Through Your Eyes: Part 9

John hadn't seen Sherlock for almost an entire day since the argument. He made use of the silence in the flat to act as much like himself as physically possible, in a frankly dismal effort to drown out the scheming noises in his head. He tried leaving pleading messages on Sonia's voicemail, before a hyperactive brain loudly announced that John was making the situation worse and that his girlfriend was more likely to be freaked out by the sound of Sherlock Holmes proclaiming his love for her down the line, so the whole endeavour was pointless anyway. He tried going for a walk, but became sick of subconsciously reading strangers, and watching Jeremy Kyle proved to be more irritating than usual. As a last resort, John was forced to start clearing the debris from the wreckage of his bedroom; he was just ordering new furniture online when the pangs of guilt settled in. It wasn't as though he argued with his best friend on a daily basis, contrary to what the inhabitants of Scotland Yard believed. What's more, John was starting to empathise with Sherlock.

Yes he was still angry, seething even, but it was a kind of mild torture being lumbered with a brilliant mind and having nothing of interest to apply it to. Lestrade hadn't issued any more summonings, so there was either clearly something wrong in that department or the criminals of London had decided to be achingly transparent in their wrongdoings. Also there was the fact that Sherlock probably hadn't meant to be, well, Sherlock. Whereas John had knowingly let an unstable situation run its course, hence the massive lump of angry guilt squatting in the pit of his stomach. The worst thing was that he was actually scolding himself for believing he was at fault. This was scary to say the least. One of Sherlock's most insufferable traits was his headstrong belief of infallibility, and something told John that he might start adopting more of Sherlock's personality if the switch was maintained for too long. A short excursion into body swapping wasn't on the top of his to-do list, but a slow transformation into the world's most annoying consulting detective meant that the forces above were really taking the piss. John wondered if Sherlock was aware of this yet; the "trauma" of becoming permanently ordinary would be sure-fire way to restore normality in ten seconds flat. He spent the rest of the day and night reaffirming his John-ness through watching consecutive 007 films in a salvaged sleeping bag.

The next morning, John managed to stare disdainfully at a piece of toast whilst not entirely comprehending why he didn't want to eat it. He had stumbled out of the sleeping bag after barely an hour's sleep, gangly limbs aching after a night on the wooden floor but completely alert. The sound of running water tinkled through the flat, notifying John of Sherlock's occupation of the shower. John took advantage of the situation, abandoning his appalling attempt at nourishment in favour of stealing more clothes from Sherlock's wardrobe, as the ones which he was currently wearing would soon be walking about by themselves if they weren't washed. He resurfaced sometime later, having picked out the least obnoxious suit he could find and vowing to buy something which involved a cardigan if this continued for much longer. John drifted into the living room, only to find himself affronted by the sight of Sherlock wearing nothing but a very damp sheet. He was practically flaunting John's manhood to boot.

'Jesus, Sherlock! Ever heard of modesty? That's my body you're exposing!'

Sherlock gave him a look that was a cross between knowingness and outright disgust. A guilty John decided to shut up before he became an even filthier hypocrite. He awkwardly thumbed an outdated newspaper whilst idly wondering how he would get round the problem of needing to be at the surgery this afternoon. The only sounds in the room were the rustling of the tabloid and the scrunching of fabric as Sherlock curled up on the sofa, assuming the position of an irate porcupine. John jumped in surprise when Sherlock finally deigned to speak, his voice slicing through the air.

'John, we are out of milk.' Well, that sounded almost normal. At least he wasn't giving him the silent treatment.

'Get it yourself.'

There was the look again. Something told John that this would become a permanent guilt-trip; Sherlock could always manipulate him to his own advantage.

'Fine.' John sighed, 'At least give me my card. I'd rather not use yours.'

Sherlock flicked his eyes approvingly over John's appearance, taking in the choice of suit, before flinging John's wallet across the room. John fumbled to catch it.

'Thanks; I'll be back in ten minutes, six and a half if the Spar on North Gower Street is open. Please put some clothes on.'

He received no response to his request, so John grabbed Sherlock's coat and made for the front door. He was barely a hundred metres down the street when someone grabbed him from behind. John tried to struggle, but Sherlock's build wasn't muscular enough to shake the assailant off, much less turn the attack on its head. John felt a needle enter his bicep and the world went dark.

He awoke sometime later on the M4, whizzing past fields and greenery at 80 miles an hour. Somewhere near Windsor, judging by the fleeting glimpse of castle through the hedgerows. John was slumped on the passenger seat in a small puddle of drool, from which he sluggishly corrected his posture. Bleary eyes registered the surrounding vehicle as familiar, albeit sans Anthea. John's brain rapidly caught up with his body. Clearly some sort of deal had been cut in the small hours of the night, at a meeting which John obviously was supposed to have been present at. The manner in which he had been bundled into the car definitely said something about who its intended occupant was. Thanks Mycroft, John thought sardonically as he rubbed his stinging arm; what a great way to treat your little brother. He fumbled with the phone in his top pocket, stabbing at the touch-screen keys in frustration. After every message was a predictably instant reply.

What the Hell is going on?!

I see Mycroft only used the short-term serum this time. Fair warning, the side-effects involve the opposite end to vomiting. Temporary though. SH.

Sherlock!

My relations are hosting a party for my Mother. I refuse to attend, and Mycroft took exception to this. You solve the problem. SH.

What if I don't want to go? Which I DON'T, by the way!

As you would say; tough shit. SH.

You arsehole! Call this off now!

I don't think so. SH.

Am glad you saw enough sense to wear a suit, by the way. SH.

Sherlock! Please! I don't know anyone but Mycroft! You never talk about your family. How do you expect me to maintain a cover without any info?

I refer to my earlier statement. Tough shit. You owe me. SH.

John abandoned the smartphone with a weary sigh. Admittedly he might have deserved this, yet he couldn't help but think that the acquisition of feelings had resulted in Sherlock reaching new levels of cruelty. This afternoon would be one of pure hellishness; trying to maintain a narcissistic personality in front of the very people who knew Sherlock the best, including his mother and Mycroft, whilst having to calculate the life history of everyone in the room from scratch. And that would be just in order to make conversation. A headache was forming at the very prospect. Mycroft would have intimate knowledge of the venue, not to mention cameras everywhere. Judging by the distance already travelled from the capital, their final destination would be remote and easy to get lost in. Should John manage to break the bullet-proof glass and make it out of the car alive, the characteristic bustle of the M4 would leave him exposed to all manner of problems. John literally had no means of escape.

Resigned glumly to his fate, John sank back into his seat and watched the world go by. He had noticed the bloodied carcass of a fox a mile back and was genuinely wishing that he was in its place. At least being road-kill had its perks. Anything had to be better than an audience with the Holmes Family.

So, this chapter is a bit shorter than I initially planned but this seemed like a good place to stop. I'm going to split John's ordeal into 2/3 parts so that Sherlock can start having some fun. I am still accepting requests for what you want him to do, by the way, and now also ideas on how I can glam the synopsis up a bit (I think it's boring). Reviews are adored. :) MC. xx