Chapter 4: Not Good
"That was..."
"Extraordinary?"
"... completely rude and unnecessary."
The smile on Sherlock's lips quickly vanished. "Was it?" he gazed at John with that expression that says: 'Hello! Emotionless high-functioning sociopath here! Care to elaborate what exactly I've done wrong?'
"The lady is crying her heart out, Sherlock," John hissed pointing to the direction of said lady.
"So I guess it was—"
"Yes, it was very not good," John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving some of the strands ruffled up. Sherlock had to fight the urge to reach out and tousle his sandy blonde hair even more. "It's utterly impolite to say to a very pregnant woman that she is as fat as a whale, and that's probably the reason why her husband is messing up with his PA. That was cruel, even for you."
"But she was teasing me, John!" Sherlock whined as he traveled his hand towards his patched up forearm to scratch it.
John noticed it and slapped his hand. "I'm not stitching that up any more Sherlock! Five times is enough. Next time you'll go to the hospital."
"But it's itchy!" the detective whined again.
"God help me."
Things were way too weird between them for the past few days. They were sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for Lestrade to go meet them and give them some more evidences on the Gonzaga case. At first John tried to talk Sherlock into recovering before taking on the case again, but it was like swimming against the current, and frankly, even John was getting bored from being stuck at home all day.
"Don't scratch," John was looking out of the window, but he was still watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "When's Lestrade coming, anyway?"
"Soon," Sherlock said absentmindedly.
"You said that half an hour ago."
"And now he'll arrive sooner than he would half an hour ago."
John slapped his hand again and Sherlock grumbled in annoyance.
"What has he found out?"
"That dead man that was found on Saturday wasn't, as I had already told them, Esteban Gonzaga," Sherlock said.
"Graciela's husband?" Sherlock hummed in agreement and John stared outside the window again. "Who was he, then?"
"The magic of genetics," the detective followed John's gaze into the slow moving street. "Twin brother."
"This case is getting funnier by the moment. I thought you knew who killed Graciela Gonzaga. You told me so."
"And I know. I just don't know where he is, yet. That's why we're waiting for Lestrade here," he sighed and sipped on his third cup of black coffee.
"Who is he, then?" John said slapping Sherlock's hand, yet again.
"Mr Gonzaga!" Sherlock said satisfied, a wide grin forming in his lips.
"But I thought—"
"The husband. He's the responsible for his wife's death as well as his twin's."
John grabbed Sherlock's hand and clutched it with a little more strength than necessary.
"I said. Don't. Scratch," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes and giving Sherlock the look. Then adopting his casual face again he proceeded. "Why would he kill them?"
Sherlock noticed that John's hand was still on his, but he kindly forgot to point it out. The doctor's warm hand did feel good on his cold skin. "She was pregnant," he responded as he remembered that John asked him something.
"Right. Do you think that Esteban thought the baby was his brother's?"
"Oh, I don't think he thought so. I know he knows so, you see, Mr Gonzaga had a vasectomy two years ago, in London Bridge Hospital, while on a trip to visit his family."
"But how do you know the brother is—"
"Paint diluent," Sherlock said shortly. "Diego Gonzaga worked for an art studio near Regent's Park. He had that illness that some might call 'sticky finger disease'. He was smuggling the studio's goods and selling them aside to make some extra money. I know he had been to Argentina in the past two months for the frankly alarming red circle he drew around the departure day on his kitchen calendar. He didn't bother to change it to this month's page though, which tells me he didn't really care about the date on a daily basis, so he was anxious to go. The dead woman—"
"Graciela," John sighed.
"—was, as you said, eight weeks pregnant, which coincides with the time of his trip," he finished completely ignoring John's input.
"What has the paint diluent have to do with all the rest?"
"Her hair smelled like paint diluent! I ran some tests and confirmed that the chemical compose of the diluent on her hair and the ones in Diego's attic were the same. She was with him before she died, probably to warn him about very-furious Esteban."
