A/N: Wow. Ok, I'm so sorry this took so long to post. This chapter was really fighting me. It is told alternating from John to Sherlock's POVs. I'm sorry if you find any spelling mistakes or grammar issues, I'll look over it again later with a fresh mind to try to rectify those. Any comments or feed back is greatly appreciated. Huge shout out and thank you to the lovely MoonSparkel, for helping me edit and brainstorm for this chapter. And huge thank you to all those who have read, reviewed, followed, and favorited, your support means a lot. Enjoy xx
John left 221 B in a hurry. Rushing down the street in no particular direction, his cheeks burned with embarrassment and confusion, and his heart sunk to his churning stomach. Nausea wormed itself into a knot in his gut and, he wanted to scream, and puke and rip out his hair, and go back into the flat and kiss Sherlock, added a small voice in the back of his mind. Horrified, he almost tripped over his own feet at the thought. "No, no no I do not!" He snarled under his breath, getting frightened stares from evening shoppers. He smiled apologetically at them, but it came out as a tortured grimace, and they quickly swerved to avoid him.
John had been walking for almost an hour, his mind was no longer swimming with agitation and it was getting late. He had unwound and had cleared his head, but he still wasn't ready to go back to the flat and face Sherlock. In his rush to leave, he had forgotten his coat, which had his wallet in it. Sighing, he fished his phone out of his trouser pocket and dialed Lestrade's number.
Ten minutes later, Lestrade's car pulled up and John was thankful to get into the warm vehicle. They drove in silence for several minutes before Lestrade spoke. "What did he do this time?" He asked tiredly. "Fingers in your bed? Eyeballs in your tea? Did he set fire to the kitchen again?"
"I don't really want to talk about it right now." John answered flatly, all he wanted was a stiff drink. Lestrade gave him a puzzled stare, John was usually more than willing to rant shamelessly about the irritating tendencies of his flatmate.
"Alright," He said, then almost as though he were reading John's mind, he said, "How about we go get you a drink?"
"God yes." John answered.
Sherlock stared in shock at the indentation in the bed where John had sat. How could he have been so stupid? This wasn't supposed to happen! John should be here, with him, the only anger should have been John's playful annoyance at Sherlock for not confessing his love sooner. Sherlock quickly rubbed the angry tears from his face. Armed again with the hard, emotionless expression he was so good at wearing, and began to scour the flat for a cigarette.
After ten minutes of searching, he threw his skull across the room when he discovered his last hidden emergency pack was no longer in the cranial cavity. It hit the wall with a loud thunk then rolled across the floor, leering up at him with an indifferent grin. He shot his beloved skull loathing glare and turned to the bookshelf in his desperate search for his fix. He violently pulled books off the shelves, they fell to the floor in a flurry of black and white. Their pages like the fragile wings of white monarch butterflies. They piled on the floor with a cloud of dust, their delicate yellowed pages bent and torn. Once he had pulled the last books off the shelves, he let out an agonized growl of frustration.
Sherlock needed an outlet, badly. He mentally cursed John for finding all of his hidden stashes of cigarettes and throwing them out. He stood at the desk, staring up at the cow skull on the wall, wishing for some consolation. Then, enraged at the skull's lack of response, he swept all the clutter off the desk in one swoop. The avalanche of junk hit the floor and several mugs shattered, and random trinkets skidded across the floor; John's laptop hit the floor with a loud crack. Papers floated to the floor, their quiet whispers the only sound in the flat other than Sherlock's harsh breathing. Sherlock racked his brain for any other places he might have a pack stored away. He opened all the drawers in the desk and instead of cigarettes, he found John's gun. He paced back and forth a few times before collapsing into his well worn armchair. He turned the gun over in his hands before raising it and without looking, began to shoot the mocking yellow smiley face on the wall.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson's voice yelled from downstairs. Sherlock heard her pounding up the stairs. "Are you putting holes in my wall?" She shrieked. She burst into the room and took in the scene. He let his hand fall and rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. "Sherlock! Look at the mess you've made." She said sharply. "Who do you expect to clean this up dearie? Remember, I'm not your housekeeper." She said, even though she bent down and began to stack the papers back onto the desk. She stopped though and looked at Sherlock, confused by his lack of response. She then noticed John's absence and with a look of understanding she put a hand on his shoulder, "Did you and John have another domestic?" She chided. Sherlock rolled away from her hand, then stood up, towering over Mrs. Hudson. "Why don't you give me the gun dearie." Mrs. Hudson said nervously, gently easing the gun from Sherlock's hand and putting it back in it's drawer. "There you go, why don't you go sit down, I'll make you a cuppa tea." She said, walking over to the kitchen.
