Hey. So I'd like to thank everyone once again for reading and definitely to those who have taken the time to review. I means a lot. I acknowledge that this chapter probably won't seem as strong as the last, but I still have two more prompts I need to write so...I have a chance to redeem myself. I'd like to thank VictoriaLucia for the prompt of "his heart." I wanted to write it, but it might not be as you might had seen it. I wanted something that was more about Sherlock's resistance to care and how freely John can. Thanks again everyone.
His Heart
Concern. Care. Love. Sherlock had done everything possible to avoid them. He left himself physically and emotionally detached from others. He didn't want it and he surely didn't need it. Emotions led to deep attachments that would eventually cloud his mind. He'd constantly feel the need to see that one person, be around that one person, know that one person was safe. And safety wasn't exactly his forte. He couldn't bare becoming attached and then having that person ripped away. It'd weigh to heavily on his mind. Sherlock couldn't handle anything as trivial as concern taking up space in his mind palace. He needed to be able to question and analyze anything at a moment's notice. He didn't allow emotion to even cross the threshold of his mind. Any physical bond led to a craving of touch and pleasure. It'd be almost as bad as his previous addictions. He would wind up spending hours chasing down one night stands and take up shoddy cases to only take up time during the day. Both would grow to be of no interest. He'd be hopelessly bored once more and a needle would find its place in his hand.
That was until he met John.
This man—no, this soldier—was going to be the end of his reputation. He knew it and it left Sherlock grasping for straws. There were so many reasons for it being bad, reasons like Moriarty. But there were many reasons that it could be good, reasons like Moriarty's men being left dead in various places from vastly different circumstances. Those poor, unfortunate men had the pleasure of meeting Sherlock before death. The moment he met John at St. Barts was something else. A man he'd never met, one who had obviously never heard of him, offered Sherlock his personal phone. Anyone who had heard of Sherlock wouldn't even offer their hand at the risk of something being deduced. But John simply dug out his mobile and handed it over. But again, he didn't know anything about Sherlock and his abilities. Even so, handing your phone over to a stranger wasn't exactly common place.
But John is generous.
John is kind.
He is warm.
He is compassionate.
John cares.
And John cares about Sherlock.
Even more so, John wasn't afraid to let others know how much he cared either. To John, caring for others wasn't a weakness. It made him stronger as not only a doctor, but a person. It made him determined to do everything in his power to save a stranger and to spend as much time as he could with those he held dear. John knew personally how short life can be. But caring also made him selfless. As fantastic a quality this could be, it could make John's decisions reckless. Sherlock had seen this first hand. He wouldn't never delete the image of John's blank face, eyes lost as he blocked reality. A simple trick he learned as a soldier. Sherlock didn't quite know what to make of this. It was so foreign to him, the complete opposite of him. Emotions were weak. They had always been a vulnerability in the human race. But John wasn't weak.
It began simple. Sherlock missed a few meals. It was no big deal to him. He rarely even noticed the growl of his stomach as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. The consulting detective could go at least two day on minimal snacks before hunger pains would get to be too much. Eating was a waste of time. It was boring to say the least. With John, those hunger pains didn't show too often. The good doctor wouldn't force Sherlock to eat out with him while on a case, but when it was only the two of them in the flat, John would place a plate of food next to him and sip his tea. At first, Sherlock argued. He was fine. Eating only slowed him down, it was boring, it was a waste, he wasn't hungry. He used any excuse he could to remove himself from the situation. However, John used his reasoning as a doctor to convince him, logic being the most convenient way to Sherlock's mind and, apparently, stomach. But again, Sherlock glared down at the plate and kept typing. John sighed and jumped up from his chair, snatching the laptop right from under his nose. Impressed at the speed, Sherlock looked up. John shut the laptop and went back to his chair, sitting politely with the laptop tucked in the side of the cushion.
"Sherlock, what do you know about food?" John asked, face devoid of excess emotion. His eyes and mouth in a rested position as he waited for Sherlock to speak.