"You ran some tests? Wait, when did you— Oh, God Sherlock, did you sneak out on me, again?"
"You were sleeping so peacefully, John. I didn't have the nerve to wake you up," Sherlock said softly as he felt John's thumb circle on his hand. He was sure the doctor wasn't even noticing what he was doing, but it sure felt good.
"Have you told Lestrade yet? That you know who murdered them?"
"No, he hasn't, but I am sure he won't mind to enlighten me," a folder was tossed to the table, making John jolt in surprise. "Afternoon gentlemen," Lestrade greeted as he took a seat next to John.
The elder man's eyes fell upon Sherlock's and John's hands and he smirked. When the doctor noticed the DI's gaze he retrieved his hand quickly, his ears turning bright red. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed quite thwarted with John's reaction.
"Had a hard time getting away from the missus?" Sherlock asked with a dull expression.
John, who had picked up the folder and was going through the reports, lifted his eyes and glanced at Sherlock with that 'Oh here we go again,' look.
"Actually no, I had a hard time finding the data you asked me. Now, care to tell me why have you withheld something as important as... oh, I don't know... the identity of the murderer?" Lestrade fixed his dark brown eyes on Sherlock, practically demanding an answer.
The detective rolled his eyes and repeated his deductions to the DI, in what he would call an autopilot mode. His lips were moving and he knew what he was saying, but his eyes flickered to John every so often. Absorbing the way the sun was playing with John's flaxen tone of his hair, making it golden and fair; the way his eyes seemed so much blue than the usual liquid silver tone; the way his delicate, light brown eyelashes rested upon his lower lid in those milliseconds before revealing his eyes again; the way his brows furrowed as he read some of the disturbing details on the reports.
"The problem is that we don't know where he is," the doctor said, finally lifting his eyes from the paper. "We have nothing to go on."
"We know he was at the motel," Sherlock said vaguely, paying attention at the way John was licking his lips.
"Yes, but the motel is down now," the DI said in frustration. "We are two steps back."
"Or maybe not."
"What do you mean, John?"
"Well, the owners of the motel said they relocated everyone to several nearby hostels," John said, ruffling his hair again.
"There are hundreds of hostels in that area! It would take us days, weeks to find the right one," Lestrade complained.
"Yes, true. But as I said, the Golden Burrow Motel management relocated the clients, which means that they must have the client list register and the actual location. Right?"
For a couple of seconds no one said a word. Lestrade was considering the option and Sherlock was just astonished of how he hadn't think of that earlier. Was John slowing him down? Impossible, they've been working together for almost a year now and that was never a problem. Nothing changed, right? Right? Wrong. Everything changed. Sherlock thought as he looked again at John. He changed. No. I changed. No, that's not it either. I changed because of him. God, John Watson, what the hell did you do to me?
"You coming?" Sherlock noticed that both the DI and John were already halfway to the door. John stopped and turned back to Lestrade. "We'll meet you there."
The DI nodded and stepped outside the coffee shop, disappearing into the police vehicle.
John took his seat again and looked intently at Sherlock. "What's wrong, mate?" he asked.
"Everything," Sherlock said frowning. "Why would he blow up the place if it was just a jealousy affair? It doesn't make any sense!"
"Blow up the place? Do you mean the motel?" John said, a hint of aggravation in his voice.
Sherlock knew he had said too much. He had informed John the cause of the explosion was a minor gas leak. But now he's mouth slipped to the truth. "Well, yes."
"You said it was—"
"I know what I said. I also know that if I had told you the truth you would be worrying after nothing!"
"Nothing, Sherlock?" John hissed, furiously. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean? You tell me that the place was deliberately trapped and you say I shouldn't worry about it? You could've died, for fuck's sake! What on earth is wrong with you?"
"I could've, but I didn't, did I? As far as I'm concerned, I am still here," Sherlock said, trying to sound calm and casual.
"What if it wasn't a coincidence, Sherlock? What if they knew you were to be there, investigating a mur— Oh God."
