Hi everyone! Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter.
Since my last update, some very amazing opportunities have come my way and I have taken them. Unfortunately, this means that starting next week I will not be able to update the fanfic on a regular basis. But please know I will absolutely ABSOLUTELY finish this fanfic, even if it takes awhile to do so.
As always, thank you so so much for your support of this story. It really means the world to me.
A special thanks to beemoh, AiLoveS, tosinadekunle, WL Chastain, BlackPanther1987, EJ 12212012, Teshka, TopHatsandFezzes, and the awesome guests who have recently reviewed this piece.
John lay with a pillow jammed up his mouth for longer than he cared to imagine. And even when his heart rate and breathing finally calmed down, sleep proved impossible. Every time his eyelids drooped with exhaustion, his mind would fill with images of his flatmate sitting at the kitchen table in unbearably low trousers. Then John's eyes would shoot open in panic and he would will himself into reliving his most recent date with Mary. He would concentrate on her delicate smile, the way her cheeks glowed rosy with joy as she watched Hamlet, the softness of her dainty little hands, the alluring colour of her blue blue eyes...how the blue would transform into sea green mixed with gold and grey, so impenetrable and mysterious and easy to get lost in and...NO, NO, NO! Damn it all to Hell, John didn't know how in the world it happened but Mary's eyes somehow turned into Sherlock's. Needless to say, John was still awake by the time the rising sun was caressing the peaks of London's buildings.
The doctor's stomach grumbled hungrily and he longed for a nice cuppa, some toast, and a hot shower to cut his weariness. But the creaking of footsteps and rustling of newspaper from downstairs kept him under the covers of his bed. He couldn't bear to see his flatmate - and he knew that he was being utterly ridiculous because Sherlock didn't know what had happened last night, Sherlock couldn't possibly know what had happened last night, the detective had been completely lost in his mind and John had disappeared at the first signs of movement. But none of that mattered; John still firmly believed that starving would be a much more pleasant experience than seeing his curly-haired flatmate would be.
However, when his bladder began to ache, the doctor cursed under his breath and realized that he had no choice but to get up. He shivered as he threw the warmth of the covers away from his body. The chilly air sent him springing out of bed to find a jumper. He grabbed a clean one made of brown wool, gratefully throwing it on before glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He looked utterly dreadful. His hair stuck in every angle, his eyes were bloodshot, the bags under his eyes were a horrid shade of purple. And still, he didn't look as awful as he felt at the realization that he was about to leave the safety and security of his room. But when his stomach sent another wave of hungry vibrations through his body and that caused his bladder to practically burst, he opened his door. With a shuddering sigh, he stepped out into the flat and bee-lined for the bathroom.
When John entered the kitchen to make tea, he found Sherlock at the table, looking at the latest newspaper. And this time, in place of haphazard night clothes, the detective wore an immaculate black suit and ivory-coloured shirt.
John wanted to act as normal as possible. If anyone would know that something was bothering the former military man, it would most surely be the world's only consulting detective. So John pursed his lips, put the kettle on, and asked his friend, "Would you like some tea?" Much to his dismay, his voice came out squeakier than he had intended.
Sherlock did not respond to the question, continuing to keep his focus firmly on the paper. This lack of response was not particularly unusual - in fact, it was quite normal. Yet, when John eyed his flatmate, he did notice something that was out of the ordinary: though the detective's eyes were sharp, they were still...they were not darting back and forth feverishly the way they did when Sherlock was busy reading. No. Though Sherlock was adamantly concentrating on the pages in front of him, he was only staring at them, he was not absorbing them. Which was very unusual since the detective generally studied the newspaper with a relish.
The kettle whistled and John carried it over to the kitchen table along with two mugs and a box of English Breakfast. He was beginning to relax a little at the thought of a nice steamy cup of tea, but this sense of calm was very short-lived - for, as the doctor reached towards a mug, so too did his flatmate and weathered fingers tangoed with long, pale ones. John gasped, drawing his hand back sharply and knocking the mugs to the floor. They bounced harshly once, twice, before shattering into pieces. And the poor doctor was left breathing heavily, cursing, and scrambling for a broom and dustpan.
Sherlock looked at John critically, frowning as he took in the man's unkempt hair and weary eyes. Finally, he muttered irritably, "Well, you're in lovely form this morning and you look even better."
John was on his hands and knees trying to clean up the broken shards of glass. It was certainly not the most comfortable position; even less so when a certain curly-haired genius was not willing to lift a finger to help. So perhaps it comes as no surprise that, at his flatmate's words, poor John scowled and said, "Ah, you're really cheeky, aren't you?" But, as soon as the words escaped his lips, a vivid image from the night before - one which consisted of his flatmate and, more precisely, his flatmate's arse cheeks - immediately filled his mind. He clasped a hand over his mouth as his face began to burn a hideous shade of red.
Sherlock was equally humiliated by the doctor's words, but the detective certainly did not want to reveal his embarrassment. He hurriedly placed the newspaper in front of his blushing cheeks, sucking at his bottom lip as he tried to keep his breathing steady. But something inside him cracked, something inside him burned, something inside him twisted and churned. Before he knew what he was doing, he had thrown the paper down on the table and spat in an angry voice, "Oh, do grow up, Doctor!"
John glanced at the curly-haired man apprehensively and, upon noticing the usually pale cheeks tinged in pink, swallowed heavily with dread.
"Gluteus maximus is a perfectly normal part of the anatomy," Sherlock hissed, leaning across the table. "Everybody has one, in fact you as a doctor have seen more of them than you probably care to count, so stop acting like mine is unusual!"