"Enough of the basics." Sherlock said, now glancing over the plate. He looked over the seared shell fish and green peas over the plate.
"So pretty much nothing, considering you don't eat it. I may not force to eat while we're out, but you will eat at the flat. So tell me, Sherlock, what am I serving you?" John asked him, gesturing with his hand to the dish. Sherlock cocked his head, curls falling over in the same direction.
"Seared scallops with a lemon, sweet pea relish. You bought the scallops and peas fresh from the market." John nodded at the other man's answer.
"Yes. Now, take that fork and shovel it in your mouth before I come over there and do it myself." John snapped. Sherlock dared to glare at John. However, when he lifted his eyes from the plate, John was glaring back with a more threatening expression. John was serious. His face held no signs of sarcasm. His lips were pulled into a tight line, eyes narrowed and promising military restraint from the smaller man as he forced Sherlock to eat. Without question, Sherlock picked up the fork, sliced the large scallop in half, and ate the first piece. He was pleasantly surprised at the tenderness of the shell fish falling apart in his mouth. It was lightly seasoned and perfectly seared, the golden brown sides serving as a beautiful crust on the piece. He looked up at John as he swallowed.
"This is good." He nearly whispered. John nodded his appreciation as his threatening glare died and he sat more comfortably in his chair, hands clasped together on his lap.
"Scallops are 80% water. A six ounce serving holds roughly twenty-one grams of protein and about 117 calories. By searing them, they remain moist and plump. Scallops are also a good source of vitamin B, omega-3, magnesium, and potassium, all of which are beneficial for the cardiovascular system."John rattled off casually. Sherlock paused in his return to the dish.
"You're not a nutritionist or even a health nut,but you took extensive classes. Not for your mother because her illness wasn't controllable or your father because he was too set in his ways to change, but for your sister." John gave him a curt nod.
"She's an alcoholic, so she might as well eat right. As pointless as it might sound to you, I'd prefer her liver to be her death." Sherlock didn't respond; instead, returning to his meal. He stabbed the other half of the scallop and scooped a bit of the relish on top, using his fingers to keep it on the fork. The peas popped sweetly in his mouth, the lemon off set serving as a perfect contrast that brought the scallop to life on his tongue. He couldn't stop the soft moan of appreciation from rumbling in his throat.
"Peas have seven grams of protein and six grams of fiber per cup. They are also good for your heart and eyes, as well as a source of iron. There's also only 134 calories in a cup of cooked peas. Overall, the peas and scallops are a light, but filling meal. I promise it won't weigh you down as much as the heavy pasta and meal dishes you get from Angelo's. It's also low in sodium and trans fat, unlike our routine of celebratory Thai." John said, moving his attention to the book shelf rather than watch his flat mate eat. Sherlock happily finished his meal in silence. When he was done, Sherlock placed the fork on the plate and looked up at John. The other man flashed him a wide smile and stood, collecting the plate and heading into the kitchen. John was right. He felt contently full, not bloated and tired. John came back into the room with a smirk.
"I won't force you to eat in the middle of the day or while we're on a stake out, but when we're home, you'll eat something. You need to eat, Sherlock, as much as you disagree. You'll notice the difference after a week or so. More energy and probably even the a more alert mind. I expect you to be even more of a dick. I'm off to bed. Good night, Sherlock." John filed up the stairs. Once Sherlock heard the John's door click closed, he stood from his chair and moved over to his violin. Plucking up the instrument, he began Brahms lullaby, a classic that he knew John adored greatly.
The next morning, there was a broiled grapefruit, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, and a mug of bubble tea waiting for him on the table
Sherlock never complained about eating, unless it was because he was ill. Then, John would fuss over that issue, talking about sitting in damp alleys while not dressed appropriately. John's fussing became endearing. It proved that there was someone who cared that he ate and remained healthy. That was John being the rational doctor, of course. But John was also a soldier. He made rash decisions in an effort to keep others safe. In their line of work, keeping Sherlock safe was John's top priority. If it meant putting his knee in someone's nose, he'd do it. It also meant that if taking a beating would ensure Sherlock's safety, then he'd do it. And Sherlock would always remember.
