Sherlock's POV! :)
The detective stuffed his bag in a corner, desperate to get out of the oppressive room. He needed air; he needed space.
Sherlock needed his mind back.
His mind wasn't solely analytical anymore; his mind palace wasn't full of information anymore. His thoughts now involved John; what would keep him safe, what would keep him happy. His mind palace now had a wing filled with information on the doctor.
He allowed himself a moment of panic when he realized that he was no longer outside their door; rather, Sherlock was in the bar area just around the corner from the lobby. It was a horrible thing that he couldn't get used to; thinking about John distracted him, so much so that he couldn't think about anything else. He didn't see the hallways or passerby's, he just saw John. Sherlock stood in the entrance, allowing himself a split second to refocus on the case at hand. Once his mind was purged of the offensive distractions, he swept into the relatively nice pub and sat on a stool, next to a hefty man.
The man beside Sherlock was in his forties and short with black, buzz-cut hair and brown beady eyes. He wasn't a man of manual labor- his scant muscle was hidden by layers of fat. His fingers were smudged with different types of ink, and his forehead had stress-induced wrinkles. There was chalk residue on the edge of his shirt sleeve. The lower-left area of his shirt had creases where a name tag would've been pinned. This man was most likely a multi-level English teacher at the local school.
"You look like you could use a pint." The man said, interrupting Sherlock's mental deductions. He nodded wordlessly, and the bartender pushed one in front of the detective.
"Long day. What about you?" Sherlock replied, sipping some of the ghastly beverage.
"Same. The kids just don't retain anything! No matter how many times I tell them the basic rules of grammar, they still refuse to remember them! AND they are supposed to be the advanced class! I mean, with recent circumstances, I can understand being somewhat distracted, but they have been flushing information since before all of the deaths."
"What deaths?" Sherlock inquired, faking the shock and apprehension though his curiosity was genuine.
"You haven't heard? There have been five deaths in the past few months; all of them teenage females and all of them murdered within the vicinity of this inn."
"How were they murdered?"
"I haven't seen the pictures myself, but, from what I've heard, they were decapitated and almost completely bloodless. It's sickening."
A few other people who had been behind the two men chimed into their conversation, though their commentary was centered on emotion rather than logic and thus unimportant.
Sherlock burst from the stool without another word, slamming money on the counter for the drink he barely indulged in, and fled the bar. The English teacher didn't seem to notice his abrupt departure; he had been too busy guzzling his fourth pint for the night. Sherlock left the lobby and began wandering about the outside of the inn, walking everywhere, even throughout the parking lot, to get a feel for the murderer's hunting grounds.
His thoughts began to wander to John once more. What was he doing in the room? Was he watching telly? Updating his blog?
No. Sherlock needed to stop thinking about his flat mate.
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
He would not become weak; he would not lose control of himself. If sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, then love was a death blow.
Although it probably shouldn't have taken more than twenty-five minutes to analyze the areas surrounding the inn, Sherlock entered the building once more after two hours.
He sauntered by the same blonde receptionist they saw earlier, and he approached the desk.
"Are you sure every room is booked?"
"Positive." Even if he was Sherlock Holmes, it was clear she disliked it when others doubted her.
"Then why is the inn silent and people scarce?"
"Look, I was there when they were all booked. It's not my fault some government official wanted to purchase most of our rooms for two weeks."
Mycroft. He should've known his brother would try to interfere in the case.
"So I shouldn't expect obtaining a new or additional room?"
"No. I'm sorry Mr. Holmes." She apologized, though only half genuine. The twinkle in her eye and the twitches at the corner of her red lips revealed the reason of her enjoyment; she was one of those fans. The ones who made a big deal over John being a "confirmed" bachelor; the ones constantly posting, on both of their websites, questions about whether or not they were an official couple.
He didn't dignify her with a response, merely giving her an icy once-over before walking away from the desk. Sherlock began walking through the halls of the rooms on the first floor. The walls were a mix between pasty yellow and beige, contrasting with the hunter green carpet. They were bare, save for the occasional yellow lamp. The doors were mahogany with brass plates bearing numbers.
It was completely silent; Sherlock couldn't hear any signs of life. He couldn't hear the faint tread of footsteps; he couldn't hear the faint sounds of conversation.
He walked through the hallways one last time before moving to the second floor.
It was the same as the first, horrible colors and silent rooms. He didn't run into any people entering or leaving.
He walked to their room, and stopped in front. Sherlock lifted his arm, prepared to enter, but he couldn't move. His hand shook slightly; he needed a smoke or his patches.