When John stared into Sherlock's sharp, penetrating eyes and found judgment and even something akin to hurt in them, he realized that Sherlock knew...Sherlock knew what had happened the night before. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Suddenly, John felt dizzy, nauseous, and so incredibly foolish.
"You know," the poor doctor finally whispered in disbelief, placing his head in his hands. "You know about last night...of course you do...bloody hell...how could I be such an idiot to think you wouldn't notice...you of all people...you and your massive intellect...bloody hell...you know..."
A thick, unbearable tension filled the room as John's stomach churned viciously and sickeningly, vomit threatening to bubble up into his throat and spill out of his mouth. But what did find its way up the doctor's throat was certainly not what he had expected. No. It was a tickling, bubbling, warm fuzzy something that came spilling forth. That something was laughter. John didn't know how or why he was laughing, but laughing he was. It was mirthful, silly, contagious laughter that sounded like the tingling of bells; a full-throated, stomach-crushing type of laughter that sent the body into aches of joy.
For a moment, Sherlock stared at his flatmate in utter shock. But then, the curly-haired man started to chuckle too, a low sound that erupted from the deepest part of his gut. And the two men laughed in unison for many minutes, clutching at their sides and gasping for air.
As their giggling died down, John felt his shoulders relax and a giddy calm fill his mind. A comfortable silence ensued, with Sherlock looking out the wide window and John finishing his sweep of broken glass.
While the doctor grabbed two more mugs from the cupboard and poured the contents of the kettle into each, Sherlock broke the silence, clearing his throat and asking in a nonchalant voice, "Did you enjoy your day with Mary?"
A nostalgic smile lit John's face as he remembered the play and dinner and the loveliness of it all. "Yes, very much." He padded over to the toaster, humming to himself as he set about slicing bread.
Sherlock watched John for a few moments with brows furrowed and eyes unblinking, taking in every aspect of the man's face. When he spoke again, his voice was flat. "So there was no sentiment attached to it."
"What's that?" the doctor asked, frowning with confusion as he placed bread into the toaster.
The detective gave his flatmate an agitated look as if it should be completely obvious what he was referring to. Then he said in a tone that should have sounded matter-of-fact, but which appeared instead to be teetering between making a statement and asking a question, "Last night. When you masturbated. There was no sentiment attached to the act - "
Well, at that, John shifted his weight uncomfortably; he felt puzzled, perplexed, rattled, and he could have sworn that there was a look of disappointment in the detective's eyes. He had no idea how to answer the statement...or had it been a question? Clearing his throat, the good doctor said, "Well. That's a positive thing though, isn't it? What is it you always say...that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side?"
And then the detective's face was once again emotionless and unreadable, and John thought that perhaps he had imagined the look of disappointment that had grazed those angular features only seconds before. "Right. Of course it is," the detective said. "I am glad that your need to masturbate was not fuelled by sentiment, though of course your inability to control your sexual drive is a chemical defect in itself." But here, the detective's voice became agitated. "And regardless, you are still a creature of sentiment, it's just that your sentiments have shifted. There was a time when you were hopelessly attracted to me. You kissed me with purpose the night I rescued you at the pool. But the distant look in your eyes and the disgustingly sappy smile that came when I asked about your date with Mary...you are growing increasingly affectionate of her."
John gave Sherlock an exasperated look, his mouth hanging open as he found himself once again at a loss for words. He turned his attention to buttering his toast, spreading the butter thickly, evenly, and none-too-gently across the bread until it crumbled in the middle. "What are you saying, Sherlock? What do you want me to say? You broke the kiss at the pool...you...you walked away! Why are you bringing this up now?" John gave one final dramatic sweep of his knife, threatening to slash the toast into tiny little pieces. When he dared to look at the detective, he found that pale, beautiful face utterly expressionless. Taking a deep breath, he said in a calmer, steadier voice, "I like Mary more and more every day. She is wonderful. I am very happy that she is my girlfriend...And I am happy that you are my best friend. You will always be important to me."
Sherlock's gaze remained on the former army doctor and those sea blue eyes began to glow with a newfound and incredibly intense interest. Suddenly, "John..."
The doctor was quite startled by the sense of urgency in the detective's voice, and he looked up with alarm. "What?"
"You still...I observe that you still...also...would you..." Sherlock began slowly, his voice suddenly much quieter than usual, much more hesitant. "...nevermind." And, with that, the detective stood abruptly and walked into his room, slamming the door behind him.
Well, poor John was absolutely flustered. He was beyond befuddled. He was stupefied without a doubt. He ate his toast in one vicious bite and downed his tea in one violent gulp - it burned a slithering trail down his throat and esophagus. He needed a shower. He needed fresh air. He needed a walk. He needed space.
And he needed to see Mary - dependable, firm, steady Mary. His brain was absolutely, positively shaken and he longed to hold onto the stability that was her. Right now. He would go right now. To Hell with how he looked. He would shower when he got to her place.
He walked past the mantelpiece towards his shoes and coat, but something caught his eye. Something that hadn't been there the morning before. The skull was back at its usual post, and placed underneath it was a small, white item. At closer glance, John realized that it was a slip of paper covered in Sherlock's writing. The doctor gently slid the piece of paper out from its hiding spot and eyed the elegant cursive with curiosity. This is what he read:
You are a male, British, who passed away due to severe cranial trauma when you were around fifty years of age. You clearly loved adventurous activities, as is evident from the various head injuries you sustained through the years. Perhaps your love for adventure is what killed you in the end, but I believe one of the most splendid ways to die is by doing something you enjoy. I am like you in that I too crave adventure, something dangerous and exhilarating with which to engage my mind. I am sorry that I do not know your name, but I do understand an integral part of you, a piece of what people like John Watson would call your soul. You have not fallen from memory.