They had been walking the block, dressed casually for the club scene. Their suspect hunted clubs for middle-aged men looking for younger partners. Considering all the victims were the older men, Sherlock claimed that the murder had to be young, early to mid-twenties, female from the depth of the nail crescents on the men and lack of fluids left at the scene of crime. The men wore condoms from the lines of dried semen striping down their sex and creating small puddles on their pelvis, but they had been removed to eliminate leaving her own fluids behind. They had found hair, but it was obviously from a horse. Anderson went to suggest checking out the jockeys in town, but Sherlock interrupted his moment of stupidly by exclaiming it was from a wig from the hair spray residue. Sherlock was hoping they'd find something to go on at the club. He wore an outfit similar to his usual, but left the top two buttons of his shirt undone to expose his neck. He left his both his overcoat and suit jacket back at the flat. But, he wasn't too concerned of how he looked. He didn't fit the murderer's victim preference. John did.
John was only a few years older than himself really, but wore and the stress of pain left folds simulating age. His blond hair was always immaculately kept in a military style, barely noticeable strands of gray peeking through. Of course, Sherlock saw them. He wanted to tell John to stop plucking them when he caught them. Sherlock found them...well, interesting. His face was clean shaven. Sherlock convinced him to trade his jumper and plaid shirt for a well-fitted white t-shirt to show his well kept frame and ragged blue jeans that John had tucked in the back of his closet, claiming they were a tad too tight in the rear. Sherlock found that particular pair to be his favorite. He shook off the feeling as they made there way inside, immediately splitting apart to set up coverage of the club. The consulting detective's height allowed for him to keep track of John through the crowd. John took a spot at the bar, winking at the bartender as she filled a mug from the tap. She leaned forward as she served it, eager to show the ample cleavage visible from the low cut of her skin-tight shirt. Sherlock tried not to let it affect him. But when he hand found John's jaw, fingers pulling him closer to whisper something in his ear, Sherlock felt his blood boil. How dare she?!
John sat back with a nod to her, grinning from ear to ear as she pointed to the back exit. He stood from his seat and turned his attention to Sherlock. John brushed his right eye brow with his two fingers, signaling the other man to follow. Sherlock ignored how he shot up from his chair and pushed aggressively through the throngs of people trying to grind up against him. John was out of the door before him, but it closed too quickly. Rushing to the door, he threw it open to find him thrown back against the closing door with a hand on his throat. Off to the side, he could saw John kneeling with a gun to his temple. Blood was already running from the same side, an obvious backlash to John's defensive reflex if the thug's swollen cheek said anything.
"Ah, Sherlock Holmes. I thought you'd be coming sooner or later." An airy female voice carried in the air. Glancing to the other side, he saw the bartender leaning against a black SUV. He couldn't believe it. There was nothing at the crime scene to explain men being at her aid. There had been sex, not unnecessary rough housing either. He ran through the last three scenes in his head. Nothing. The woman pushed herself off of the car and sauntered over to John. Her hand roughly grabbed his jaw, digging her nails into the soft surface of his cheeks. Sherlock suppressed his urge to smirk when John didn't even flinch.
"That's too bad, John. I do love a military man. Tie 'em up, knock 'em out, stuff 'em in the back. I'll make plans for these two." The two men holding them waited until she had left in her own car, flying passed in a red suburban. The moment the thug holding John lowered his gun, John lunged forward to flatten his body on the ground. He twisted his legs to pull the man down. The thug fell to his front, catching himself on his hands, but not before John was rolling to his feet. He pressed his knee into the man's back, forcing him to the ground as his hands found his hair and pulled it back as far as he could. He then slammed it to the ground, the sound of bone crunching sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. Sherlock tried to move, but the lack of air from the man holding his throat made it a bit difficult. He brought his knee up and jammed it into the man's stomach. It left the man winded, but he only slammed the back of Sherlock's skull against the metal door. Disorientated, Sherlock's body was turned to stand before the man and forced to his knees. A sharp blade prodded the thin skin of his exposed neck.
