"Sherlock?" John's voice was soft, quiet, coming from their hotel room door. Sherlock pretended to be asleep already as he heard John close the door behind him and sit on his bed beside Sherlock's, the springs in John's mattress grunted under his weight.
They were in Dartmoor.
The little hotel near Baskerville.
Sherlock kept his breathing regular, his body was turned toward the window that was located on the left side of his small bed. John was behind him, to the right of his bed. Sherlock didn't want John to know that he was awake, but he kept his eyes open, listening to John's movements. He had left the dim lamp on before John entered, it provided enough light for John to change into his pyjamas easier.
They had had a fight earlier.
Sherlock had yelled at John.
Sherlock had told John that he "didn't have friends".
John was hurt by that statement.
John walked away.
Probably to get some air.
That was his frequented excuse.
Of course Sherlock felt terrible as soon as the words left his mouth. He really hadn't thought that one through. Of course Sherlock didn't understand emotions, he didn't realize that that statement would hurt John so much. But it wasn't hard to notice the way that John's face fell, the way that he walked out of the room. Sherlock felt guilt consume him. After texting John about Henry's therapist, he went directly to bed. He hoped that all would be forgotten, forgiven. Sherlock didn't like the way that relationships got messy. Hurting John would hurt their friendship, and even though Sherlock didn't want to care about friendships, he cared about his friendship with John.
Sherlock could hear John pull his jumper over his head. He could hear John's breathing, he could hear John pull a worn t-shirt over his head, the same one that John wore to bed every night. Sherlock didn't move as he heard a belt buckle, a zipper, the material of John's jeans fall to the ground. Sherlock's heart rate began to quicken.
Why?
Was he afraid of being discovered as awake?
Was he afraid that John was still angry at him?
Was he thinking about how John looked undressed?
It seemed to be all three...
Interesting.
John was pulling up his pyjama pants now, then pulling back the sheets from his bed. The springs in the mattress groaned again as John lay down and adjusted under the sheets. Sherlock listened as John leaned over to the nightstand between their beds and switched the lamp off with a small click.
It was dark now. Sherlock listened to John's breathing become regular, it became his sleeping rhythm. Sherlock's eyes were still open, his brain was thinking furiously.
Trying to rationalize the hound he saw earlier…
Trying to rationalize his feelings about John…
Sherlock waited for John to enter REM sleep. He turned to face John's bed, saw his eyelids flutter, his pulse was faster, so was his breathing. John was deep in sleep.
He was dreaming now.
Sherlock sat up on his bed, looking over at John. He felt an odd leap within his belly, there was an odd and unrecognizable feeling in the region where his heart lay, beating against his ribcage. He could see John easily with the moonlight that escaped from the window beside Sherlock.
John looked upset, even in sleep.
Something was troubling him, possibly a dream?
Sherlock bit his lip, unsure of what to do now. Should he hold John? Tell him that whatever is bothering him is only a dream, his mind playing tricks on him?
Like the hound that Sherlock saw tonight?
Sherlock carefully slid to the edge of his bed, there was only a few inches of distance between both beds.
Sherlock's vision began to get hazy, cloudy, as if this wasn't happening.
There was a small creaking sound under his bare feet, where he stepped toward John's bed. John didn't move, he was still sleeping.
Sherlock took another step closer, his knees were touching John's bed frame now.
John was lying on his back, one hand was on his chest, the other was beside his head on the pillow. John's worry lines were dominant, Sherlock felt guilt wash over him, he felt like he was the blame for John's worries. He never deserved John, John was too good for him.
Sherlock sat at the edge of John's mattress, John's thigh was against Sherlock's lower back. He shifted his position so that he was crouched on the bed beside John's body. He could feel the waves of body heat touch his own skin, make him shiver.
Sherlock laid gentle fingers against John's forehead, he smoothed his touch over the worry lines, trying to make them go away.
There's nothing to worry about, John…
John must have felt Sherlock's fingers on his face, or read Sherlock's mind, because now he was awake. John looked up at Sherlock with tired eyes, the worry was still there. Sherlock looked back at John, into those blue eyes.
