LTW 7
With the attitude of someone whose turn has come around in a game of Russian roulette, Sherlock tapped open the message.
'Seeing a psychiatrist now, are we Sherlock? But I taught you a valuable lesson and I won't soon let you forget it. Come to think of it, I learned a great deal from you as well. What was it your stepfather did to you exactly?'
"What does it say?" John's voice was anxious but Sherlock couldn't formulate a response. The final sentence turned circles in his head and taunted him with hidden meaning. It was if something was there, obscured by a dark veil and just out of his reach…something that should have been deleted long ago.
"Sherlock!" He had ripped the SIM card from his phone and chucked the device itself out of the open window before fully registering his own actions. "Sherlock, what in hell…!"
"John, may I borrow your mobile?" He trampled over John's questioning with the demand and received said phone with only a protesting scowl.
"My mobile had better not get the same treatment or I'll- who are you texting?"
"Mycroft."
'There's a flaw in your bloody surveillance system. –SH'
John was looking out the window for the phone but it was no use; Sherlock had thrown it out of sight. He shoved the mobile back into John's hands before commencing a brisk pace across the sitting room. John watched him and noticed the minute traces of something akin to panic in his eyes, in the nervous raking of his hands into his dark hair.
Fear had coiled in his stomach from the moment the package had arrived and from the looks of it, his conclusions were correct. He knew without asking that it was from him. From Moriarty. The idea of it…that he was still capable of terrorizing Sherlock and there was virtually nothing John could do besides tracking him down and shooting the son of a bitch between the eyes, made him physically ill. All he could do was watch as Sherlock, with five nicotine patches on each arm, Sherlock who still had nightmares, Sherlock who careened around the room like a humming bird with all of the windows shut, broke just a little bit more. He was breaking faster than John could fix him.
"Sherlock," he tried but the other man just carried on like he hadn't even heard. He needed to get his mind off of this and fast before he actually went to pieces.
"Sherlock, do you want to go to Bart's?"
"What for?" He continued to pace but John could tell he had his attention.
"Dunno, maybe Molly will let you look at some fresh bodies?"
He slowed and eventually came to a stop.
Sherlock considered. He wasn't allowed any cases; there had been weeks of nothing, boredom (besides the nighttime walk escapade) and at least this was something. And it was a something that was distracting. John knew this, of course he did, but Sherlock couldn't fault him for it in the least because it was exactly what he needed. After all, it was a safer alternative to the morphine that he could so easily have his fingers on if left alone for an instant. He agreed and John's relief was palpable. This was fascinating. He watched as the other man's gently lined face relaxed and a hopeful light sparked in his dark blue eyes. Peculiar eyes they were. Dark and deep, like the ocean. They must be rare because Sherlock had never seen such eyes before. Confusion wrinkled John's dark blond brows as they pulled together and his head tipped just slightly to the side.
"What are you staring at?"
"Just your face."
"…My face? Is something wrong with it?"
"On the contrary," Sherlock said with a wry smirk, "Anyway, it's no cause for alarm on your part. Shall we go then?"
"Yeah…yeah sure." John's lips quirked into a smile that Sherlock had previously deduced meant that he wasn't sure if he should be smiling or not. It was nice.
They grabbed their coats and Sherlock swung open the door, only to be greeted with Mycroft's assistant Anthea (or whomever she was that day) and her raised fist, poised to knock. She simply smiled and extended a new Blackberry to Sherlock, who skeptically accepted it.
"Any word from my brother?"
"The system has crashed but we're working as fast as we can to fix it," she replied, tapping away busily at her own phone.
"It had been hacked," It wasn't quite a question or a statement.
Her face remained placid and immovable but she voiced no response and Sherlock pushed past her and down the stairs. John apologized hurriedly before racing to catch up. They remained stood on the pavement and John knew that this was the point Sherlock usually called for a taxi but he seemed frozen, hand partially raised and John could practically hear his thoughts going a mile a minute. He was still frightened and fighting it all the while.
John wasn't sure exactly why he did but he hooked his arm through Sherlock's firmly, comfortingly before calling a cab himself. It was the first time he had ever been able to hail one on the first go and that was an accomplishment in and of itself, not to mention the way Sherlock was looking at him. It was if he had just levitated or something else equally awe-inspiring. One would think he had just hung the moon.