"Let him go or I'll send your boyfriend here on a journey north." Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from commenting on going to heaven. Even if he believed, he was certain he'd not be going up. John glanced up, a feral look on his face as he pulled his lip back in a sneer, but when he caught the gleam of the knife, his expression softened. He let his fingers unravel from the thug's hair and stood back. The man with the knife watched him carefully as his partner climbed to his feet, wiping the excessive blood spewing from his face. With a growl, he ripped out the handcuffs and forced John's front against the back of the SUV, a distinctive thunk as his head rebounded off to glass window. Sherlock calmly let himself be handcuffed with his hands behind his back and hauled up to his feet. John was already lying in the back of the SUV, body curling in on itself. Sherlock was pushed into the back and the door closed and locked. The men climbed in the front and began to drive. Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs. It was a double lock pair, preventing him from wiggling out. He looked up to John. His face was lax, blood slowly drying to his temple.
"John?" Sherlock whispered, slightly worried.
" 'm fine." The other muttered. It eased the tightness in the consulting detective's chest. He itched to run his fingers over the blond man's face. To check his response time, of course, he tried to tell himself. He made to comment on John's sudden dismissal of action.
"I was fine. You should have—,"John foot kicking him in the shin shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did. What should have shocked him was John then pushing his foot to be between Sherlock's legs. It should have bothered him, but it didn't. The weight was comforting.
"Shut up, Sherlock." Said man's mouth snapped shut, taking the hour ride in the SUV to watch John as he lie taking in deep breaths to help take the focus from his pain.
When they reached where ever they were going, Sherlock was the first out. He was forcefully pulled out, but managed to catch himself gracefully on long legs. He was brought to stand before a desk until something blunt hit the back of his kneecap, making him kneel. The man who brought him out kept a firm hand on his shoulder. John wasn't brought out so nicely. He watched the heavy set thug grab John by his left elbow, yanking on his bad arm. The thug didn't give John the same grace that was given to Sherlock. Instead, he was instantly brought to his knees and his ankles tied. The thug then took John by the throat, dragging him across the floor then dropping him next to Sherlock. John raised his head, grimacing as the effort put strain on his weak shoulder. He gave his flatmate a small smile and let his head drop back down. Sherlock let out a deep breath, then schooled his features.
"I'd appreciate if your imbeciles stop treating my doctor like a rag doll." The woman behind the desk stood, sauntering to the other side. She placed herself next to John, lifting his jaw with a fake pout.
"Oh, the poor military man! Are you hurting? I think you've gotten off quite easily compared to my bloke. You gave him a broken nose and fractured brow bone. It only adds to the game, really. I'm going to enjoy letting you fuck me, then watching you die." John kept his face empty, not a single twitch of the nose from how close she was to him.
"Take them down, I'll deal with him later. Mark is wondering where I am. You two make sure they stay put." She said, flicking back her bleach hair. Pulling out her mobile, she read, probably a text, and then flipped it closed. Sherlock was pulled up by a hand on the back of his neck. From the corner of his eye, he caught John being pulled off of the floor and then across the floor. They were taken down the stairs into a dark cellar, the stench of mold strong in the room. They were split on opposite sides of the room, the only sign of intelligence in the men really. His left handcuff was unlocked so that his arms could be brought up and locked around a pipe. He watched the same be done to John, who instead had one wrist handcuffed to a radiator leg. He fell limp against the wall, a sigh rushing from his lungs since his shoulder was finally able to rest. He lifted his head and moved it around to his pocket. Finding what he needed, John coughed, another signal between them.
