degrading."
"You think I love you so much that I only want to have sex with you." John couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.
"Of course not! Don't be preposterous. But you're quite adamant in your convictions. If you think there should be sex in a relationship, you'll try to have it. You certainly don't dislike it either. If your elevated pulse and flushed face were anything to go by. I think you're still too uncomfortable with the idea."
"You can't have sex anyway. What difference would it make?"
"You can't ignore your basic urges. The relationship would end before it begins."
"You want an . . . open relationship?" This conversation kept getting more and more unbelievable. Sherlock's matter – of fact face wasn't helping the matters at all.
"I wouldn't mind, but you, with your strong moral principle certainly would. It would end in drastic results. That's certainly not any of us want."
"What are you suggesting, Sherlock? I'm out of my depth here." John really, really was.
"I can . . . compromise." Sherlock finally said. " You know I'm a fantastic actor." And he had the audacity to smile.
John stayed silent for a few moments before walking to Sherlock and punching him in the face. He didn't wait to see the result, just managed to stride out of the room, slam the door, run down the stairs and walk into the open air to breathe.
To Be Continued . . .