Sherlock had never been so intrigued by a living human being. John's capacity to care was overwhelming to say the least. People he had known for most of his life didn't care near as much as John Watson did and he had no inkling as to why. It wasn't the same way a soldier protects and it wasn't exactly doctorial either. It was like he liked him. Truly liked him, and that was astonishing because all that had happened since they'd met had been bad, traumatic, or both. He was a wonder, an absolute wonder and he didn't even know it.
John drew his arm back in the cab, clearing his throat just loud enough to break the silence as he did so and simultaneously took all of the warmth away. Sherlock's arm was cold and bereft, just like the rest of him because he had never noticed just how spectacularly warm John was until now. A moment passed, a long moment before Sherlock adjusted himself just so his shoulder would gently brush John's. There was the warmth again, for just a split second and it wasn't nearly enough.
…
It took some convincing and clever manipulating for Sherlock to ferret his way into the mortuary but it wasn't like he hadn't done it before. But now John was with him and not disgusted and that was nicer than being by himself. That thought was so shocking that he'd have to rethink it later and give it its own timeslot.
Unfortunately, he had left his riding crop at the flat, so he was left to do some practice. His brain needed the exercise to keep it from rotting so he went from gurney to gurney, deducing ages, occupations, and causes of deaths left and right. A musician, 31, drug overdose, heroine; A school teacher, 54, heart attack, cholesterol related; A dealer, or pimp, most likely pimp, 28, gunshots to the chest and back of the head, definitely multiple assassins, a gang assault.
He could have gone on to tell what exactly their last meals had been but John's phone chimed that he had a message.
'I suppose you forgot our lunch date.'
John's heart dropped and his stomach twisted with guilt. Sarah. He had made a date with his boss for over an hour and half ago and had completely forgotten. And it had been he that had asked her out and now he felt like a total arse. There wasn't really anything at all he could say to amend the situation but he tried.
'My God, I am so sorry, Sarah. I was totally preoccupied with my friend. He's been going through a rough patch lately and I was trying to take his mind off things.'
A moment later and:
'Well I hope he's alright now. Maybe we could reschedule?'
Well that was quite a bit better than what he deserved.
'Of course, yes. Anytime.'
'Next Saturday for dinner, then? Eight o'clock?'
'Sounds lovely.'
'Great, I'll see you then. Hopefully '
'Definitely.'
"You missed your date."
"…I don't recall ever having mentioned my-
"You didn't have to. It wasn't hard to figure out after all. That cold, sick look on your face and the rapid typing were quite telling.'
"Right…"
"So are you going?"
"Rescheduled."
"Ah."
John looked about the room and then back to Sherlock's calculating, catlike eyes. "So are you about done here?"
"I think so."
…
They came to a stop when they made it outside, John briefly looking at his watch. "Well," he began, "We're out of milk again so I'll be needing to head to the market. Will you be wanting to meet me back at home then?"
He had almost turned to go, knowing that Sherlock loathed shopping when he was stunned into stillness by: "No, I…I can go. With you, I mean. I'll go with you."
John turned back to him slowly, blinking and not sure he had heard correctly but the look on Sherlock's face was odd, uncertain almost. Obviously there was no way he could have refused, not even if he had wanted to. "Okay, yeah. Great."
…
They were walking side by side in the garish light of the grocery and it felt so oddly domestic that Sherlock knew that he didn't fit in at all. In fact, he had gotten some sideways glances to prove it. But then again, he had never cared too much for fitting in, dreary business that was.
It all was almost going fine until John had stopped to pick up some pasta and a man turned down the aisle. A man on the small side with dark hair and an expensive dark suit. John felt Sherlock tense beside him, his eyes gone wide and his shoulders rigid.
"Sherlock?"
It lasted for only a moment as he seemed to shake himself out of it, looking rather paler than usual. "It's nothing," he said, his voice strangely subdued, "I was just mistaken, that was all."
Sherlock's body was incased in ice; he had never felt so cold and John seemed to be the only warm thing. He was beside him with his blond and his blue and his soft beige and he screamed comfort so loudly that he was unable to resist. He knew it was a risk as he was doing it but he was pretty sure this was a life or death situation: He pulled off his glove and laced his fingers through John's.
The smaller man jolted, his head whipping around to look at Sherlock, who had turned his face down and away, hoping that John wouldn't snatch his hand back because the heat was already traveling up his arm and into his chest and he couldn't really think of anything that had felt this good in a long time, maybe in forever.
But John said nothing and pressed his fingers in gently. He smiled at the people who gave them looks and was even civil to the chip and pin machine. He continued holding his hand in the cab and all the way back to 221b.
(A/N: Thanks for all the support thus far! Hope you enjoyed it!)