So, thanks to an amazing snow storm, my day is now completely free to write, read and watch Netflix, so I decided to quickly type this up.
A thank you is needed for RainyDays-and-DayDreams, hinatahime666, EJBRUSH1952, ELLYNARA3, colerfulldarkness666, Lilmuffin2017, BunBunBabe, Septembers Oblivion, GemmaG, 20 minutes, Sheepdog20, texmex007, and AngellaCrickett for their amazing reviews and to everyone who favorites, follows, and even reads this story.
Sherlock's POV!
As soon as John began tucking him in, Sherlock's eyes drooped and his body relaxed. It was quite frightening for his body to act of its own accord, despite his fervent attempts to regain control. Sherlock had always been a master of control, but, with a simple gesture from John, his resolve evaporated. It took every ounce of his remaining self-control to not lean into the doctor's loving actions.
He caught the strange purr that had rumbled through his body seconds before it was about to leave his lips.
It was right then that John finished, and their eyes locked. Sherlock fought for his normally effortless apathetic expression as he tried desperately to hide his pleasure.
"Out. I'll be back soon," John smiled, and Sherlock's gut wrenched. "Sleep; I'll be back soon."
Sherlock didn't trust his voice to not betray him, so he didn't make the unnecessary remark reminding John of how repetitiveness annoyed him.
He just watched, no longer sleepy, as the doctor fled the room.
Had he done something wrong?
Sherlock's mind flew into overdrive, analyzing every second of interaction since his realization of his feelings, but he didn't find anything incriminating. However, Sherlock wasn't accustomed to social interaction, so he was unable to tell if he had done anything unusually horrifying.
He didn't even bother trying to go back to sleep; his mind was fully alert, still desperately analyzing the situation instead of the current case. It was another first for Sherlock to have his mind focused on social behavior (for emotional purposes) rather than the murder(s) at hand.
His whole body craved John's warmth; his mind kept going back to the morgue. It was the first time since his mother was alive that someone had held him, and Sherlock had forgotten how, despite his hatred of sentiment, the gesture made him feel loved and protected.
Sherlock shook his head. What was he doing? He wasn't at the inn to think about John; he was there to solve a case. He shoved his thoughts and reminisces into the wing in the mind palace specifically for the ex-military doctor.
The corpses all shared basic features, though they did possess minor distinctions, and they were all murdered the same way, which pointed towards sentiment. Something about a woman looking like the dead girls made the serial killer murder them in an overly elaborate manner.
Why did everything have to trace back to sentiment?
Bianca Hentsworth clearly wasn't the killer; she didn't possess the mind or description. She was just an inn worker, though George never mentioned that Bianca was their mother figure. It was obvious; she recognized Sherlock from the newspapers George had undoubtedly shown her and muttered, in French and too low for John to hear, that George really shouldn't have gone through the trouble. Her tone alone indicated maternal attachment, as did George's when he informed Sherlock and John of her innocence.
Why did George have to be right?
It was rather odd that all of the bodies were found right by the inn, which would indicate that the murders all had something to do with the building.
But what did the inn have anything to do with it? Sentiment, again, was most likely the reason. But what sort of sentiment made it necessary to murder all of those women and deposit their corpses by and in the inn?
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.
Sherlock punched his pillow, annoyed and frustrated. Why did John penetrate his every thought? Why was his mind completely centered on this average man? No, John was nothing if not extraordinary. A mystery wrapped in an enigma squeezed into hideous jumpers that were just a little bit too adorable.
Why wasn't it enough for his mind to admit that he possessed some level of affection towards John?
He had never been a man who liked to focus on defeat for illogical reasons, yet, no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he couldn't stop thinking about John. Blocking the army doctor out of his thoughts was like trying to understand emotion itself.
Groaning in annoyance, he jumped out of the bed and began pacing.
