With the exception of cocaine floating around the house, Sherlock didn't change his compulsive habits very much at all. He was still rather wrapped up in the height of the case and, while John appreciated the detective's stash flushed down the toilet, the house was still a complete and utter mess. However, because of his discovery of the gender of the culprit, Sherlock did reward himself with some sleep. John supposed cleaning the house could be put off until tomorrow.
"Just how did you know? Wasn't this last crime scene like all the rest?"
"It was. Don't you see, John. That's the point!"
"No, sorry. Guess I don't."
"Oh, but it's so unbelievably simple," and Sherlock continued to explain something about the marking on the wall. Apparently the criminal was in a rush this time around, and the marker strokes were more feminine (whatever the bloody hell that means). John really couldn't keep up. At this point, his mind was wandering to better, or worse, places.
They were both lounging in John's bedroom, enjoying a light conversation about the crime scene of a mass kidnapping. The concept of normality John held now, in comparison to before he met Sherlock, appalled and astounded him. He felt comfortable, even inviting, the other man in his bed. Sherlock sleeping with him meant no nightmares. No nightmares meant a full night of sleep. And a full night of sleep made John happy.
So, with a couple of shortcuts, Sherlock made John happy.
And he did, in a couple ways. The detective gave him adventure, a sense of purpose. There had never been a dull moment as soon as he stepped into 221 B. It was exhausting; it was wonderful. It was frightening; it was bewildering.
"Any guesses as to where she's going to strike next?" John replied with a yawn, showing his immediate attention to the details of the case.
"Not a guess. Never a guess. Deduction, John." He looked as severely serious as ever. "And yes, to answer that hideously cliche question. I've tracked down one child I'm certain she'll visit two nights from now, to throw us off."
"And lemme guess. We're going to beat her to 'em?" The doctor replied with a loud sigh, although he could already feel the excitement brewing in the pit of his stomach.
"Ugh, that word again. And, yes... in a sense." Sherlock looked a bit devious, knowing, which made John's gut clench. That look of mischief always meant he was planning. Just what was as much of a mystery as the case itself. "Well, good night." The detective then proceeded to slip himself under the comforter and curl up into a ball, per usual. It felt so mundane at this point, and John knew very well that it shouldn't
"You mean that's all the hint I get?!" John scoffed at Sherlock, still very awake and upright.
"Yes, good night John."
Typical Sherlock to leave him guessing, deducing, as he put it. God, what he would give to just spend a moment in his mind, just to see what it was like. He imagine it would be like a computer, processing complicated formulas and deducing but lacking the humanity, the emotion, to comprehend social standards and boundaries. It would feel perhaps... empty. John's eyes flickered over Sherlock's sleeping form. He felt sympathetic towards the detective, unknowing when he should be all-knowing. Living without feeling, without sharing a human connection with anyone. He was a stranger to everyone.
John could merely hope he was that human connection.
John Watson embodied the very idea of strength. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He was a fighter, a life-saver. But moments in his life, he felt so incredibly insignificant, helpless. This was especially evident in his nightmares. It wasn't so much the war scenes that really shook him, but it was his own immobility inside of them which seemed to terrify him to tears.
He never remembered them, and nor did he want to; he only knew they rattled him awake, gasping and sweating, looking for some anchorage in reality.
That night was, to his disappointment, in succession to the rest.
Whatever the dream was it must have been devastating, because he was slammed into consciousness with stinging eyes and a dry mouth. John shivered, convulsing as sweat rippled down his thick skin. He clenched onto his damp pillow, attempting to gulp down tears with his sandpaper throat.
He was bleary, his mind flickering between consciousness. But he could faintly, just quite faintly, remember something cool and inviting on his skin. It was like ice; so very cold. It made him shiver with minute delight. Fingertips grazing the back of his neck, just like in his sickly imagined fantasies. He felt relaxed, and he drifted with the feeling of that cool, soft sensation against his radiating skin. Slipping into a new dream, somewhat similar to this "dream," he grinned pleasantly into his pillow.
He was still asleep. He was still dreaming. It was all just a dream.