No. He told himself that he wouldn't do that again; he told himself that he could abstain. If anyone could do that, it was him. And if that wasn't motivating enough, Sherlock would quit because John didn't want him to indulge in the harmful chemicals.
The detective had stared at the door for a few minutes before turning around and walking away.
He wandered outside, not deducing anything about his surroundings, not thinking about his flat mate.
His mind was blank for the first time without the use of drugs.
There wasn't much behind the building, just the edge of a forest, and Sherlock wandered towards the trees. He walked further into the woods, stopping when he saw a stump, and sat upon it. He could still see the inn, yet he was far enough away to ensure privacy.
It was then that he allowed his thoughts to run wild, cluttering and clamoring. Perhaps facing his conflict would rid him of the constant worrying for his flat mate. Sherlock took a deep breath, and accessed his mind palace, using it not for a case, but for sentiment. It was fitting that the first time to use the mind palace to analyze his emotions was for John.
He went back to what felt like the beginning, all those days ago, when he was closing a case in his palace. He remembered the satisfying thud as he closed the door to the room filled with information on a case involving a vengeful writer and a particularly nasty critic. It had been a creative, albeit easy to solve, case.
He remembered asking John to Angelo's, like they often did, with the addition of a simple experiment. He would show John affection and see the response. He helped the doctor into his coat twice and brushed his shoulder with his own while walking back to the flat.
"You're eating?"
"You asked me to, remember?"
"Yes, but I didn't think you would listen."
"I always listen to you."
Of course Sherlock listened to John; he might not always respond, but he always remembered what was said. Did John really not see that Sherlock cared?
Caring is not an advantage.
It wasn't, not really, for anyone except John. Of course, John could never know that Sherlock considered him to be the one person worth the effort and vulnerability, but he ought to know that Sherlock cared.
Caressing his violin that night, he allowed his emotions to be fully broadcasted in the only way he knew how. It was how he showed his frustration and rapturous enlightenment; it was how he showed his depression and euphoria.
He remembered needing to sleep the next day, and how John led the detective to his room, hands clasped. There wasn't an electric jolt like society believed, just warmth and a distinctly satisfactory feeling in his stomach.
It was why he grabbed John's arm at the second crime scene when Sherlock was frustrated at the scant information the corpse provided; the simple action of touching the doctor grounded him.
Touching someone normally repulsed him, abused and overdone by society, but the simple brushes and interlocked hands made him understand the appeal of human contact.
For most people, touching someone close sent their mind into chaos, every thought and fiber of their being focused on that person. For Sherlock, whose mind and being already valued John, touching the doctor put his thoughts at ease, silencing the vast palace of his mind.
It was a blessing and a curse to be so reliant on one person for silence.
John instinctively knew what Sherlock needed, and he offered it willingly to the detective. After the befuddling second corpse, John left Sherlock in silence, despite his obvious discomfort at the lack of conversation. Sherlock tried to compensate it with innocent brushes of fingertips as he received tea, but he wasn't sure if John understood the purpose.
Was it normal in friendship to have this sort of a relationship? This easy give-and-take, this symbiosis?
"Is that... Is that what friends do?"
"Be curious?"
"No... Care about each other. Is that something normal in friendship?"
"Yes."
The warm yet sad (not pitying; never pitying) smile John shot him sent shivers through the detective's body. Was friendship really this emotional?
It was the strange closeness of John later that evening as they stared at the city out the window, John looking at the clouds while Sherlock looked at the people. John finding beauty and Sherlock finding flaws.
It was too balanced between them, opposite yet exactly the same. Did people always click like this?
As John turned into Sherlock, clearly not noticing the closeness of their bodies until their eyes met and his face nearly touched the detective's shoulders, everything became clear.
Sherlock's experiment focusing on finding out just what John's feelings towards him were and how he could reciprocate (Sherlock could no longer lie to himself about the true purpose of his experiment) was too successful. John's pupils were blown wide; the veins in his neck beating in time to Sherlock's equally rapid heartbeat.
He was thankful Mrs. Hudson interrupted. How was he supposed to process this information; how was he supposed to respond? He understood the basics of what relationships consisted of, but he had no idea how to carry them out.
The screaming silence made it all too clear to Sherlock that he had screwed up big time, and the next week had consisted of trying to preserve any normalcy left over. He was grateful that the doctor made no acknowledgement of the bold (for Sherlock) advances.
Then George barged in. Clearly gay, with his carefully constructed outfit, abnormal amounts of product in his hair, and slightly flirtatious once-over he gave Sherlock upon first sighting. It made no difference whether or not George was interested in Sherlock, the detective really wasn't the person to flirt back with anyone, much less a client, but the man's obvious favoring of John sent Sherlock's mind into overdrive.