Although it was better than lying in bed, sulking, Sherlock did not achieve relief. His head still buzzed with thoughts of John. His stomach felt fluttery and odd and, for a moment, he diagnosed it as some sort of virus. It was a preposterous assumption as Sherlock rarely got sick, but proclaiming himself to be ill was easier to understand and cope with than the alternative.
He stalked to the window and opened the curtain slightly. He saw John walking towards the inn, almost to the front door, when someone in the darkness grabbed the doctor's shoulder. Sherlock's body tensed, ready to flee the room and run to John, but the figure stepped into view.
George.
Sherlock cringed, his stomach going from awkward fluttering to a horrible clenching. Despite his slight amusement at John almost injuring George, Sherlock couldn't stand the way George smiled at the doctor; he couldn't stand that John was outside talking to George when he should be inside, with the detective.
Did he misinterpret John's gesture at the morgue?
He tore himself away from the window, aghast. A wave of helplessness stole his breath as he slumped into the desk chair and stared at the wall, willing himself to think about something, anything, other than John.
Sherlock's efforts were interrupted when he heard the sound of a key being inserted into their door.
Was it possible that John had turned down George for Sherlock?
John walked into the room and his eyes flew to the detective.
"Why aren't you asleep?"
"Bored." I couldn't sleep because you weren't here.
John looked exasperated, and Sherlock's heart plummeted. Had John only returned to tuck Sherlock in so he could leave again? Did John want to be with George alone?
Sherlock desperately needed answers. John was still breathing heavily, indicating a hurried trip to their room. His pupils were blown wide, so much so that it appeared as though the doctor's eyes were completely black. He also-
"Don't do that to me. Don't you dare deduce me." John hissed before removing his jacket.
The detective looked away, though he didn't make any attempt to silence his thoughts. When John put his mind to something, whether in real life or in Sherlock's mind palace, there wasn't anything that could stop him.
The only thing Sherlock could deduce from that was John clearly desired secrecy, and that was hardly worthy of being considered a deduction.
"You need sleep Sherlock." The doctor's voice was considerably fonder as he pointed to the bed. Sherlock complied, crawling into the cold sheets. John didn't tuck him in this time; he merely smiled at the detective before moving to the couch.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock inquired, sitting up.
"I'm going to go to sleep." John walked back over to Sherlock and grabbed the extra pillow. Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed John's wrist.
"Stay. Please." The detective reprimanded himself, both for the emotion that filled the question/demand and for even allowing himself to utter something so personal.
John's lips lifted in a slight smile. He gently released his wrist from the detective's hand and crawled into the bed. Sherlock buried himself under the covers once again as John's body tensed before relaxing. The doctor moved slightly so that he wasn't balancing precariously over the edge of the bed yet he wasn't snuggling beside the detective. Sherlock matched John's position, pleasure overwhelming the detective upon feeling John's tension become extinct as he fell asleep.
"Goodnight Sherlock." John murmured before completely succumbing to sleep.
"Goodnight John."
When Sherlock was sure that moving slightly wouldn't wake John, the detective carefully turned on his side, facing the sleeping doctor.
John's face radiated innocence and tranquility as he slipped further and further into his subconscious.
Sherlock stared at John for hours, memorizing every detail of him. He longed to run his hands along the contours of John's face, but he was terrified that such an action would wake the doctor and the spell would be broken.
When the detective finally looked at the clock (John had turned in his sleep, his back facing Sherlock), three hours had passed, and John began to whimper. It was quiet at first, but as the seconds morphed into minutes, the whimpers were accompanied by heavy breathing. Sherlock tried to wake John up, but nothing worked. The detective called him, pinched him, and was considering dumping water on the doctor when he had a better idea.
Impulsively, the detective wrapped himself around John. It vaguely occurred to him that he was spooning the doctor, something only lovers did, but Sherlock didn't care.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock wanted to comfort someone so much that he put their feelings above his revulsion to physical contact.
