Chapter Fourteen
Set Free
"This is ridiculous, John. I shouldn't have to break out my calendar just to sort out the next time we'll be in the flat at the same time."
John sighed and slid his thumb down screen of his phone. "Nope, nope, no…er, wait—"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was with shocking will power that he controlled himself from cursing Mary's existence. The more humanistic side of him reasoned that he had no grounds to hate Mary Morstan, but the I'm-in-love-with-John-Hamish-Watson side of him disagreed.
Vehemently.
For the next three weeks John was slammed, and that wasn't counting the "impulse date nights" that Sherlock so despised. They'd be sitting in the flat, arguing over who was to make dinner, when Mary would call and John would be soon be dashing from the flat in a blaze of giddy anticipation. And Sherlock would grumble about the flat until Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door and asked—in a very long-suffering way—if he might quiet down a bit. Then he would stalk off to his room in a fit temperamental rage. If John noticed any of this, he never alluded to it. Sherlock was dreadfully confused. He was the greatest detective alive, and even he could not decipher John's mixed messages. It was terribly annoying, frustrating and all together unfair. As of late, John had been having a few minor rows with Mary, though they made up with irritating speed, and eagerly planned their next night out. The rows had been about little things; John forgetting to screw lids back on jars, John forfeiting their quality time for a case, John being too absorbed in his blog.
Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit satisfied at this. If only John and Mary could fall apart, then he and John could fall together.
"Damn," said John. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but there's no way I can glean any case-time for the next month. Mary's already frustrated with the amount of time I spend blogging."
"Well, if you're not involved in any cases," Sherlock pointed out, "you won't have a thing to blog about."
John sighed and slipped his mobile into his pocket. "Are you angry? You are, aren't you!"
"Not angry, per se. More—frustrated. Discouraged."
John smiled sadly at Sherlock. It was odd, why did people smile when they were sad? "I'll be more firm with Mary about setting aside some free-time for us, from now on. That do?"
"Fine." Grappling with his overwhelming feelings, Sherlock walked dismally to the door and opened it. "Go on, then. Mary awaits."
"Are you sure?" John stared beseechingly into Sherlock's grey eyes. "I don't want my relationship with Mary to stand in the way of our friendship."
"That's…thank you." Sherlock gave John a brief smile and John grinned nervously back. They were both shaky, like schoolboys on the first day of class. "Honestly, John. Go. Enjoy yourself."
John blinked, and looked away. "Okay, then." He made for the door, stopped and spoke, still facing the doorway. "You really are superb, Sherlock. For being a sociopath, you're quite understanding."
Sherlock laughed, but it was a broken laugh. "Go on, then."
"Thank you, Sherlock."
And he was gone.
Sherlock stared at the empty door frame, the perfect parallel to his empty heart. Number six. Give the person freedom. Sherlock decided that this piece of advice was utter rubbish, given how miserable he felt following it. However, it was for John.
If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they're yours. If they don't, well, they were never yours to begin with. Sherlock rumpled his hair with a sigh. "God, this is insufferable…"
This isn't one of my favorite chapters, so bear with me; the upcoming chapter is twice as long and much better in my opinion, though this chap. does have its point.
LOVE all of you! :)
-Spark Writer-