Why was John scared?
John's right hand moved from the pillow and grabbed onto Sherlock's wrist, he pulled Sherlock's hand away from his face and examined Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock just watched, waited to see what John would do.
John pulled Sherlock fingers closer to his face again, Sherlock could feel the heat from John's breath against his fingers, he leaned over John a little more. John looked back into Sherlock's eyes, there was concern, a question in the way that his eyebrows raised. Sherlock parted his lips and felt his face flush. John brought Sherlock's fingers to his lips, he kissed those slim, pale fingers.
Sherlock felt something unbearable rise in his chest, he leaned the palm of his unoccupied hand beside John's chest on the mattress. Sherlock leaned in closer, their bodies were almost touching.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock spoke, his voice rough and full of feeling. John stopped kissing his fingers and looked back up at Sherlock, their faces were so close now. Sherlock had no idea how any of this worked, he didn't know how to read the signs. There was a look in John's eyes that told Sherlock that something was coming, and before Sherlock could think anymore, John had reached up and kissed Sherlock on the lips.
The feeling was… something he'd never experienced before. It was new, different, strange. It beckoned for more. Sherlock kissed him back, not knowing how, but feeling like he was getting it right.
Sherlock was lying on top of John now, the blanket separated them, a symbolic barrier that told Sherlock that this shouldn't be happening. (Beds were meant for sleeping.) This went against everything that Sherlock and John had ever expected, hoped for, wished for. But they didn't plan on crossing any more boundaries, this seemed to be the extent that their affection would take. They kissed and it was beautiful. John had his fingers running through Sherlock's hair, it was a nice feeling. Sherlock had a hand on John's chest, a reminder of something… but what?
His other hand was holding him up, supporting him so that his weight wouldn't fall onto John and become uncomfortable.
Sherlock liked the way that their lips moved together, it felt right. John seemed to like it too. He could feel a tongue slide across his lips and he shivered.
This was so unsanitary.
But Sherlock could get used to this…
Sherlock exhaled, smoke rose from his lips into the bedroom of his room. The ceiling was hazy with a layer of smoke. He closed his eyes and thought back on the memory from Dartmoor, he smiled as he felt pleasure ripple through him. His groin became uncomfortable under his clothing, but he ignored it. Concentrating instead on the images flying around in his head, he breathed a laugh and sucked in another breath from his joint. Weed did wonders for his imagination, it made him think of things he wouldn't have even considered while clean.
Of course, everything that he had just remembered was all memory, but only half of it actually happened.
That night, he had faked sleep when John came in, indeed, he even looked over at John's sleeping form in the bed beside his own. But the rest was a dream, a drug induced dream that came to Sherlock that night. Thinking back to it now, it had probably come to him because the gas from Dewer's Hollow was still in his system, making him see what he had wanted to see.
Just like the hound.
Seeing what you want to see, what you're afraid to see.
Smoking a joint had given him a new outlook on the dream he had that night at the hotel in Dartmoor.
Did he really have feelings for John all this time?
Were these feelings hidden somewhere in Sherlock's mind-palace, like a great mind-game of "Hide and Go Seek"?
Sherlock laughed at the thought, it would be fun to play in his mind-palace, just this once. He'd look through every room, in every shelf and every drawer.
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Sherlock zoned out, the smoke was gone and so was the taste of it on his tongue. He wasn't even sitting on his bed in that rubbish basement room that he was forced to live in. He was in the entrance of his mind-palace. Counting to ten, he put his hands over his eyes. When he was finished counting, his eyes glanced at every surface.
He creeped into one of the sitting rooms, where he kept information about various art work and bits of foreign travel. He looked under the embroidered cushions, behind picture frames, under the Persian carpets. Nothing was hiding in there…
Sherlock moved towards one of the many offices where he kept his organizational habits. Nothing was hiding under the desk, nor in the ink bottle, or the file cabinet.
He looked everywhere on the first floor, going through the different wings and finding every possibly hiding place. Nothing on the first floor.