He was surprised, yet again, when holding John wasn't uncomfortable; rather, Sherlock was comforted by the feeling of John pressed against him. It brought serenity and happiness, so much so that after John calmed down, Sherlock kept himself wrapped around the doctor.
Distracted by thoughts surrounding the nightmare the doctor experienced, Sherlock almost missed John's arm snaking over his and grabbing his hand.
Sherlock tensed, afraid that John had awoken, but the doctor's breathing pattern indicated sleep.
The detective relaxed and, lulled by the sound of John breathing and the feel of his heartbeat, fell asleep.
When the detective awoke, they were still pressed together, although John was obviously awake.
They stayed in their same positions for a half hour, neither of them moving, though Sherlock was sure John knew he wasn't sleeping anymore.
"George wanted to talk to us sometime today; he said he could come whenever we needed him to." John informed Sherlock, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Do you want to text him or should I?"
"I don't have his number; he gave it to you back at Baker Street."
A burst of pleasure shot through Sherlock. "When should I suggest we meet?"
"Lunchtime?"
"Sounds fine."
Sherlock relaxed his grip on John, and the doctor let go of his arm. They both got out of bed, and they got ready for the day before heading downstairs for breakfast.
They sat down at the table and John ordered breakfast, frowning slightly when Sherlock abstained though he didn't comment. Afterwards, it was then that Sherlock noticed how relaxed John was. When Sherlock first thought of spooning John that night, he was afraid that, should it continue into the morning, things would be awkward, but, like most of his assumptions involving John, the detective was wrong.
The fact that they cuddled for a majority of the night was not ignored, but there wasn't any awkwardness Sherlock anticipated. There was, like with everything Sherlock did with John, a silent understanding. However, it was the first time that Sherlock wasn't sure what that understanding encompassed.
John took his time eating, more so than normal, and Sherlock felt a grin stretch across his face.
"When are you going to text George?" John inquired, once again breaking their silence.
"Now, if you would like."
John grunted his affirmation.
When would you like to meet and provide more information about the murders? SH
One? There is a decent restaurant in town, I could meet you guys at the inn and we could discuss it there.
Alright SH
"He said that he would meet us here and we could go to a restaurant at one."
"That sounds good. Wouldn't it be a bit bad to discuss murder in public?"
"The town has been buzzing with gossip about it. Look around John, they have nothing else to talk about. Everything that he will say has probably been heard by everyone here. The only problem is the likelihood of people interrupting our conversation."
John returned to eating, and Sherlock snuck bites of food here and there.
And, like with most of the detective's actions, John rewarded him with an amused smile.
The men sat in the lobby, the blonde woman nowhere in sight.
As one o'clock rolled around, George entered and walked up to the men.
"Hey! How does Italian sound?"
"Adequate."
"Perfect," John said, elbowing Sherlock.
"We have Italian all the time," Sherlock whined.
"Yes, but we haven't had any here."
"Fine."
George was silent, watching their argument with an amused but jealous gleam in his eyes that did not go unnoticed by either of the men. John cleared his throat awkwardly, and they followed George out of the inn and down the road. Not five minutes later, the trio sat in a vinyl booth, a candle nowhere in sight, much to Sherlock's disappointment.
"The murders started a couple of months ago, and, as I'm sure you have noticed, all of the corpses are females with similar if not exact features. The names, in order, of the women murdered are: Jasmine Smith, Jeanette Williams, Clarissa Fable, Harriet Chase, and Annabelle Arnold."
"Does this include the two women murdered in London?" Sherlock inquired, with considerably less hostility than when they first met, although his distaste for George was still apparent.
"No, these are the five women slaughtered here," George replied. "They all are in the same age range: 20-30 year old women. Although I knew all five of them, they weren't close friends with each other. They were sweet girls, brilliant too. Annabelle was my best friend and Harriet was my sister. The three of us were really close."
"Do you have an idea of who the murderer is?" John sympathetically asked.
