Edited! And still editing.
Medical Knife
"Since when, John, do you opt out of a date to sit alone in cafés? I find this highly suspicious."
John sat perpendicular to Sherlock, seated in a booth for the comfort of it, drumming his fingers along the counter-top while he pondered that very question. He did give up a date, but in truth, it wasn't that big of a deal—he'd met with her once before, but she was incredibly dull and slow-witted, so naturally he wouldn't feel any drive for her—no matter how willing she was to sleep with him. John Watson was, actually, a stud. But his standards had risen substantially over the course of the year spent with an international legend. So the fact that he found it hard to sustain at least enjoyable entertainment, while partially was his fault for becoming acclimated to, was mostly due to the fact that she was boring. A lot of his dates were boring. This one was no different—actually, no, it was different, for one small, incremental, unassuming detail. And that detail was that Sherlock said that this one was different. If he said so, then it must be different.
Nope. Sherlock was Sherlock, and like Sherlock, he always sought intricacy and intrigue and mystery and entertainment, which he was in short supply as of late. He'd only accompanied John to the café for this fact, and nothing more. John accepted the company because he knew he would have to, regardless of actually wanting it.
That still didn't keep him from pretending he was alone. He simply ignored Sherlock, who scoffed, and waited for his latte order to arrive. But he knew he had to wait—the new kid took it, and would be chatting up a girl, which would collide neatly with the fact that they had a new beverage machine and he wouldn't know how to use it.
John picked up a fair amount of things from Sherlock.
"John."
Ignore.
"John."
Was that scent a new coffee mix? He should try it. Smells good.
"Watson."
"What? Can't you see I'm trying to be… I don't know, alone? Yes. That does work, doesn't it? Alone. Why can't you leave me that way?"
It is mentionable that John was feeling more bothered that day than was normal. It was vague, but definitely in response to the surge of people coming down with illness at his work. Sherlock was himself, though slightly more time-consuming of John without any cases. The cases filtering through his inbox were so elementary and easy that he didn't want to tell Lestrade who did it. Even he—even Anderson – could unravel the case. Unfortunately, this bred a new, more potent incarnation of boredom, which infiltrated every aspect of John's life. The night before, Sherlock wandered into the bathroom while John was showering for the purpose of discussing the nature of furniture-polish.
It was also bothersome to not have a good date, either. He didn't want to place the reason why he didn't like any of the seven girls he'd seen. That would lead him to the conclusion that his ability to tolerate mundane conversation lowered considerably. That would make him like Sherlock. That wouldn't do.
His eyes looked down to his hands.
He hardly ever felt the need to cut—it was rounding a month's marker point on the calendar since his last urge, since Sherlock confronted him about it. He never got down to the real reason why he was feeling so bad, but he didn't think on it when it went away. For the most part, it felt like it was never there, just as the war flashback dreams were just faded memories. He'd been sleeping well. Really well.
The trade off for such a good-night's sleep and lack of dangerous urges was the loss of interest. If he were honest, he didn't even care to go on a date. As his will returned, like the flame of a candle, he burnt the necessary fuel around him to sustain that will, that happiness. A happiness of a sort, if that. What he burnt up was a creative pocket, a thoughtful, emotional thing, and replacing it was the steady-burning flame atop a wick of minimalistic drive. He operated as required. He liked doing things of all sorts— watching telly alone, morning walks, planning on a book he might write, even just spending time, in silence, with Sherlock Sherlock was a good thing for John over the course of the month. John felt a little more needed in the detective's life, both professionally and privately. Sherlock even watched the telly a bit more, called him "idiot" less, and, most importantly, he trusted John. Never did he ask to check his skin for marks. John was sure he observed the hell out of him when he was distracted, following the secret-blog that he still kept up with (mostly with advice posts), but if that was the worse it gets, then he would welcome it.
It was with women that he struggled most. In this instance, he just couldn't stand her—Mary, that was her name. Narrated in the somewhat deep, alluring voice of Sherlock Holmes, John's mind went to work on the woman he was supposed to be interested in, picking apart little things that annoyed him, things that weren't attractive, things that made her sound unintelligent or boring.
Why did Sherlock have to find out about his not having a date? And why didn't he say anything now that John gave him the attention he needed? Sherlock stared at him like he was looking through him, without a blink, for more than thirty-seconds. The overpowering chatter, clatter, fuss, and comfortable hum of the café laid over them as they exchanged one long, unsettling stare. Sherlock looked more like a statue in his at-ease gaze, with his popped-black collar, finely folded long-sleeved jacket, and high-set cheeks. John, oppositely, fidgeted too much, and let his eyes break when they couldn't stand the pressure.
Their beverages arrived, and John looked to the kid who brought them. "Thanks."
"I'm bored."
Ah. There it was. Sherlock could no longer tolerate the lack of amusement, and was going to draw it from John.
John wasn't going to bend. "Well, then, find a case. And solve it."
"I'm not clever enough to devise an adequate means of entertainment. Cases are…" Sherlock's expression screwed up to demonstrate the amount of disgust he held for the current criminals out there. "This is a boring month."
"Mnn."
"You're boring me, John."
"Then leave." Yes, please, leave. John is boring, it won't do anyone a lick of good to stay around…
"I was considering something."