He could deal with the clingy girlfriends that John went through by the dozen; he knew John wouldn't be able to find a suitable mate with women that couldn't stand the thought of John valuing anything over themselves. But George was entirely different.
From the moment George walked into their flat, Sherlock knew that he possessed the sort of qualities that suited John perfectly. George was brilliant (though nothing like Sherlock), stable (dull), and, by societal standards, attractive. He was well off and didn't possess the desperate clinginess John's girlfriends did. George was the sort of person that could sweep John away from Sherlock.
So Sherlock bit back at George, until John looked like he was going to deck the pensive detective. Which prompted Sherlock to rest a hand on John's left shoulder, and his head on the right as he looked at George's iPhone in the doctor's tan hands. Sherlock reveled in George's stunned expression as stuttered his apologies.
"I'm so sorry! I had no idea... I wouldn't have... I didn't realize..."
"You see but you do not observe." He is mine. Stay away.
John was in a strange mood after that; Sherlock knew it was a surprise, but, in all honesty, he was disappointed. Did John really not anticipate Sherlock to be a possessive man?
There. That was the reason for Sherlock's experiments; that was the reason for Sherlock caring so much. He didn't want John to leave. It was a desperate move to make the one person who saw past Sherlock's sociopathic guise stay. It was a vain move to keep the one person who praised Sherlock within his vicinity.
It wasn't caring at all; it was the primal desire for appreciation.
That was why John's unexpected defense of Sherlock to Sally caused Sherlock to feel warm all over. That was why the detective desired the doctor's soothing touch; that was why Sherlock gave into the inexplicable urge to grab John's hand and press his hand into the small of John's back as he led the embarrassed man to their vehicle.
"If anyone in our relationship is the burden, it's me."
Sherlock didn't think he had ever heard a bigger lie in his whole life. It was bigger than Mycroft's blatant lies about what was going on in the government; it was bigger than his mother's protective lies about her abusive husband.
"Do you really think you hold me up?"
"Well I don't serve a real purpose now do I?"
"You keep me alive."
"I shoot people when they are trying to kill you; anyone can do that."
"You do more than that. You continue to pester me about food and sleep. You continue to stay by my side when I repel everyone in the vicinity."
"Me staying with you when you are insufferable is just a show of friendship; it doesn't relate to keeping you alive."
"I don't do drugs anymore..."
"Sherlock... You really don't have to do this. I already know you are thankful; you don't need to replicate my actions. I was only defending you."
Was that really why John's words bothered Sherlock so much? Was Sherlock's poor comforting really a desire to make John feel less embarrassed?
No, it couldn't have been. Sherlock was under no misconception about his acting skills; when it was necessary to appear emotional, he had no qualms nor problems with shedding false tears and spinning fake apologies or flattering falsehoods. If he wanted to appear grateful for and if he wanted to reciprocate John's display of loyalty, he could.
He couldn't say the right things because he only did that with a lying tongue; he didn't want to lie to John.
Sherlock didn't care that they would have to share a room; it wouldn't be much of a problem anyway. Although he was under no misconception about this case's particular difficulty, Sherlock was certain he could solve it without any serious mishaps between himself and the doctor.
Nodding his head once, sharply, Sherlock stood from the uncomfortable stump and made his way back to the hotel room.
As John got ready for sleep, Sherlock stared at the wall.
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
Caring is not an advantage.
It wasn't caring at all; it was the primal desire for appreciation.
He chanted this in his head as he heard John slip under the covers.
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
Caring is not an advantage.
It wasn't caring at all; it was the primal desire for appreciation.
He chanted this in his head as he resisted the urge to look at John.
It was stupid; of course he could look at his flat mate. Sherlock wasn't so weak that he couldn't look at John without doing something rash.
He glanced at John. The doctor was lying on his side, facing the detective. John's face was peaceful and calm, a small smile twitching at his lips though his breathing pattern indicated sleep.
As if in a trance, Sherlock got up out of his chair and moved to John. He leaned down, his nose overwhelmed with the smell of John. Resisting the urge to inhale deeply, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead in a chaste kiss.
Sherlock Holmes had lost the war.
It was so challenging writing in Sherlock's perspective, but here it is! I did my best to make him in character; however, if I didn't do a good job, I apologize.
Next chapter will be back to John's perspective, but I might do a few more chapters of Sherlock's perspective in the future.
Thank you for reading!
Side note: The 50th was absolutely amazing! :D :D :D