Chapter 6 – Air
Sherlock stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it and, to his own surprise, grinned.
It had been a lovely night with John.
Certainly, Sherlock prided himself on appearing the perfect sociopath—cold, aloof, locked away, unreachable. And he'd practiced that air so often and so well that he could play it as adeptly as any Bach etude. But like a long piece of violin music, one could play it beautifully, flawlessly, and still be exhausted at the end. In fact, the better the performance, the more drained the artist when the curtain drops.
And this performance—pretending nothing had changed, pretending his realization on the night of the pool incident hadn't occurred, locking away his feelings—it was taking everything out of him. He had slipped, several times, cracks had shown in his flawless façade, because it was just overpowering. Sometimes just looking at John—John home from clinic, John throwing his jacket on to go do the shopping, even, Sherlock laughed to himself, John getting angry—was enough to steal the very air from his lungs.
After all, John was the air in Sherlock's lungs, in many ways. It was entirely due to him that the detective was still breathing.
And Sherlock knew the act was necessary. Not only to throw the criminal classes off the scent, to make it possible, even a little possible, that Moriarty's knowledge wouldn't spread, wouldn't be trusted, but because Sherlock knew what would happen if John ever found out.
John would leave.
And all of Sherlock's air would go away.
So he was trapped in this exhausting, impossible performance—except for nights like tonight. John had been amazed, impressed by Sherlock's disguise and his detective skills, forgiving his deception at the front door like it hadn't even happened. They had joked, they had laughed, they had made tea and called for Indian take-away, they had watched some crap telly (John had watched some crap telly, Sherlock had, very carefully, watched John watching crap telly) and told some personal stories and as the night wore on, they had relaxed into that comfortable, soft silence that bespeaks a relationship that requires no words. Only when John had nodded off on the couch, sliding just a little in Sherlock's direction as his body relaxed, waking with a start when his shoulder bumped Sherlock's, did the doctor decide that it was time to end the evening and go properly to bed.
It had taken all of Sherlock's considerable practiced self-control not to grab John then and there and never let him go. But heading to his own room, Sherlock hadn't felt frustrated or exhausted. He had been free and easy tonight with John, almost like…
Oh no, Holmes, don't let yourself…
…almost like they really could love each other, someday.
Sherlock slid down the door a few inches, reproaching himself for allowing such a thought to escape the recesses of his hard drive, but nonetheless still smiling. The wonder that was John and the wonderful evening they had shared was still dancing warmly and softly in his chest, and Sherlock, hedonistically, wanted to hold onto it as long as he could. He was unused to the pleasant lightness of feelings (some feelings, anyway) and didn't want it to end. He might actually sleep tonight, might actually dream, and those dreams might actually contain John. His lungs were filled with John and he wanted nothing to take that away.
The buzzing of his phone, though, would do just that.
From: ENCRYPTED
Subject: John Watson Surveillance – Day 23
Sherlock,
John's movements were normal today. A brief departure from Baker Street nearly to the Tube Station and back again, followed later that day by a trip to New Scotland Yard. He was not followed. There were no unusual incidents.
There was a visitor to 221B. The individual in question is classified as nonthreatening to Dr. Watson. No alerts raised.
We still have not received so much as a breath of new information on James Moriarty. The airwaves contain no chatter. It is as if he never existed.
Please, Sherlock, be extra careful.
M
Sherlock finished reading the email, the smile sliding off his face.
Oh.
It's odd, he mused, how the "oh" moment was usually so exhilarating. The moment of realization, or remembrance, or addition of two separate elements into a whole, revealing a truth. Usually so wonderful. Yet some "oh" moments stole the very oxygen from the room.
Mycroft had promised that even Sherlock, who had requested the surveillance in the first place, wouldn't know it was there if he wasn't thinking about it. And tonight, he hadn't been thinking about it. And he had forgotten it was there. And he had forgotten why it was there.
The wonderful warm Johnness in his chest was blown away.
He, Sherlock, was lying to John. Maybe to protect him, maybe to keep him safe, but he was lying. To John. The John he told himself he loved. The John, he'd been almost able to convince himself a moment ago, who might someday love him back.
Sherlock Holmes, you are a fool.
Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket and left the room, heading back to the living room and staring out the window. He would not be sleeping tonight, and there would be no dreams.
