Future Tense
by J. Baillier
Chapter 3/3
The only room available in the dingy roadside motel has a double bed. John is too tired to develop any conspiracy theories about it.
"Why is this so awkward?" he blurts out after they are standing on opposite sides of the bed, about to take off their wet clothes.
"There's no reason it should be. We were flatmates for a long time."
"With separate bedrooms. You don't think the conversation we just had in the car changes anything?"
"I don't see why it should. It's not as if reality has been altered in any way. I'm still me, you are still you, Mary has known everything from the start."
"What about the baby?"
"Well what about it?"
"This is a fucked up scenario to bring a child into."
"Millions of people have complicated relationships. Studies say that all that's required for a child to thrive are at least one loving person in their lives, one friend in their peer group and the fulfillment of the lower tiers of Maslow's need hierarchy."
John stares as Sherlock. "You've done some sort of research into this, haven't you? Sherlock Holmes, researching babies."
"As I was saying, if one stable and loving adult person is enough for healthy development, I don't see why three wouldn't be even better. It's not like you would need to take me to school parents' nights and introduce us as some sort of polygamists."
"So you are going to be my thing on the side, then? My lover?"
Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration. "Enough with the labels!"
"I need some answers!" John yells, "Some sort of a fucking roadmap in this thing! I never know what I'm supposed to do with you, what to say, what the right thing is. Right now I don't know whether I should grab your knob or go sleep in the car."
Sherlock draws in a breath. "Sometimes I think you're not quite aware that you can hurt me." He rids himself of his t-shirt and socks and burrows under the covers, leaving John standing by the bed, looking forlorn.
Sherlock turns to face the opposite wall.
John balls up his his t-shirt and throws it onto a nearby chair. "Great. Just great. First you insist on having a talk like this, and then you start sulking."
There's no reply. John turns of the lights and slides underneath the duvet.
There's a bit of rustling from the bedding on the opposite side of the surprisingly large bed.
"Sherlock?" John tries quietly. "Sherlock, I'm sorry."
More rustling. "That's what you always say. First you indulge and then you try to negate it by apologizing," comes the reply from the opposite side of the bed.
"Indulge in what? We haven't even kissed."
Sherlock turns to face him. John can barely make out his outline in the dark.
"Yes, we have," Sherlock says quietly.
John sits up. "No, we haven't."
Sherlock seems to be fiddling with an errant curl. "Yes, we have," he tells John in a tone that leaves no room for doubt.
"When?"
"Stag night. On the stairs before we passed out."
"Why did you do that?"
"Wasn't me."
John gasps and takes a moment to process this. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I must've been so drunk, I don't even remember." Then realization hits him. "Oh my god. Oh god, Sherlock, it wasn't your-"
Sherlock reaches under his ankle to adjust the pillow he has arranged under his cast. "I don't put much weight to such-"
"If you say 'cultural construct' I'm going to make you regret it."
"Don't worry. You were very polite about it. Apologized profusely."
John reaches out to grip Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I stole your first kiss and couldn't even be arsed to remember it afterwards. It's my fault, really. I sort of rigged our drinks."
"You don't think I noticed?"
"Why didn't you say something, then? I thought you had a plan to regulate our intake."
"I was curious whether being inebriated enough would make you drop your cultural constructs," he comments in a somewhat mischievous tone.
"I know you're smiling into your pillow, you berk."
"You didn't steal a kiss, John. I think it would be a more accurate assessment that I tricked it out of you."
"Out of curiosity?"
"Pray tell, John. Do you kiss people out of curiosity or for some other reason?"
"Fair enough." John starts to remove his hand.
"Do you think -" Sherlock says tentatively, "-That under the circumstances you might leave your hand there?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Maybe."
Hours later, John wakes up to the sound of something large falling on the floor and then drawers and cabinets being opened. "Sherlock?"
The sounds stop.
John presses his fingers onto his eyeballs and rubs. Then he turns on the table lamp next to the bed.
Sherlock is sitting sprawled on the floor, his cast wedged between two chairs in what looks like an uncomfortable position. The minibar door is open and several miniature-sized whisky bottles sit open and empty on the table nearby. "What are you doing?" John asks.
Sherlock runs a hand through his curls. In the dim lighting John can make out that he is ghostly pale and a thin film of sweat has formed on his forehead.
"Are you trying to get drunk?" John interrogates.
"That would be a side effect, not the end result. I didn't want to wake you."
"Wake me for what?"
"The local anesthestic has stopped working," Sherlock admits.
"So you decided to douse yourself with tiny bottles of Jameson instead of asking for a painkiller? Seriously, Sherlock. You have no qualms about dragging me all the way to Scotland but won't wake me up if you're in actual pain? Jesus. They gave me your prescription and I filled it before we drove out of Edinburgh. You sat in the car while I went to the pharmacy, remember?"
Sherlock taps his forehead. "Must've been in the palace."
John gets out of bed and kneels down next to Sherlock, closing the minibar door. "Oh you idiot," he breathes out but doesn't sound angry at all. "Come on, let's get you off the floor." He circles his arms around Sherlock and pulls him to his feet. Soon Sherlock has regained his footing and has his crutches all ready and it would be logical to let go, but John doesn't. He just holds on, arms around his former flatmate, chest against chest.
It takes a moment before Sherlock raises his chin and meets his gaze, their faces mere inches apart. "Is this an experiment?" he asks quietly, whisky-smelling breath ghosting on John's face.
"Yes and no," John replies slowly.
Sherlock studies John's lips, his frown lines, his eyes. "You're thinking about kissing me. And you want me to stop deducing you."
"I never want you to stop deducing me. God, do you have any idea what it's like when you look at people like that, like they're the most fascinating thing in the universe? It's like being torn apart and being put together at the same time."
Sherlock bites his lip.
"What are you thinking about?" John asks.
"You. Breathing."
John suddenly lets go of him and steps back. "God, I forgot. Sorry, Sherlock, I- Just a minute." He goes to rummage around his coat pockets and soon presents Sherlock with two tablets. "Take these with water."
"Back to doctor mode, then?" Sherlock sounds lightly bitter.
John looks at him sternly. "Sherlock, I can't even begin to try to do this if you keep on with this running commentary all the time."
"'This'?"
"Whatever this is."
"You used a future tense, 'to try to do this', implying that you intend to take this relationship to somewhere it's never been."
"That's exactly what I mean. Enough with the analyzing. Now that it's been made clear that there is an actual possibility that we might not have to ignore certain things, I mean to see what sort of clusterfuck I might be able to make of my life. I need to sort these things out and it's hard when you're dissecting me all the time."
Sherlock swallows the tablets with water and puts his now empty glass on the table next to the bed. "I'm in love with you," he says.
The tension suddenly disappears from John's shoulders, making him look smaller. "I know," he breathes out.
Sherlock doesn't move, just watches him with an expectant look.
"One day, I think, I'll be able to say the same to you. When it's not weighed down with so much other stuff."
Sherlock's lips curl to a slight smile. "In a way, I think, you've already been saying it to me for a long time."
John smiles.
"Come on," John then says and offers his hand. Sherlock takes it and they head back to bed. John gingerly adjusts the pillows back to underneath the cast and shuts off the light.
The darkness is now somehow less heavy.
- The End -
My writing soundtrack for this story:
I Found by Amber Run
Just My Soul Responding by Amber Run
Honey Whiskey by Nothing But Thieves
Wake Up Call by Nothing But Thieves
5AM by Amber Run
Hanging by Nothing But Thieves