"No, no, Mrs. Hudson, i'm perfectly fine." He snapped and followed her into the kitchen and began to shoo her out. "Really, I'm fine, I don't need anything." He steered her to the door.
"Oh! Sherlo-" the flustered woman started as she stepped into the hall.
"Goodbye Mrs. Hudson" He interrupted, and closed the door. He closed his eyes, listening to the loud silence that buzzed throughout the empty flat. Sherlock had never understood emotions before, he knew he had upset John but he wasn't sure how he was supposed to fix it. He didn't know if he could fix it, or if he wanted to. He wasn't even exactly sure what it was that needed fixing. Settling down into his arm chair once more, he pulled out his phone. As he debated whether to text John, he scrolled through his messages; there were several new cases, all of which he deemed mundane and facile. He scrolled past them, and was about to switch tabs to text John when a particular name caught his eye. The message read:
Sherlock old friend! It's been too long. I've been abroad since Uni doing humanitarian work and I've just returned. The first thing I see upon my return is nothing other than your face plastered over the front pages of the papers! Consulting Detective! So you took my advice and put your incredible gift to work doing some good. That's absolutely grand.
I saw that you've taken up a flatmate by the name of John Watson. Nice looking bloke, isn't he? I took the liberty of researching his blog, and what a life you two lead! Oh, do you remember the University days, Sherlock? When we were so young and blithe and free? I thought, and apparently incorrectly so, that those days were behind you. A certain someone had me under the impression that 'detective work was for amateurs', and I know better than anyone, Sherlock Holmes is no amateur. I was deluded to believe your massive intellect and superiority would be wasted and that the great Sherlock Holmes' would be reduced to nothing but a school dropout and a drug addict. How wrong I was...
My my, how I've missed you old friend. It is so good to see you are prospering and happy. Well, I say happy.. Nonetheless, I would love to catch up with you. Maybe have drinks and dinner sometime, I want to hear more about what you've been up to these last couple of years. Your charming Mr. Watson has such a lovely blog, his case write ups are superb, however, I'd love to hear about them from you. I doubt any ordinary person can capture the events so meticulously and accurately as you. Besides, I need you to catch a thief for me. He stole something of mine several years ago and I've just been reminded that he still has it. You can contact me at the same number as before, I trust you still remember it? See you at dinner. xo
-The one and only,
Victor Trevor
Sherlock reread the message several times. Even if he didn't know emotions, he knew when someone was trying to make an advance on him and Victor had made his desires more than painfully clear. He looked back at his previous messages to John, "John, please try to understand what I am going to tell you, and forgive me". He cringed at the stupidity of the text and deleted the conversation. He opened a new message, and scrolled through his few contacts, his finger hovering over Johns name before scrolling past it to type in Victors number from memory. He began his new message and tapped out a quick reply to Victors letter.
I have dinner ready, the address is 221 B Baker street.
-SH
John and Greg roared with drunken laughter at a story Lestrade had just told. Sobering slightly, John looked him straight in the eye, "'Sherlock told me a story tonight," John slurred, he pushed away his three empty pint glasses and empty shot glass so he could lean across the table towards Lestrade. "It was bout how Mycroft is a git and there was a mean tree. Or somethin' like that.. The bloody idiot!" He yelled. Lestrade cheered and raised his half filled glass, John brought up his and they tapped the cups together, then downed their fourth drink. "You know what he said next?" John asked.
"What did the bastard say?"
"He ges all serious, and goes, Jawn, I love youu" John drawled. Lestrade eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, then, as though having an epiphany, they straightened out, and his eyes widened.