"You two. I know why you're here." Sherlock pointed to the thug who been beating on John, "She's your sister so you're just backing her up. But you, why are you here? From the callous on your hand, you were a construction worker. You were making good money and working day hours so you could find women at night. Because you went to the club scene, you found drugs. Cocaine to be specific. But now, you're out of work. You couldn't buy a woman's attention, let alone support your addiction. But she can. She has a lot of money because she's his older sister. She inherited the money and estate from your parents. You think I don't know who she is? When your friend here lost his work, you told him about your sister, but you didn't tell him what you had to do. She pays you for each body that you give her an alibi for. And the fact that she has you hide them in your house until the media calms down and allows her to kill him. But she doesn't kill them on scene, no, the crime scenes were too clean for that. She kills them here. She pays you both to kill up her mess then help her move the bodies. Once they're positioned, she removes the condom and leaves. That way, you're able to keep your drugs and you're able still get your family's money because Daddy didn't love you. You just came with his new fuck toy." Sherlock ranted, looking over the men as he watched John pick the cuff's lock. The heavy set man launched himself at Sherlock, beefy hand wrapping his neck and pressing hard against his adam's apple. He choked slightly, staring down his nose at the man.
"Just where do you get off—," He started until something struck him in the back. John had thrown a log from the pile at his back. The man turned to find his partner out cold on the floor, a massive amount of blood still spilling out of his neck. Angered, the man charged him. John stooped to a lower position so that he could grab the man around the middle. The man grabbed futilely at the doctor's back, pulling the t-shirt up in effort to hold him. John shoved his leg between the man's, hooking it around his knee to pull him down. They went sprawling to the floor, John rolling on top to pin the other man. Sherlock pulled at his cuffs, frustrated he had nothing to free himself. He normally kept bobby pins in his overcoat. A sudden yelp and his attention was drawn back to the brawl. John was now on his back, the man digging his knee into John's abdomen and pressing his fingers into his shoulder. Thankfully the gap in their height allowed for John to bring his knee up and force their bodies apart. John used the staggering moment it took for the other man to stand straight up to rush his body. John slammed the man' back into the wall and pushed him to the floor. Quickly, he grabbed the man's wrist and snapped it into the handcuff. John felt the man's pocket for the cuff key and moved over to the Sherlock. He passed him the key and waited for Sherlock to get free. The moment Sherlock had his hands free, he turned to John and pulled him close. His fingers moved over the now swollen part of his jaw and dried blood.
"That was foolish, absolutely idiotic. Why would you do that? We could have solved this in the alley if you'd just—," John caught his wrists and pulled them down.
"He had a you." The good doctor whispered, voice ragged. Sherlock cocked his head.
"I couldn't risk you, Sherlock. It wasn't worth it."
The woman was arrested that same night. Sherlock would never forget the way John's expression melted with how a stranger held a knife to Sherlock's neck. Another held a gun to his own temple and John didn't even flinch. But the moment Sherlock was put in immediate danger, John not only flinched, he surrendered. It was weak, he should have thought it was weak. But John took the beating that came with his surrender, he didn't cry and whine about the hits he took. John only cared if Sherlock were hurt. He didn't have the least bit of concern over his own body.
John had a heart. He had a large heart, a warm heart, a caring heart that held Sherlock somewhere in there. Even then, even before those three dark years, John cared. And John still cared, even though now it went further than that. If John could withstand a couple strong hits just to keep him safe, then Sherlock could stand a John Waston shaped dent in his reputation.
Sherlock pulled his violin away from his chin, giving the flat a few seconds to stop the echo of his strings.
"John." He called. The blond doctor poked his head from around the kitchen archway, eyebrows arching in question.
"I love you." Sherlock heard what ever John was holding drop with a metallic clang. His head disappeared from the archway, but he then came around the bend drying his hands on a tea towel and moving quickly across the room.
"I know I don't say it often—," John locked his lips over Sherlock's before he could continue. Their tongues wrestled for a brief moment before the blond doctor pulled back and rested his forehead against his lover's.
"You don't need to, but it's nice to hear every now and again. I love you too." Sherlock quirked his lips in a smile and raised his arm, winding it around John's neck to bring him down for another kiss. Oh yes, his reputation could definitely handle a bump or two.
Okay, so it wasn't that terrible. I still don't think it's the strongest, but thank you for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed at least parts of it! :) Leave a review?