Sherlock met John's eyes. He was pale and his expression was blank. "John?"
"This all thing is a bloody set up to get to you, isn't it? This murder is just foreplay, a-a decoy," John turned his eyes away from Sherlock's and frowned. "How could you not tell me about this? I thought we were in this shit together!"
"And we are John—"
"The fuck we are, Sherlock!" John snapped, punching the table, making Sherlock jump in his seat. "I know I'm no Sherlock fucking Holmes, and I don't have the massive amount of intellect or cleverness that you have, but hell, I at least try! Stop being such an idiot! You don't have to do this alone! I thought—" John stopped abruptly and clenched his lips between his teeth. "I thought you knew that no matter what the hell happened I would be there. I care about you. You should start caring too."
Sherlock saw John get up almost knocking the chair down as he did so. He stood there, a massive lump on his throat and a huge burning sensation on the left side of his chest. He'd done it good this time. He would never think that John was going to react like that, though.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock managed to ask as John passed by him to exit the coffee shop.
"Lestrade's waiting for you," John said heavily, staring forwards.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock repeated, this time arranging courage to look at John's features.
"Home," John replied sharply. "Try not to die meanwhile. Not that you care."
And with that he left the establishment. Sherlock saw him slide his hands inside the jacket's pockets and bow down his head in a defeated way. I've hurt him. He said he cares about me. What does that mean? Sherlock sighed and deposited a fiver on the table before going out. He buttoned his dark woollen coat and adjusted the scarf around his neck, walking steadily to the road to hail a cab. In the distance he could spot a golden head descending the steps to the London tube.
Why would John lose his temper like that?
Oh, you know why, Sherlock. Everything has its limits, even John Watson's patience.
Oh, shut up! He only lost his temper when I told him about the real cause of the explosion.
No, Sherlock. He lost his temper precisely because you didn't tell him about the explosion. He trusted you.
He still does.
Does he?
He cares about me. He said so.
Care doesn't equal trust, though.
No, it doesn't.
And you care about him too. More than you'll even admit to yourself.
Shut up! He's useful and that's that. I think better when he's around.
He puts up with a lot of your... let's call it 'extravaganzas'.
And yet he's still here.
Oh, no, Sherlock. Look around you. Do you see him there?
He's at home, waiting for me.
Yes but for how long?
I don't know. I just know that when I arrive home he'll be there on his armchair watching crap telly and sipping on his cuppa... Oh Christ, look at me! You're making me think like an emotional teenager!
Isn't that sweet?
What part of 'shut up' did you not understand? And why do you sound so much like Mycroft? Get out of my head!
It's time to make a choice, Sherlock. John won't be there forever. What is it that really matters to you?
Sherlock shook his head, clearing his thoughts and looked outside the cab window at the moving streets. He had been so busy having an internal thought battle that he didn't even noticed that he had hailed a taxi. He recognized the way to the Golden Burrow Motel and frowned. Time to make a choice. Sure Lestrade could figure out where the man was by himself, couldn't he? On the other hand, this could be the main clue to get to Moriarty. He knew all of this was Moriarty's doing. Besides, John is going nowhere. He leaned back against the seat and smirked.
...
"Two weeks together, that's all it took, two weeks for me to fall for you."
He sat on his favourite armchair and sipped his cuppa, involving his shoulders with the woollen blanket.
"You don't scare me, John."
"Well, you scare me."
"Americans." John snorted and looked around for the remote. He spotted it on top of the coffee table. Bugger! I don't want to get up now. I'm comfy! He sighed and looked at the telly, rolling his eyes at the sickening fluffiness.
"Dear John, Should I start by telling you that I love you... If you come back I'll marry you..."
"Yeah, right, like that's going to happen," John said bitterly.
"After I got shot, you wanna know the very first thing that entered my mind? Before I blacked out? Coins," 'John' said.
