Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly rolled his neck. A cup of steaming black espresso sat in front of him, rocking slightly as the train rattled on the tracks. Mikheia was speaking amiably with a waiter at the bar of the dining car, gesturing to the pot of warm coffee before coming to sit in the booth they now occupied.
He wondered why he had allowed the boy to tag along.
"One cube or two?" The waiter asked as he set a cup of coffee down in front of Mikheia and held out a sugar bowl.
"Ah, no, thank you." Mikheia waved it off politely. "I do not like sugar."
Admit it. You keep him around because he reminds you of John.
Mikheia caught Sherlock's slight smile as he stirred in his milk.
"You are not normally a smiling person. What has made you so happy?"
"It's nothing, just…I have a friend who doesn't like sugar as well."
Mikheia made an amused face and stared at him a moment, drumming his spoon on his cup absentmindedly.
"Most people do not remember such inconsequential things about their friends." He said with a grin. "That means either you are attentive, which I don't doubt, or you do not have many friends to remember things about, so you like to memorise the little things, which I also don't doubt."
"You're right on both counts. I suppose my prowess has rubbed off on you."
"You can't be held accountable for all the intellect in the world, sir."
"No, only most of it."
"You have never cared much for friends, have you? Or personal relationships?" Mikheia frowned then. "Never mind, that is too personal of a question. Forget I asked—"
"No, by all means, keep going. You're on a streak."
Mikheia paused, unsure of how to continue. He was considering Sherlock's feelings, something people usually tended not to do. How quaint.
"This friend…he is special to you."
"How do you know he's a 'he'?"
"I did not at first, but now you just told me so." Mikheia said with a grin. "This man is important to you, since you know that he does not like sugar in his coffee—well, tea, since you are British, yes?—but you got this face when you told me about him just now. I have seen you with this face before, sometimes when you think I am not looking or sometimes not, and now I know that you are thinking of him." Mikheia took a sip of coffee then leaned forward with a smile. "Do you love him?"
Sherlock scoffed.
"Pity," He sneered. "I thought you were right on the mark too until that came out."
Why was he being so hostile about something so trivial? But…it was about John. John was never trivial. This was poking at a wound still bruised, purple and yellow and not healing, not even close to healing.
"It is alright if you do." Mikheia shrugged. "Love is love, whatever you want to call it. You can love him like a brother or like a husband; you can love him however you like. It all means the same to me."
"And what if I did?" Sherlock asked lowly.
Mikheia's gaze snapped to him and a sly smile came on his face.
"You are a cruel man, Mr. Holmes. You had me thinking I was incorrect in my theories."
"Cruelty would imply that I deliberately intended for you to feel pain. I merely wished to state that you are not incorrect, but you were not correct either."
"If you did love him, then what does it matter to me? What does it matter to anyone? Does he love you?"
"He often showed an immeasurable devotion and infinite loyalty, yes."
"Is that how you classify love, sir?"
"How would you classify it?"
"I did the asking first."
"I'd like to hear your answer."
Mikheia tapped on his cup, thinking for a moment.
"Love is…it is…" He paused and then began to laugh. "That's what it is! Something that can't be stuffed into words. It is what you feel when you come home and someone is waiting for you. It is what you feel when you've been out in the cold and go somewhere warm. It is what you feel when you eat after a long hunger. That is love."
Sherlock had not moved for the entire speech.
"Interesting." He said finally.
"You think I am stupid?"
"No," Sherlock said, leaning forward. "No I think you're smarter than you've led me to believe. Most interesting…"
"And love? What is it to you?"
Sherlock stared.
What was it to him?
As someone who had never experienced it himself, he couldn't describe it out of a first-hand account. Love was as foreign to him as decaffeinated tea or unused laboratory equipment or not having a body part in the refrigerator.
He couldn't confine love to any constrictions. He had to work with what he was familiar with. He'd have to start with what made him comfortable and then work his way up from there.
What made him comfortable?
Violin. His chair. Petri dishes. Tea. Nicotine patches. Striped jumpers. Medical dictionaries. Dodger blue eyes. Libraries. Beige jumpers. Sheets of music. His riding crop. Any kind of jumper, so long as it was John's—
John.
There was a start.
John made him comfortable. John made everything seem comfortable. He could have told Sherlock that he had just drawn a bath of liquid lava, rusty knives and hypodermic needles and that it was utterly heavenly and Sherlock would have given it a try, because if John liked it, Sherlock wanted to like it.
Now…what made him uncomfortable?
Decaffeinated anything. Every person on the planet. Wait. No. Every person except John and maybe even Mikheia. Crying anything. Jackets with fake fur on the hood that were so puffy you didn't know what was underneath. Sickness. Not being able to smoke anymore. Indiana. Mycroft's 'assistants'. Being beaten (by anyone). Cabbies. Incorrect change. Westwood. Anything not John.
And so he was entering into unknown territory, a veritable no-man's-land where the next step he trod could be his last. But he would do it, for John if not for himself.
It could be argued that everything he did was for John, which was an abnormal thing in itself because he never did anything for anyone.
But John. John Watson was special. Very special. The most special thing to ever have existed in the history of histories.
Was that his answer?
Sherlock blinked.
Only 2.234 seconds had passed since Mikheia had asked his question.
"Love is a liability." He said finally, his voice bland and cold.
Mikheia sipped his coffee in response.
"You will be pardoning me because I do not believe you, sir."
"Why is that?"
A smile bloomed on Mikheia's face.
"Because I know you are lying."
"Really? Tell me how."
"I do not need to tell how or where or why or when. It is obvious."
"Obvious." Sherlock repeated.
"You have been threatened with love before, and you ran away because you were afraid. But I know that you are not a coward and that your tail would never be caught between your legs, so you ran for someone else. For who?"
"For whom."
"For whom? For this friend? For your only friend? That would be my best of guesses."
"I ran from him. For him." Sherlock admitted quietly. "I could not be trusted with his life any longer. I think you'll find that I am most careless with the things that have the most value."
"Does he know why you fled?"
John's face above him, utterly desolate, utterly devastated, utterly destroyed as he grasped at a pulse that Sherlock had been sure to erase.
"No."
"And it hurts you?"
"Yes."
"And, if he was here, right now, would that hurt be less?"
"Yes."
"That is why I do not believe you." Mikheia paused, wading the waters to neutral reception. He continued. "You are in love and you do not want to admit it because it is dangerous right now. But there will be a time when it will not be so. There will be a time for you to love without consequence. You went to Novgorod for a reason. You are here for a reason. And that reason is why love is not a liability to you."
"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes in what was supposed to be a penetrating stare but ended up looking to Mikheia like he was just squinting into bright sunlight. "How can you know that it won't have a consequence, when everything you could possibly fathom has a conceivable consequence?"
"It might." Mikheia admitted. "But, the funny thing about love is that if there is a consequence, you do not notice it."
Apologies! I know it seemed that Bruges was next, but I felt that if John and Mary got their interlude, then Sherlock and Mikheia deserved one as well. Bruges is definitely next though! pinky promise
Thank you to rainbowcapillaries for bearing with my rant and being so gracious with yours!