"And what would that be?" John's patience was wearing thin—consider a pair of pants, held up to the light to reveal the weak points where they would first tear. Then, imagine the light bulb burning too hot and catching the pants on fire. Now imagine John as the pants and Sherlock as the annoyingly, painfully bright light. John almost laughed at the images at hand, but didn't when Sherlock, he just noticed, was smiling way too widely. "You're doing well," he commented. "A little routine, but otherwise well."
A feeling he'd experienced when serving in the war crept up into his thoughts, flowing through his blood momentarily: a great urge to shoot something became a strong, brief flash in his reacting nervous system. He didn't know what prompted it – maybe it was just a little mental break after being filed down over the course of the month—and it passed. Quickly, but not without another urge coming on, an even worse urge replacing the benign, pretend-threat of violent outburst, undoing all of John's faculties the moment he recognized a familiar friend-enemy (respectively, freinemy).
Sherlock wouldn't know if he didn't say anything, and if he kept up with their banter, and if he would reluctantly follow him wherever he fancied. Anything. Just, god, don't let him know. A brusque smile quickly formed on John's lips, and his eyes became brighter, even in the London downpour. "Fine. What is it we're doing this time?" Sounding a touch jerkish, accomplished. "It's pouring out, and you said yourself that there aren't any worthwhile cases. You look comfortable, you followed me, you probably have something planned, probably a performance of sorts, as you haven't dressed any differently indicating a dramatic change in scenery. I think I mentioned before how I wanted to go to the cinema for that horror-mystery, and the one I wanted, which I'm sure you remember, is already off the main cinema, so that leaves the dollar movies across town. In this rain and considering traffic and movie showings, the showing you're probably interested in is at five-fifteen… "
Both John and Sherlock were surprised. John was really surprised, but Sherlock was partially stunned. Literally. He may have bore two holes through John's face with the look he gave him. John fidgeted, taking a half-scalding drink. He forgot to be angry, and he certainly forgot the need to cut.
To be honest, they were simple observations, but they were more than average deducing where John was concerned. Sherlock blinked once and shook his head. "Very good, John. Yes, I was actually thinking about going to the cinema with you."
"Uh, yeah. Sure. Great."
Sherlock's smile returned, and he took John's drink as John set it down, taking a sip, seemingly unaffected by the heat of the latte. "I find that impressive."
John had a hard time remembering the last time he felt so strongly about pleasing someone. It occurred to him that he never, really, did—though he always did his best to please. Mostly out of want to prevent conflict did he practice such self-restricting favors for others. But this time, it meant something. He smiled – non-jerkishly, mind you – not caring that he lost his drink, would have to travel in the rain, or sit through a horror-mystery movie with a detective who would deduce the killer from the beginning, pick apart character relationships, motives, childhood fears, future-marital problems, and middle life crises. "Uh, right. Thanks. Don't think that's a new thing of mine, because I'm sure it was a fluke—I won't be deducing crime scenes and psychoanalyzing everyone I meet."
"Noted, Mr. Watson, though I'm sure you underestimate."
John scoffed, standing. "I suppose we leave now, since we have to cross town."
Sherlock gave back his drink, unsatisfied. No more words were said, and they hailed a cab quickly, less than half soaked through from the consistent rain. The cab was dark – the cabbie apologized when they got in, saying the light was broken by the drunk he'd driven the night before—and the clouds and rain and obscuring London building's did nothing to help that. Sherlock remained quite, but peacefully so, while John's thought's wandered to darker-still places. At least it was dark, a privacy given to him by some merciful force, knowing he needed the veil to conceal his worry. He wasn't supposed to feel this way, with a begging breath on his un-parted lips to taste the steel again, to sharpen his senses against a blade he held and controlled. And select words from his conversation caught in the vertices of his thoughts, the edges of his aware-self that recognized the wrongness and the reasoning behind it.
You're doing well. A little routine, but well. He felt unsettled when attention was given to his life, when he was forced to introspect… Well was not what he was. Routine wasn't what he desired.
I'm impressed. I'm sure you underestimate. He couldn't keep his respect, now, that he showed some attention to detail—this was a standard, that while Sherlock may or may not hold him to, or even have of his physician friend, John would nevertheless hold himself to, always fail to meet, and eventually be disappointed by. His fingers flexed, and he tugged at his jumper, passing it off as being cold, though he knew damn well that it was to distract his mind with a mundane, time-consuming tasks for his idle but eager fingers. Sherlock was deep in thought, or possibly focused on the passing details of the passengers of other cars they settled next to in traffic. Whatever had his attention, John was relieved not to be picked apart. It went well last time—as well as he could hope for, being caught with an unfavorable habit – but he doubted his ability to deal with it a second time. There would be no second time, because he was certain of a few things. One, he would not mention it, in person or through his blog, two, he would ignore the problem because, isn't the best way to deal with a problem? And three, he would, should his plan to ignore fails and he feels like doing something stupid, he would not give in. It was a great plan. Comparably, it was as spectacular a plan as crossing your fingers would be, just as sound, just as infallible. Persistence to the point of idiocy, he would just tough it out.
Pressures never fail to pressure, to persuade, to make themselves, the un-shy bastards they are, the center of attention. Still… John could do it. Right?