"I think it's Madison Bender-" upon hearing the name, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "-and not because she is Bianca's boss. I'm not that petty. I think it is Madison because she just doesn't seem... right, you know? I don't see her around much around town, and in such a small community, you see each other pretty often. I've never been to her house and, after I asked around, nobody else has ever been in her home."
"Just because Ms. Bender doesn't let people into her home doesn't mean she has something ominous to hide. It could be a self-esteem issue, or-"
"You've met her, haven't you Mr. Holmes?" George interrupted the detective, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Yes."
"And you still think that it could be a self-esteem issue?"
"People often strive to appear self-confident to hide their self-loathing or other issues they deem unworthy of public viewing. You don't know why she doesn't let anyone into her home; thus, you cannot assume anything about the inside OR how she sees herself," Sherlock fired back.
"Given her social standing in the community, which, is pretty high, it is unusual that she wouldn't ever let anyone into her modest, two-story home. She has one of the nicest houses in the whole town!"
"Why do you think she would kill all of these women?" John inquired, obviously trying to steer the conversation into smoother waters.
"Something must've happened between one of them, which would trigger the murder of women looking similar to the one that offended her. It could be any of them, though, because you could argue that she could've killed her after killing a few women that looked like her to stimulate fear."
"Did any of them have a close relationship with Madison?" John leaned forward slightly and George copied his movement.
"Jasmine was good friends with her, but they did have a falling out a few weeks before her death."
"So why don't Sherlock and I learn more about the two women and their relationship?"
"I think it sounds good; is there anything I can do to assist you?"
"We do not require assistance for such a task," Sherlock coldly interrupted. He wouldn't, couldn't, have John spend more time with George.
"Is there anything else you could think of to tell us?" John asked, shooting Sherlock an exasperated glare.
"Well, Jasmine's boyfriend, Nick Sands, might be able to provide more information about Jasmine."
"Thank you for the information," John smiled at George, and Sherlock's gut wrenched.
"Thank you for assisting us with the case," George replied, smiling in return, though this time he included Sherlock.
A silence stretched between the three for a few minutes, before John got up to go to the loo.
"I wasn't trying to flirt with him just now, or last night."
"I didn't say you were."
"Perhaps not, but you clearly don't like it when people flirt with him, and I saw you in the window last night." He noticed Sherlock's silence, and sighed. "Look, it's not wrong to love John. I never meant to sabotage anything; I honestly didn't know either of you cared about each other like that. If I had known-"
"Either of us cared about each other?" Sherlock's question flew from his lips before he could restrain himself.
"It's quite obvious that you two love each other."
"Love?" Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, but who said winning was always good? Who said losing could be horrible even when you lose with amazing people?
"Can you really not see that he feels the same? It's quite obvious actually-"
"What's quite obvious?" John interrupted, sliding into the booth.
"That Madison Bender is the murderer," Sherlock smoothly lied. "He's still convinced that she's the only possible person."
"She might be; she might not be, but it's a lead. Would it really be horrible if George was right?"
Would it really be horrible if George was right?
Yes, because, even if I was the sort of person someone could love, I am not good enough for you. I'm too insensitive and freakish; whereas John is the quintessence of loyalty and courage.
Annoyed by John's innocent question, Sherlock pushed past the doctor and out of the booth. He fled the restaurant almost immediately.
As he slid out of the seat, Sherlock saw George flash him a knowing smirk. Sherlock could hear John calling his name and following him out of the restaurant to look for the detective.
Sherlock slid into the library two buildings down from the restaurant and immediately went to the back corner.
Plopping on the floor, Sherlock examined the books in front of him before pulling out a blue book.
He huffed, examining the title before opening it and reading.
If the Cambridge Studies in Philosophy book Analyzing Love didn't shed light on the present situation, then nothing could.
Thank you for reading! I'll try to write the next chapter this weekend, but, if that doesn't work out, see you next weekend! :)