"Now that's bullshit! You get shot at war and you think 'Oh fucking hell, I'm going to die'! Not coins!" the doctor roared as he glanced at clock on top of the hearth.
Three soft knocks sounded at the door. John looked over his shoulder, still too lazy to get up.
"Who's that?" he asked from his chair.
In response he heard three more knocks. He got up with a huff and put down his cup on the arm-rest of his chair. Making his way to the door he went through the possibilities. Sherlock had the keys, so did Mrs Hudson. Maybe Mycroft? God, he really wasn't in the mood to have a chat with Mycroft.
"Afternoon, how can I help you?" He said, looking at the woman in front of him. She was carrying a small travelling bag and her curly red hair was wet from the rain that had started to pour.
"Hello, you must be Mr Holmes?"
"Doctor Watson, actually. Sherlock's not home at the moment, miss..."
"Evelyn Harper. I'm Martha Hudson's niece, she said to knock on your door if I needed anything and, well..." she hesitated. "I locked myself out of the flat and Aunt Martha said you had the spare key."
John smirked and nodded. "Sure, no problem. Let me just— Come in, don't stay there, or stay there if you like. Do whatever... right. Where did Sherlock keep that key?" John babbled, stepping to the kitchen.
"I'm sorry to bother you Doctor Watson. My wife often says that the only reason I still have a head is because it's attached to the rest of my body. Wise woman she is."
John smiled. "Found it!" he chanted as he returned to the sitting room with the pink key on his hand. "I'll help you with that," he said pointing to the bright yellow suitcase.
Five minutes later he was sitting on Mrs Hudson's couch and Evelyn was warming up some water for tea. He was feeling quite uncomfortable there, but she had insisted on thanking him with a nice hot cuppa, and being John Watson, how could he refuse? Her bright ginger hair was now up in a ponytail, revealing an interesting tattoo on the back of her head.
"It's Caitlin's lips," she had informed him later while in the middle of talking about art galleries in London, the conversation had detoured to tattoos. "She wrote me a letter when she asked me to marry her, with a lipstick kiss on the bottom. When we celebrated our one year anniversary she tattooed my name and I tattooed her lips."
"That was clever. So how long have you been together?" John asked her politely.
"We were going to complete our three year anniversary this month," he noticed the vague trembling on Evelyn's voice and sipped on his cuppa, not knowing what to say. "We're getting divorced. That's why I'm coming to London."
John was glad he didn't have to ask. He knew how divorces were. Still today, Harry was having a hard time with hers. "I'm sorry to hear that. I know how hard it is."
She smiled shyly and nodded. "So you...?"
John seemed a bit lost at first, but he soon got the track of the question. "No, hell no! My sister. She divorced around a year ago and it's still hard on her." Hey, maybe I should introduce Evelyn to Harry... once she sobers up. On a second thought...
"Oh, alright," Evelyn shifted uncomfortably on the couch and John could almost read on her mind what she was about to say. "Are you and Mr Holmes together? If you don't mind me asking, of course."
John sighed. He was used to people assuming that. Two men sharing a flat and Sherlock's frankly admirable tolerance to John's presence, considering his sociopathic nature...
"No. We are not together," he said with a reassuring smile.
Evelyn looked at him with a knowing look, as if she could see past his expression and just know about John's true feelings for Sherlock. Well, if she did know something, she didn't mention it. Nor could she, given that as she opened her mouth to speak, the main door burst open and shut again with a force of a tornado. Steps flying up the stairs towards his flat and that baritone voice thundering as the door upstairs flung open.
"John?"
The good doctor closed his eyes, trying to contain the uncomfortable shiver that rushed down his spine. He heard Evelyn put down her cuppa and she brushed a hand on John's forearm.
"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she said with a warm smile.
"What for?" he asked, only to remember that he was the one who opened the door to Mrs Hudson flat. "Oh, it was noth—"
"For listening. For not judging. Just thank you," Evelyn said wrapping her arms around the doctor in a quick hug. "You should go, now. Someone is hasty to see you."
