Oh, I'm cold. It's snowing. Perfect weather for fanfiction.
When John awoke, it was dark outside. Molly was still next to him, sighing softly all twisted up in her blanket, but her forehead was rested easily on John's shoulder and her hair was, if possible, more matted than before. John moved her head gently from his good shoulder and got up, pushing off his own blanket which he didn't remember pulling over himself. As he stretched, he noticed that the light was on in the bathroom and that the heavy maroon curtains had been pulled across the windows.
Rubbing his eyes, he shuffled towards the bathroom, manoeuvring about boxes,, and as he neared, he sleepily realised that he could hear noises on the other side of the door, which was ajar.
Was that Sherlock?
He squinted at his watch, and ran his stiff fingers through his hair. 3AM. He and Molly had fallen asleep quite early in the evening- if it could even be called that- and so it was only concomitant for John to arise in the premature hours of the morning.
"Sherlock?" he asked timidly, pushing open the door. It was, in fact, Sherlock, but he was hunched over the toilet. For a moment, John thought he was unconcious and rushed over, but as he tipped Sherlock's head back, lifting it ever so delicately from the seat of the toilet where he'd rested it, he saw two tired blue eyes staring up at him, unseeing, blinking at him in confusion. John bit his lip, and grabbed a yet unused flannel which he assumed belonged to the man, and, pushing his sweat jewelled hair out of the way, dabbed at his forehead.
"John," he said finally, thankfully sounding as if he had ahold of himself more than the situation had originally made out. "You're still here."
"Of course I am," John replied irately. He noticed that the white and blue shirt Sherlock had been wearing was ripped at the sleeve, and had been unbuttoned to a degree that would have been considered indecent on the streets of London. Though the rules must be different in Sherlock's case, John pondered. "What on earth have you done?"
"I told you," Sherlock began, but before he could finish, he leapt over the toilet bowl and threw up a bit- not much, it was more at the black bile stage- and slumped back down again, John wiping his mouth with the damp and now warm. "I was working."
"And... Are you ill?"
"No."
"Did you eat something funny?" John asked, ignoring his last answer.
"No," Sherlock exhaled heavily.
"Did you eat at all?"
"No. If you must know, sex makes my stomach uneasy."
"And sweaty?"
"Are you a virgin, John? Yes, it did, I had two clients and I ran home. Happy?"
"No," John snapped, before rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This wasn't Sherlock's life choice. Not really. "I'm not a virgin, and I-"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No."
"Do you have a boyfriend then?"
"I...! What- no."
"It's alright with me if you do, you know."
"Of course it is, I know it's alright- you... Why did you run home?"
"Hackney, at 2am? Is Molly still here?" he enquired, his voice peaking into alto to show his interest, as if getting bored by the former line of enquiry John was taking.
"You ran all the way from Hackney?"
"On and off. Is Molly still here?" He asked again.
John steadily poured a glass of water from the tap and handed it to Sherlock. "Of course, she's asleep. She was talking about you."
"That's nice." Droll. Not really whining anymore, perhaps done with the idea of being ill. It seemed Sherlock, could, in fact, pick and choose what mood he would be in without any "human" inflictions- much like choosing what one should put on one's toast.
"She likes you, you know, Sherlock," John pushed. Sherlock observed the water, as if it was some sort of comic poison spurting green smoke, but, giving a cock of his left eyebrow, raised the glass to his lips and sipped at it, and pulled a face- though the facial reaction was for what John had just said, and not the water, as John considered for a split second.
"Again, that's nice. Why, do you not like me, John Watson?"
"I... You're a difficult sod," he smiled, "But you're smart, and spontaneous to say the least, and yes, I do like you. But Molly like likes you."
"Like likes?" he asked, and John stared at him in disbelief. He had to be putting it on, he thought- he was a hooker, for fuck's sake, of course he knew the school playground talk as well as he did the backstreets of London. Which was pretty well, judging by the complexity of the route he'd made the taxi take on the way back to 221B earlier; something John thought to be a bit of a pointless exercise, seen as this Sebastian Moran knew where they were if he needed to come after Sherlock.