"Ya know," Greg whispered, "I think that bloody idiot loves you". There was a pause, then the two broke out in hysterical laughter. Wiping tears away from his eyes, Greg slide into the booth next to John, "You know what elllse I think?"
"Hmmm?" John grunted.
"I think you," Lestrade said, prodding a finger into John's chest, "Love him too" prodding the finger with each word. They both quieted, staring into their empty glasses.
John's brow knitted in confusion, "but... I'm not gay.." He said, "am I?" He looked at Lestrade questioningly.
"Mate," Lestrade guffawed, and took a swig of the fresh pint that had been placed in front of him by the bartender, "I wouldn't know gay iff it hit me in the face." He wrapped his arm around John's shoulders. "But I think, even if itz not kissy kiss sorta love," he sputtered, laughing at the ridiculous phrase, "itz still love. Cos, if ya didn't love 'im why else would you still be livin with that git? I think, you two, love eash other very very mutch."
"Oh. Okay." John said, looking unsure but nodding anyways. "Ok, that's good."
Lestrade smirked at John's skeptical answer. "Do you love him?"
John's face fell, "I-I.. I dunno." He slurred. "Sometimes I think I love 'im, and sometimes I don't. I dunno, sometimes he thinks he's the bloody Queen and then I just wanna kill him. Then sumetimes, 'e's so mind blowingly, breathtakingly, astonsishingly spec-tac-u-laur," John drunkenly sounded out, "it's impossible not to love 'im." John turned towards the detective inspector, his unfocused stare gazing through him. The blissful, intoxicated laughter was gone, and the mood had darkened considerably. "Christ" John sighed, exhaling his sour breath into Lestrade's face. Lestrade finished off the dregs of his drink then sat up.
"Not that i'm an expert or anything," Lestrade said, "But that sounds like love to me. Come on, letz go home John." He said, standing unsteadily and grabbing his coat. He helped John up and the two of them staggered out of the bar.
Ten minutes later, the two clambered up the stairs to Lestrade's small apartment. Lestrade fumbled with the key for almost two minutes before finally swinging open the creaky door. They fell into the cluttered flat, John nearly tripped over a pair of shoes that had been thrown across the door mat. "Welcome to muh humble abodee." Lestrade slurred, "you can take the couch ovur there," He said, pointing to the sagging burgundy satee. "Ima go to bed, there are blankets in the ottoman, g'nigh." He said, "Dream happy dreams 'bout 'Erlock. Tha' bastard loves ya, don forget it, 'e really loves ya." Lestrade said, and retreated to his bedroom. John nodded, and blundered over to the couch. He pulled out a scratchy plaid blanket from the ottoman, and settled down onto the couch, not even bothering to take his shoes off. He drifted off to a restless sleep in a matter of seconds.
Sherlock sprang up when he heard a sharp rap on the door. The door swung open and there stood Victor. He was a tall, broad shouldered, tanned man. "Ah! Sherlock!" he exclaimed, gathering Sherlock in a close hug. His deep, hearty voice rumbled through Sherlocks torso, "you look marvelous old friend!" Victor said, taking a step back to look Sherlock up and down. "fantastic!" he murmured hungrily. He held up a bottle of wine, "I brought drinks!" he said, a broad smile dancing across his handsome face. His straight teeth were blindingly white against his sun kissed skin, and the gold flecks in his emerald green eyes flashed a bright contrast against his dark espresso, almost black hair.
Sherlock gave a stiff smile, in return. "Yes, yes, come in Victor, it's been a while. How are you?"
"Absolutely wonderful, especially now that I've reconnected with you." He said, beaming and almost radiating cheeriness.