John nodded and she led him to the door. Upstairs the voice thundered again, calling his name and he rolled his eyes.
"If you need anything, anything at all, please let me know," he said politely.
"Thank you again," she said. Then he turned away and she closed the door behind him.
John climbed the stairs slowly, making time, not wanting to see Sherlock right away. He was still pissed off with the fact that he had lied to him. Why would this brilliant man with his exceptional brain, function so perfectly well in the most complicated circumstances, but when confronted with situations of his own concerning the work and effort seemed so frustratingly void?
John wasn't stupid, he was an idiot, but not stupid. He knew what sociopath meant, high-functioning or not, so he wasn't really expecting that Sherlock would reveal his fears with words, or that his perfectly deliberated blank expressions would show any change if he actually felt threatened. All John asked for was honesty. 'John, I think the explosion was meant for me.' That's all he asked.
Yet no. Sherlock was Sherlock. He always worked alone. At least he thought he had to, because his intellect was so unique and extraordinary that it seemed that if he came in contact with even a slight hint of humanity, he would become crippled or something. Humanity was Sherlock's Kryptonite. He pushed away care and feelings and emotions as if they were radioactive, and that hurt John in a very odd way.
He reached the doorknob and twisted it slowly, breathing deeply and putting on his best bad-arse military face. The one that said 'fuck off Sherlock, I will not endure any more of your crap today'. So he stepped in and turned to close the door, but as he did so, he felt a tight grasp on his upper arm and then someone twisting him around so his back were fully pressed to the door, the momentum of his motion closing it with a loud slam.
It took him about two seconds before his army training kicked in and he struggled against the tight grip, only to widen his eyes at the pale fingers burying in his woollen jumper.
"Sherlock, what the hell?" he managed to say, surprised of how rough his voice sounded.
He looked up at the man's face and met his usually clear blue eyes. Right now they were dark and deep and scary. Sherlock's pupils were way too dilated to be just a light effect. John felt his heartbeat increase significantly, and his breathing had become quite irregular.
"John," Sherlock chanted in a whisper, leading his hand to John's face.
"What are you doing?" John asked shockingly, as he jerked his face away from Sherlock's touch.
He noticed the slight squirm of disapproval in the detective's features. Sherlock didn't respond, instead he gracefully changed his grip on John's left arm and slid it against the door until it was pressed under his hand, just above the doctor's head. Then he stepped forward, pressing his long lean body against John's, bowing his head down to meet his eyes.
"Sherlock, this is not funny," John said trying to sound harsh, yet failing miserably. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Seriously, let go of me."
He was too bloody aware of Sherlock's figure against his own, the tension building on his lower half. This is so not the time for that! For Christ's sake! He whined internally, still too shocked to make a move. What was wrong with Sherlock?
"You said you cared about me," the detective said at length, breathing out every word so each one sounded like a murmur, a whisper, a prayer.
John nodded. "Yes, I did, didn't I?" he mentally slapped his face for being so reckless with his words earlier today. "So what? It's my job to care about you. I'm a doctor, so I care, and you're my best mate, so, by extension, I care about you."
And there it was. The Cheshire Cat grin made its way, yet again, to Sherlock's lips, and John had to count to ten very slowly so he would resist the temptation of kissing it off his face. He forced his eyes to shut, closing the direct contact to the taller man's insufferably perfect features. Breathe you fool! A voice in his head shouted, and John actually noticed that he was holding his breath. Soon he realized that closing his eyes was a big mistake.
"My John," Sherlock breathed into his ear. His lips moving so closely that John could almost feel their touch on his skin.
He felt the scent of Sherlock, the heat of Sherlock, the body of Sherlock. Another shiver made its way through John's spine and he exhaled loudly, trying to focus on ending this whatever that his flatmate was playing. Only then Sherlock's words really started to register in his forever one-step-behind brain. 'My John'? What? He opened his eyes and stared at the long pale neck just close enough for a bite. He fought the urge of brushing his lips through the fair surface.
