Chapter 8: Frantic Romantic

At the end, Sherlock did pay for Molly's fare rather reluctantly. He let her go, but not before she gave him one of her characteristic looks letting him know he had made a terrible miscalculation. Then, he took a cab of his own. Arriving at Baker Street before John -who clearly had accompanied his date back to her house- and slamming the door after entering. The blogger would possibly be planning on spending the night at Jessika's flat to teach him a lesson -or to just get away from him- but either way, it's atrocious to think the night had gone so horribly wrong.

He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and reached the landing fairly quick. Anger was seething through his pores. He had been so sure that today would end up with John and himself in their way to a relationship, or at least to John staying away from that woman. But it all had gone south and now he probably ruined everything he had with his blogger, even their friendship. It was a very difficult thought to process for the detective, for Sherlock had always been bad with sentiment and emotions; so he did what he always did in such cases: replace it with ice.

"I'm never allowing this "sentiment" to happen again." He muttered as he was prancing through the kitchen, leaving his coat on the floor as he went. He heard the front door open and close with fury. So John had come home. He quickly sneaked past the corridor and made it to his bedroom as he heard the doctor's angry stomps reach the kitchen entrance. "If he thinks he can tell me what to do-" He cursed under his breath.

"Sherlock, get out here!" He yelled with a blend of his military voice and his this-time-I'm-not-dropping-this tone. Sherlock knew then: he was doomed. He growled an "I'm coming!" and unwillingly dragged himself across the corridor and got to the kitchen.

"What's the problem?" He said sarcastically. Picking at the end of one of his shirt sleeves nonchalantly.

"Don't ask me 'what's the problem?' all innocently, like you don't know what's the bloody problem!" He said slamming his keys on the table next to the skull. His fist clenched at his sides and his nostrils were all but expending smoke. Sherlock had to give it to him, he could be really scary when he wanted. "I don't know how someone can be so conceited, and selfish and such a..." He paused looking for an eloquent word to describe what the arse in front of him was acting like. "A cock!"

This, however, did not seemed to hurt the detective, who probably already knew what he was, but he did appear rather offended at the clearly hypocritical nature of John's statement. "Don't act like such a saint John, it's unbecoming of you. You, are: stubborn," He began to gesture with his fingers as if counting. Walking around in the clear area and with John following his every step as if he did not want him to disappear into thin air before he got a chance to punch him. "Oblivious and completely charming!" He ended with a flourish.

When he turned around, his blogger had stopped pacing and was looking at him strangely, like something didn't quite fit. "Charming?" He asked, and the boffin couldn't really follow the statement, not knowing what they were talking about anymore. "What?" Sherlock queried, and continued walking the length of the small room. Clearly exasperated with the ridiculousness of the situation.

"You said I was bloody charming!" John alleged. Confusion written all over his features. He let his hands grip the bridge of his nose in annoyance. The blonde whirled around to keep following the trace of the mad detective.

"I meant endearing!" The other man responded and walked to a halt almost making the soldier behind him bump with him for the sudden change of pace. "So endearing you make me sick."

"Oh, I'm sorry." John sarcastically stated. Clearly infuriated with the road they were traveling: which made small amount of sense. "If I'm so sickeningly endearing why did you come to the sodding ceremony tonight?" He questioned. And raised an eyebrow daring his flatmate to get a word edgewise.

"Why would you go out with Jessika?" The silver-gazed counter-attacked. "She's the dullest of the lot, John!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air and grimaced, as if his friend date's simplicity personally offended him.

"Because I like her!" Okay, so maybe John was stretching the word "like" a bit, but he would ignore the weight of technicalities for the sake of the argument. "Isn't that how it works Sherlock? Two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

"What about when you and I go out and have fun together?" His fingernails where already scratching at his left arm, as they always did whenever he was anxious. Why couldn't John just stop acting like Anderson and keep up with what he was saying? "Has your little mind ever thought about that?" Bitterness painted each word.

"What!?" Why were they suddenly talking about this? That had always been the elephant in the room, and the blogger couldn't see why the detective would decide to bring that up just now.

"I don't want to compromise everything you and I don't have together!" Sherlock offered as a way of explanation. And surely the doctor would be able to get it now, or he was overestimating him.

"That makes absolutely no bloody sense!" He closed his fist and slam it on the kitchen table beside him. The older man thought it to be surprisingly illogical coming from Sherlock, he had never heard his flatmate abandon reason like that before.

"This sort of things usually don't make sense." He spoke softly, as if trying to make a child understand. He just wanted John to get his act together and just use his stupid head. The only way he could be more clear was if he spelled it out to him.

"What sort of things?" The blonde asked confused and frustrated. He just wanted his lunatic flatmate to stop being so mysterious and say what he really meant. However, before he could even end his final word the detective across him had sighed exasperated and stepped forward grabbing John by the back of his neck. Sealing both their lips together.

John was completely frozen and taken aback by the action; and even if the musician initiated it, he looked rather surprised he had actually dared to do it as well. The kiss was chaste and awkward and far too short as both men were trying to get a grip and figure out what to make of the electric shock that went through them when their faces collided.

They broke off frightened, neither of them knowing exactly what had happened, or if it actually had and they hadn't just hallucinated it all. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, but might as well just had been minutes, and tried to read in the other's gaze the answers to interrogations neither of them knew they were asking.

In the end John, beautiful, brave, practical John, broke the silence first, and the curly-haired man was infinitely grateful he didn't have to. "I think I finally get it." He said softly, almost inaudible, while the boffin couldn't do anything more than stand -and even with that he was threatening to fail- and look at him. "And I shall see you tomorrow." The soldier said with a zombie quality attached to his movements, he looked like an automaton, a robot just going through the motions so mindlessly that his best friend would have laughed had he not been in a catatonic state himself.

The blogger grabbed the skull and turned around to start making his way for his bedroom. He, however, stopped once he realised the mistake and returned to exchange Billy for his keys and retreated slowly to his own quarters putting an end to the awkward situation for both their sakes, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the middle of their kitchen.

Confusion was evident and Sherlock's mind was in a rut. Helplessly stuck into the same track over and over again like a broken record. He took a few breaths to calm himself down and try to sit on one of the chairs available. Apparently, motor skills do not function when one is this entranced, as he missed his target completely and ended up sitting on their kitchen floor.