At least, that was his explanation.
"So, what's the big idea having me hide under the bed? Isn't that a little, oh I don't know, cliche?" Steam was coming out of John's nostrils as they went over the plan in the taxi. Sherlock, of course, gave him the ass-end of the deal as usual. And, also as usual, he never got quite a full explanation.
Sherlock chuckled deeply. It was all one big joke to him. "Don't you worry your pitiful little brain, John." It was late, eleven maybe twelve, when the detective decided to grab a taxi across London and, once more, forced John to pay the fare.
"You know, this whole 'John picking up the cab fare' is getting awfully-"
"Stop talking and thinking, for God's sake," the brunette flung his scarf over his shoulder, long legs moving even quicker. John could barely keep up. He hated it. Being confused, being thrown around place to place. It was overwhelming and, yet, he couldn't ask for anything more.
The next house, which unsurprisingly was a mansion, was told to be vacant. Something about that definite statement didn't sit right with the doctor.
"So, just where are you going to be? In the closet?" That may have been the wrong choice of words. John hadn't brought up last night because he was still unsure whether it actually happened or not. Good lord, he hoped not. His life already complicated enough with his own urges.
He needed a girlfriend. Far too long had he been shunned from a woman's touch. It would set him straight, and probably in the most literal sense possible.
"Humorous, but I've already told you I'm married to my work." He could pin point the faintest smirk on the detective's face.
"Not what I meant." John scowled, giving up entirely on Sherlock and his trickster ways. He would go with the plan because, in all honesty, there was never a reason to doubt the Sherlock Holmes.
So John entered the dark house alone, a chill running down his back at the thought a kidnapper could be visiting any moment. But, of course, this feeling was what he truly missed. The anticipation, the unknown, no, the anxiety to know. Sherlock always made him wait until the very last second, however, to explain the whole situation to him. This whole thing about having John hide under the bed could very well be completely meaningless to the entire case.
He entered the child's bedroom with his heart hammering in his throat. The criminal was female, which should have comforted the doctor, but often times that was the scarier alternative. Anyone who knew John knew he was terrified of women, especially when they were provoked. His last relationship left him with a bruised cheek and a lot of apologies to make at his current clinic. A female's revenge was something that scarred lives and ruined relationships, and cars for that matter.
Under the full-size bed he squeezed, taking every muscle just to fit in the space between the floor and the frame. It was uncomfortably tight, but not constricting. John would be fine for an hour or two, a hand-gun loaded in the pocket of his jeans, for the culprit to come climbing through the window.
He waited with the patience of a steady-handed surgeon.
And waited.
Until his patience grew thin like blood after taking aspirin.
The minutes seemed to crawl by without a clock for reference. And this plush, carpeted floor felt especially forgiving after a long day of bending and reaching while cleaning out the apartment. His eyes slowly began to close, the melatonin dribbling into his brain convincing him that he'd wake up if he heard a noise.
It made a well enough argument. He was asleep within minutes.
John awoke with sunshine, aged approximately 0500 hours, glaring in his face through the blinds of his bedroom.
If only this was his bedroom.
No, in fact this wasn't his bedroom. It was a bedroom painted bright blue with decals of soccer balls and racecars all over the walls.
It was the crime scene.
He shot up with the forgetful notion of being underneath the bed, and instantly thumped his head against the metal framing of the bed. Groaning in pain, the doctor rolled out and took his slow time getting up from the floor. He was sore, had a throbbing migraine, and finally came to realization that he fell asleep on his look-out job.
God, Sherlock was going to kill him.
With an aching back and a heavy chest, he started out of the bedroom all while rehearsing his apology in his head.
And he'd be out of the room and down the hall if it wasn't for shoe catching on something.
A full plate of chocolate-chip cookies positioned at the very foot of the door.
Note: Sorry for the absence, and the not-so-consistent, probably really terrible chapter! Tests, finals, and graduation have been taking up most of my time, but I'm almost out which means more time to write. Enjoy more dramatic irony (for me that is!). Haha. -dredfish