8. Storms ahead
Sherlock had been laying on the sofa in the dark, ever since returning to the flat. He could not stop thinking of John's pleasure at that simple bite on the neck. She was really clever. In one second, John was completely hers. The sight of his tongue pushing inside her mouth... His desire, both at the restaurant and in front of the window were... enticing, sensual, arousing. This was the first time Sherlock had seen a glimpse of John's intimate life. Despite himself, he was getting aroused remembering John's face, his desire and pleasure so evident.
No matter what Mycroft may think, he was no stranger to sex. He had experimented with both men and women in the past (how could he not?), but had never felt any attachment to anyone. In his experience throughout Uni and for a few years afterwards, every single individual with whom he had had sex with were extremely boring people, uninteresting, clingy. Sure, some had a very satisfying level of expertise, but they all wanted a commitment that he had no desire to give. Ultimately, this was enough data for him to declare it useless, not worth the brief elation such encounters produced. Not to mention the experiences that were unwelcome to him. Mycroft had taken control of his finances during those darker times of his life, to keep him from spending his money on drugs. He did what he had to do, and did his best to delete such memories.
Just around that time, he had started consulting for the Scotland Yard. This had been a revelation that ultimately saved him from self destruction. Sherlock might have invented his job, but it was Mycroft who had arranged the initial connection with the Yard. His brother knew this was what he needed. The cases gave him satisfaction in a completely different way, surpassing even his need for drugs. This puzzle solving engaged his mind, absorbing and calming his feverish brain. His entire being was consumed by it in a much, much deeper level. Since then, The Work had been the only thing in his life.
But this... what he felt now, this was different. He wished he could've been the one giving John that much pleasure. His mind went off creating images that he had no control over. He untied his gown and ran his hand over his chest. He hadn't done this in a long time. He'd been always too busy to distract himself with physical needs.
'John...' he said in a voiceless whisper.
...
His eyes snapped open as he heard the soft click of the front door closing downstairs. He had dozed off. John? Coming back in the middle of the night? Footsteps started moving up the stairs, quiet, tentative. Then he remembered the state he was in. He yanked the gown across his body and turned quickly towards the back of the sofa. He feigned the deep breathing of sleep.
John paused at the door, seeing Sherlock's figure sleeping on the sofa. There was enough light coming in from the street to delineate Sherlock's back and shoulders. He turned to go, hesitated, then went to the bathroom. He took a shower before going to bed.
Sherlock was tense as he felt John's eyes on him. He noticed the half step, the hesitation. Did something go wrong? Why was he home in the middle of the night? Did he want to talk about it, that's why the hesitation? No, I couldn't talk to him in the state I'm in. He would know what I had done, there would be questions... Then he would know. And he would leave! Once John had gone upstairs, he got up and went quietly to his room. He'd have to shower before John got up, and also wash his pyjama bottoms and gown separately.
John didn't know what he'd say if Sherlock asked him about his date. Or what he'd say if asked why he had returned home when it had been clear he had hoped to spend the night with Ella. And he didn't know how he'd ever be able to act normal around Sherlock or look him in the eye again. He'd have to. What other choice did he have?
Despite all his worries, John had been exhausted and, after turning around, changing positions and fretting for a couple of hours, fell asleep as the sky was getting lighter. When he finally emerged by late morning, Sherlock was wearing his red robe instead of the usual blue one. He was on his chair, curled up, with his arms around his legs. As John entered the room, there was a slight dislodging in Sherlock's pose, but only his eyes moved towards John.
'Good morning.'
'You came home in the middle of the night.'
Agh. Trust Sherlock not to be discreet and to politely observe that unwritten rule of avoiding awkward questions... 'Yes' he sighed, walking towards the kitchen and starting the kettle.
'So... How was your date?'
... 'Fine! Fine.'
'Is there anything wrong?'
'No! Erm... no.'
Why is he acting like this? Something did go wrong.
There was a long pause, in which Sherlock tried to figure out what to say next.
'John, if there's anything I -'
'Sherlock! Please! I don't want to be rude, but there's nothing... I don't want to talk about it, all right?'
'Okay.'
'Fine.'
During this exchange, John had been avoiding Sherlock's eyes, busying himself with the kettle, mugs, tea bags. He sighed and paused. Still not looking up, he asked 'Would you like some tea?'
Throughout the silent breakfast, John felt Sherlock's intense stare. He knew his friend was trying to read him and find out what was wrong, so once he was done with his toast he went back to his room. It hadn't escaped Sherlock's attention that John had showered when he had come in last night. Usually, he wouldn't have bothered. Coming home after his dates, he seemed to perhaps unconsciously enjoy the reminder of a wild night with whatever girl he had been dating at the time. This time it was different. It was as if he wanted to erase the memories of what had just happened. Why? He seemed to be enjoying himself while he had watched... Then John's phone rang. He came downstairs at a run, took the phone, hesitated, quickly glancing in Sherlock's direction. He answered the phone as he dashed back upstairs. This time, Sherlock heard the door closing.
...
He tried to act normal, telling her about a previous incident involving an experiment with fire. He neglected to add it had happened a few months ago. She laughed and asked if he could come back, so they could 'spend the day together also'. He hoped it didn't sound phoney, but tried his best to explain Sherlock's 'danger' times, when he was a danger to himself and possibly, to others around him. He apologized profusely and she forgave him, citing the previous night as more than a compensation for today. He cringed with embarrassment. He ended the call by pretending he had heard an alarming sound coming from downstairs. He flopped backwards onto the bed and covered his face with both hands.
He more or less hid from Sherlock that day, emerging later only to get something to eat, finding nothing, then opting for going out for some takeaway. He finally noticed a much subdued Sherlock, and asked if he was all right.
'Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier... I'm going to get some food, would you eat if I got you some?'
'I'm not hungry.'
'Sherlock, you need to eat. How about some Indian?'
'Not hungry,' he sighed.
After dinner (and much lecturing about malnutrition and a few conceded bites), John tried to keep Sherlock company, to make up for hiding the entire day. He still felt a bit under intense (yet discreet) scrutiny, but tried his best to pretend his book was really interesting. Sherlock didn't know what to do. John had hid himself the entire day, had a very short conversation with Ella and still looked distraught. He hated seeing him unhappy. Without any answers, he did what he'd normally do when he didn't know the words. He stood up, picked up his violin and faced the window. He played softly, hoping this would relax John, maybe make him sleep.
John glanced up as his friend stood up and put his book down when the music started. Then he saw the reflection on the window and looked away, embarrassed. But eventually his eyes went back to the reflected image. His eyes were closed, he was back into a trance, inside his own mind. Ah, how fortunate Sherlock is, to be able to shut down the outside world like this. The music was poignant, still a bit melancholic, but gentle, tender. It was almost an embrace that said 'everything will be okay.' Maybe he was just reading into it what he wanted to hear. He was not a musician, after all. But the music was soft, soothing. He closed his eyes, dropped his head back and just enjoyed that quiet moment. Maybe he'd be able to handle this after all. This friendship meant so much to him, he'd do anything to keep it. I've been through a lot. I survived. I can do this.
On Sunday, John tried to run errands just to keep out of the house as much as possible.
On Monday, he went to work without seeing Sherlock. Just as well, he thought.