"Please, have a seat" Sherlock said, motioning to the table, "Ah, I apologize for the mess, my flatmate is rather unorganized." Sherlock said, addressing the chaotic state of the room. He moved several test tubes and experiments to clear a space on the cluttered table so they could sit. Victor smiled at Sherlock fondly, knowing fully that it was in fact Sherlocks mess and not Johns. He set John's take out bag on the counter, opening it up to find a large pastrami sandwich and a Caesar salad side. He smiled, knowing John had intended to get Sherlock to eat by splitting the sandwich with him. He set out two plates and cut the sandwich while Victor lit two candles for the table. He felt a pang of sadness that it was Victor who he was here sharing the sandwich with and not John. Victor seemed to be the polar opposite of John; he was tall and lean, yet simultaneously muscular and build, his dark green eyes radiated confidence and authority rather than kindness and compassion. Faint stubble shadowed his jaw and his shiny dark hair was slicked back, highlighting his handsome and angular features, much different than John's light, downy hair that sat in a casual halo over his sweet, clean shaven face.
Victor spoke animatedly throughout the meal, recalling his tales of his time abroad, and prompting Sherlock for more details from his new life. Sherlock was quiet for most of the dinner, only speaking to ask an occasional question, or to give a few brief details of his life. Victor questioned Sherlock about his job, about his new flatmate, about how he came to stay in London, more about his new flatmate; all to which Sherlock gave vague and ambiguous answers. By the time they were done eating, Victor gave Sherlock a slightly rejected look, he reached across the table and took Sherlock's hand in his own. "Sherlock, have I said something to upset you? The entire evening you have been so disengaged. I realize you were never one to socialize, yet I sense there is something more. If I offended you in anyway, I sincerely apologize, please forgive me dear friend." He said, his eyes desperately flickering over Sherlock's unchanged face, trying to read his reaction.
"Victor, I am the one who should apologize," Sherlock sighed, "I have been an appallingly rude host, haven't I? Please, it isn't you. Earlier this evening, my flatmate and I, well, we had a bit of a falling out, and I'm still unsure about how to react." Sherlock explained, retracting his hand from Victor's as he spoke. Victor nodded understandingly, dropping the subject. Then he stood and moved over to the sitting room. He opened the violin case that was tucked besides the sofa, and gingerly took out the instrument, handling it like it was a sacred and fragile artifact.
"Will you play for me?" Victor asked, "The song you wrote for me in Uni?" He said, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Sherlock gave the faintest, ghost of a genuine smile in return, "Always" He responded in a hushed tone. Sherlock took his violin and raised it to his chin, then, his nimble fingers began to dance across the instrument and the bow tenderly caressed the strings. A beautiful melody filled the flat, the notes were drawn out in wavering precision. The song expressed love and tenderness, yet there was an undercurrent of sadness. The piece was played from memory, the composition a turbulent sea; its fluctuating notes revealing tender emotion and enveloping the flat in a dreamlike trance, reminiscing on all that was past and forgotten. Sherlock played, swaying gently to the music and leaning into the music, letting it pull him in every direction it deemed fit to take him. After several minutes, the song began to slow, and it came to an end on a long, flourishing note. Sherlock opened his eyes and found Victor standing inches away from him, they stared into each others eyes, icy silver-blue piercing into equally fierce blazing emerald green.
"Even more beautiful than I remembered." Victor murmured, not specifying whether he was referring to Sherlock, or his song. "About the case I mentioned in my letter.." He murmered as he leaned even closer, their bodies brushed against each other and they could feel the other's hot breath against their own lips. Victor brushed a strong, callused hand against Sherlock's smooth cheek. "Sherlock catch the thief that stole my heart." He breathed. He slid the hand from his cheek to cup the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stared at Victor in wonder, he marveled at the diversity in the human race, how different he was from John. Victor gave a soft grin, and pulled him closer still. He looked deep into Sherlock's eyes before he ghosted his soft lips against Sherlock's and his eyes flickered closed. Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second before his blue eyes fluttered shut, and he kissed back.
A/N: Ahh! As a Johnlock shipper, this last bit was so hard to write, omg, I almost deleted it. Don't worry! Things will work out for our boys eventually. Please leave a review, I'd love to get your feedback! Also, don't be afraid to PM me any suggestions you might have for the next chapter telling me things you'd like to see happen or thing you want to see more of, etc. Thanks! xx
P.S- If you'd like to hear what I imagined Victors song would sound like, I put up a link on my tumblr (My URL is on my profile page)