"Let me go," John said, proud of the steady tone in his voice.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" the detective asked pulling away from John's ear and locking their eyes.
"Very much so."
"How very interesting," Sherlock said leaning two inches forward. "May I know why?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you're invading my personal space?" John asked sarcastically.
"I've invaded it before and you didn't seem to mind then," Sherlock pointed out. "So, why? Why, John? Why do you really want me release you?"
"Because, Sherlock, I swear to God that if you don't, I will lose what little rests of my self-control, I will pin you down, I will rip your clothes off and fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for a whole fucking month," John answered hoarsely looking deep in Sherlock's gaze. "Get. Off. Me. Now."
John felt satisfied at the surprised look on Sherlock's features, just to mentally slap himself again at what he'd just said. What the fuck, Watson? Are you high or something? You STUPID git! He noticed that Sherlock had loosened the grip on him and as soon as he felt it, he ducked under his arm and went straight to his room, slamming the door behind him.
...
Sherlock could hear the sound of fist on brick, followed by a moan, over and over again. He calmly sat down on the couch, pressing his palms together and resting his elbows on his knees. Words still fussing around that brilliant brain of his.
The thing is, Sherlock wanted to make up for John. He wanted to talk to him about what happened in the coffee shop earlier and ease the tension between them. When he arrived and didn't see John on his chair, as he thought he would, he pretty much panicked. Then he noticed the still hot tea on the arm-rest and the lame American film that was presenting on the telly. It was about a man called John who had been to war and got shot, and it rang a very loud bell.
He called for his John. He called for him over and over again, entering each and every room of the flat to see where he was. Then he glanced at the telly again. 'John' was having a fight with a girl. Something about 'you promised you would wait', or something, and a sharp weird pain shot through Sherlock's chest. When the door to the flat opened, he just couldn't help himself. He wanted to be sure, he needed to be sure, he had to be sure that his John was there for him and that he hadn't left him after their disagreement. Unfortunately that didn't really work as expected, and instead of solving things, Sherlock had the dreadful sensation that he just made them worse.
"I'm going out. I need... air," John announced after spending the last ten minutes punching the wall.
Sherlock lifted his eyes to him and glanced at his left hand only to confirm that it was bruised and bloody. "Are you going to take long?" he asked before he was able to stop the words to flow from his lips.
"Oh, I will return," John said with a humourless laugh. "Eventually."
And with that he went out of the door, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts, for the third time that day.
I will assume he's still angry at me, then. Sherlock thought, releasing the breath he didn't know was holding. Seeing John so infuriated with him disturbed him more than he would imagine. Furthermore, being as close to John as he had been had had some surprisingly powerful repercussions over his own body. But what truly startled him were John's words. Sherlock recalled each one perfectly clearly, the way John looked at him with his dark gaze, the way each word hissed out of his lips, penetrating through his ears and going straight to his, now aching, groin. It was like he was floating, like he was trapped inside a dream where he couldn't pinch his arm to wake up.
Maybe the fact that he was... no, he would not think of it. He couldn't face how weak he was, how miserably he had failed. That would be the end of him. If John knew— NO! His mind shouted. That wasn't even an option. If John even thought about it, Sherlock would die; well maybe not literally, but one never knows. Since when have I become so dependent of his presence?
Instead of rumbling around all this fuss and confusion, Sherlock decided to press the stand by button on his hard drive and shake those thoughts away. John would come back and then all would be well. He grasped the Gonzaga's case folder (or Family Affairs, as John would certainly put on his dreadful blog) and went over the crime scene photographs again. They had caught this bandit, but Moriarty was still out there and every detail could be crucial.
A/N: Chapters are getting bigger and bigger. And I just can't help it! Oh yeah... references from the film Dear John (which I don't own) and blah blah blah... anyways. Please Review! Let me know what you think and stuff... you know, for charity. Exciting things are going to happen in the next chapter! Promise!
*Bloo*