"I know," Sherlock interrupted sharply as John opened his mouth to speak. Slumping back against the tiles, his blue eyes turned directly to John as he implored, "I've heard this all before. John, it's my job to make women fall in love with me."
John snorted. "You have no idea how much I want to punch you when you say that." He was grinning, because it was intended as a joke, but when he saw Sherlock's expression fall, he realised his blunder and wanted to punch himself instead. Idiot, John Watson.
"Sherlock, I didn't..." he blundered, and, slightly to his surprise, Sherlock's face straightened again; though not fully, just into a kind of lethargic, meagre curving of his rosy lips.
"I understand," he mumbled. He didn't want to feel sorry for himself, nor did he want anyone else to feel sorry for him. Or at least, such was what John could deduce, as the younger man unfolded his awkwardly long and gangling limbs and then leapt to his feet with surprising velocity.
"Coffee?" he asked, ridiculously chipper again.
"Bloody hell, you're going to be a nightmare to live with if coffee at 3am is the norm round here," John cursed, though the mellow tone of voice he utilised for the reprimand wasn't particularly in situ with the content.
Then again, nothing around this damnable flat made any sense. Just to start- Molly was still there, while Sherlock and John conversed about arabica in the small bathroom. Then there was the fact that John was discussing arabica, being an invariable tea drinker; and with Sherlock Holmes no less: this brilliant yet "low" man, who John had no doubt was intelligent enough to become a detective as John had once considered him to be should it have, in the past, taken his fancy, yet he was doing something illegal and degrading for the money. And money was nothing to him. But to him, and, John guessed, probably Molly (what else had she meant by "paternal" other than financially?) money was essentially, freedom.
"No, it's not."
"Wha-"
And then there was something else to do with Sherlock's occupation. And it had taken John a few minutes to pick up on it- but he was pretty sure that, despite never having homosexual tendancies ever before in his life, this stranger was making him steadily hot under the collar. He could feel a blush rising faster up his cheeks as the other man grinned at him, staring intently, and John realised that he had left the last word he'd said hanging because he'd become engrossed in watching how the other man moved.
Every twitch, every shuffle, was precise and sophisticated- it was fascinating.
And all so sudden for John to notice. It hit him a bit too hard, really, and as he did begin to understand that this man in front of him was working some kind of technique on it, his already flustered, schoolgirl-like movements became clumsy and confused, and he stepped away, promptly tripping up on absolutely nothing.
He landed with a thunk on the floor.
"Ow," he exclaimed through gritted teeth, feeling old as he reached out blindly to his side for the aid of his cane. Yet, of course, he'd not been using it, and consequently, it of course wasn't there. What was there, however, was a hand, outstretched to aid him, in front of his very nose; and behind it, a concerned gaze.
"Thanks," John flushed as his accepted it, and was bought to his feet quickly by some surprising strength of Sherlock Holmes. The only problem being that his was now in sudden close proximity to the man, having the leverage been in the natural direction of to his torso, and John found himself backing away once again, though thankfully this time not tripping over his own feet.
"No coffee then," Sherlock supposed, a hint of sadness coating his words. John shook his head, in a non-direct way, suddenly not wishing to impede his own departure.
"It's been nice meeting you, Sherlock," he said gruffly.
"Wait," Sherlock interjected, stopping himself reaching out for John's arm, "Aren't you staying? A flatshare?"
John snorted softly, his face slowly splitting into a little grin. "If it's still on the cards, then... I... um... I guess so."
And with that, John left for home. Or, at least, he left, with the intention of returning to his poky, one bedroomed flat in the suburbs, but for some reason, when he stepped out into the street outside 221B, the night air biting at his cheeks, he found a set of headlights blinding him as a sleek black BMW pulled up onto the kurb outside the door.
"Get in," was all he heard, as the car door opened, in a sharp, nasally drawling voice. That, and the ominous click: something that undoubtedly belonged to the shiny hilt of a gun pressed up against his temples.