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
He took the grand, golden staircase to the second floor. So many possibilities. If nothing was hiding on this floor, he'd have to go to the third floor. But each room left him disappointed. There was nothing hiding anywhere. Sherlock looked out the great windows from the east wing and let his eyes scan over the garden outside, not too far from the stone path, he saw his wishing well.
A flutter of hope spread through his chest and he rushed away from the window and down the hall. Sherlock jumped down the stairs, not caring about leaving any scuff marks on the expensive marble floors. He sprinted out the door and toward the stone path to his left, over by the east wing of the palace. He followed the path toward the wishing well and once he was close enough, he looked inside it's depths.
This wishing well had been one of the first things that Sherlock constructed when he created his mind-palace. It's age was evident by how poorly built the well was. A couple stones had fallen out of the wall, and moss and grown over some of the sides. It was a small well, constructed during his childhood, a time when hopes and dreams were most important to a child.
Sherlock could see a lot of his wishes rise from the well. Only the wishes that hadn't come true would stay in there. Very rarely did any of Sherlock's wishes come true and disappear from the depths of his well, so it was getting pretty crowded in there.
I wish I could be a pirate. He laughed.
I wish that I had a friend. That was a very old wish, one he developed as a six year old. Why had it remained? John was his friend… wasn't he? Therefore the wish must have come true, why was is still there?
Sherlock was puzzled by that wish, then moved past other wishes such as "I wish I could play in the school's violin recital." Another was "I wish Anderson would get fired already."
But after a long search, Sherlock couldn't find his feelings for John in the wishing well. He's have to go check the third floor of his mind-palace. It had to be hiding somewhere in there.
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Sherlock run back into the mind-palace and climbed two staircases in order to get to the third floor. The possibilities up here were endless, he hadn't lost faith. Just before entering his reference library, he realized that he should check the master bedroom. He ran towards the east wing, turning every corner with that one location in mind. He felt like he was on to something, he felt close to finding what he was looking for.
Finally, he got to the door of his master bedroom. The door was made of pure gold and carved into beautiful decorative designs. Pushing open the heavy door, Sherlock stepped into the room. He could smell excitement in the air, something was definitely hiding here.
How long had it been there?
How had it remained hidden so well?
Sherlock stepped in front of the kingsized bed, he smoothed his palms over the blankets, looking for something, anything, to jump at his touch.
Nothing was there.
He looked under the pillows, but everything under there was unusual information, things that were unnecessary right now. With frustration, Sherlock kicked the bed, but then he heard a thump under the bed.
Something was there.
Sherlock crouched down to look under the bed and saw something in the shadows there… He squinted his eyes to improve his vision, then reached in closer. There was a small box, just out of reach. He could see a lock attached to the opening of the box, reaching a little farther, he finally caught hold of the box.
I found you!
He slid the box closer, he pulled it out from under the bed. It was dusty, it had probably been there for about two years, almost three. He blew the dust away, sweeping the rest away with his fingers. Sherlock looked at the lock. It needed a key.
Where would he find the key?
He hadn't the faintest idea. Sherlock threw down the box in exasperation and frustration.
The mind-palace was gone. Sherlock was back in the smoke-filled bedroom of his basement.
Why did he snap out of it?
What had brought him out of the mind-palace?
Sherlock stood up from the bed, putting out the red glow at the end of his still smoking joint. Marijuana had helped a little, but he'd come out short.
Where was the key to that box?
There was a text alert sound coming from his left, he picked up his cell-phone to see the message. There was an address on the screen. It was from an unknown number. Sherlock smiled down at his phone in triumph.
The assassin had taken the bait and was now leading Sherlock to his secret location.
Sherlock felt a thrill rise in his chest as he threw down the phone and dressed up to leave the room. He'd leave everything here, only taking a gun, a GPS, and a small envelop of papers.
Taking a quick injection of cocaine, Sherlock threw his jacket on and ran up the stairs to the back exit. His pulse was racing again, he was breathing fast and his eyes were wide and ready. His game of "Hide and Go Seek" with the assassin was coming to a close. He'd find the bastard in no time.