Sherlock was horror-struck. "John, no. No. You don't understand how much I cannot do that."
"Why not? You practically proposed to Janine so that you could move forward with the Magnussen case."
"Irene's different." Sherlock protested.
Despite John's best efforts, his heart sank. He knew that Sherlock had always seen something special in Irene Adler. "Good different or bad different?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
Sherlock shot him a strange look. "Irene's smart enough to figure out what I'm doing."
"Well, don't make it a date, then. Just take her out for a meal on the pretext of, er, returning her cameraphone."
"But Mycroft cleared all the information, remember? It's an empty shell now."
"She doesn't have to know that." John retorted.
"Why can't you take her out?"
"She hates me. It's mutual, actually." John said, "Look, will you just do it?"
"John, why are you pushing this?" Sherlock asked, raising his voice slightly.
"Because, Sherlock, it's the only plan we have! For god's sake, stop being such a big baby." John could feel his own temper rising. "It's one date. I've told you this before and I'll say it again: do something while there's still a chance, because that chance doesn't last forever."
From the odd look on Sherlock's face, John instantly knew that he had crossed some invisible line. Sherlock went into his bedroom and slammed the door, only to return two minutes later with a pillow and a blanket. He avoided John's eyes as he made his bed on the sofa and folded himself onto it, his back to John.
"I'll sleep on it." was all he said.
John sighed. "You'll sleep on it better in your own bed. I can take the sofa."
There was neither sound nor movement from the mound on the sofa, but John could almost feel the hostility radiating from it. He watched Sherlock for a while, smiling slightly at the way his curly hair jutted out at one end of the blanket. As Sherlock shifted and fidgeted, he winced slightly, and John's smile melted off. He knew exactly why Sherlock was wincing, and guilt stabbed every inch of his heart.
John didn't know how to apologize for what he'd done to Sherlock after Mary died. He's done so much for me, and how did I repay him? By shutting him out. By blaming him for something that was never his fault. By beating him to a pulp. By abandoning him when he needed me. I owe him much more than an apology. I owe him my life.
Finally, he got up, turned off the lights, and with one last glance at Rosie, retreated to Sherlock's bedroom.
John couldn't sleep.
"It's happening again, isn't it?" said the little voice inside his head.
And indeed, it was. John could feel it again - the butterflies, the skipped heartbeats, the little barbs of jealousy; in short, all the cliches associated with a crush. Except this was much bigger than a crush, and he knew it, even if he refused to accept it. He vividly remembered every moment, every touch, every gaze he had ever shared with Sherlock. He vividly remembered the nights he had spent trying to convince himself that he was not completely and utterly in love with Sherlock. He vividly remembered the pain of knowing that Sherlock Holmes could never, ever fall for him - before Sherlock actually fell to his death, that is.
After the Fall, John had tried to move on - what choice did he have? He'd succeeded, but only for a while, it seemed. With Mary's death and Irene Adler's return, he could feel the walls crumbling. Every emotion he had ever felt before Sherlock's death and shut out after was trickling back in. It was mostly jealousy which had made him realize just how deeply he loved Sherlock. But he wasn't ready for this; not so soon after Mary.
Sometimes, he still had trouble believing that Sherlock was alive. He'd wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, after replaying Sherlock's jump in his dreams. His barely conscious mind would convince him that Sherlock still lay limp and decaying in that graveyard. He remembered what he had said to Sherlock's gravestone: I was so alone, and I owe you so much. It was doubly hard because those words had been intended to go with a soft caress of Sherlock's cheek, a squeeze of his hand, a soft kiss to his temple; not spoken to a cold gravestone. Whenever he had nightmares like this, he invariably ended up in Sherlock's room, watching him sleep as his heartbeat slowed down. He would keep repeating you're alive. Sometimes, the mere sight of Sherlock wasn't enough; he wanted to touch him, his face, his torso, his pulse, to make sure that it was really Sherlock and not some cheap trick.
As John inspected the bandage on his hand, he thought back to his time in the hospital. He wasn't sure how much was real and how much he had dreamt, but he was almost convinced that he'd woken up to Sherlock holding his hand. Why on earth would Sherlock do that? he thought. But at the same time, he knew that he couldn't possibly have imagined the jolt of electricity that shot through him every time he woke up to feel Sherlock's fingers intertwined with his.
Over breakfast the next morning, Sherlock showed John the text he had sent to Irene.
I have something that belongs to you. Let's have dinner.
-SH
John nodded his approval, and Sherlock meekly set down his phone. He'd sulked all night long before he finally managed to convince himself to send the text. He knew it was for the case, but he absolutely hated the idea of going out on a fake date with Irene - especially since John thought he was 'interested' in her. As if he could ever have eyes for anyone except John Watson.
He sighed and picked up the newspaper, scouring it for any news about the Yardley Oliver case. Surprisingly, there was none, even in the local papers. If the matter was so hush-hush, how had Irene heard about it?
"Pass me the salt, will you?" he asked John, not lowering his newspaper.
"It's right in front of you." John retorted, but handed him the shaker anyway. Sherlock caught his hand.
"Your bandage needs changing." he blurted out.
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes, it does."
"I'm a doctor!" John protested.
Sherlock snorted. "Oh, please. You didn't even notice that I was dangerously close to overdosing until Mrs Hudson packed me in the boot and shoved me under your nose." he said, pulling down the first-aid kit from its shelf.
"That's true. I'm sorry." John said.
Sherlock froze, bandages dangling in midair. "What?"
"I'm sorry. You're right. I should've noticed."
"Oh." Sherlock said awkwardly, "Right. That's - that's all right."
He settled into the chair next to John and took his hand, trying to hide the tremor in his own fingers. When he had changed the bandage, he looked up to find John's eyes fixed on him. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that he was still holding John's hand. John was making no attempt to withdraw it; nor was he blinking as he stared steadfastly at Sherlock. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock found himself mesmerized by John's eyes, by the soft planes of his face, by his slightly messy hair. If something called 'the right moment' exists, Sherlock thought, then this is it.
"John," he said softly, "There's something I need -"
He was cut short by Mrs Hudson pattering into the room. He instantly dropped John's hand and turned away, trying to hide his disappointment.
"Now, see to it that you boys clean up after yourselves." she said, "Remember, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper." As she disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock quickly got up and started clearing away the first-aid kit.
"So, what do you need?" John prompted.
But the moment had passed, so Sherlock cast around for an excuse. "Help." he finally said, "You'll need to coach me about what to do on this date thing."
"Oh." John sounded slightly crestfallen. "Well, it shouldn't be too hard. She liked you even when you were a massive dick to her. Being nice now will only give you away."
"That's true enough."
"I'm heading to work now." John rose. "If you're not going out, can you watch Rosie? Molly's busy and we can't always leave her with Mrs Hudson."
"Of course."
Sherlock watched him disappear through the main door, then made his way upstairs to their flat. What a wasted opportunity. Still, he was rather touched by the fact that John finally trusted him enough to leave him alone with Rosie. He entered the living room and got to work, printing out photos of the crime scene and sticking them all over the wall. It had been a while since he'd been handed such an interesting case.
He turned around to see that Rosie was awake and was gearing up for a tantrum, all sniffles and whines. She couldn't possibly be hungry; she had drained a bottle of milk just before breakfast. He peered at her, wondering what her problem was. When she saw him, the whining immediately stopped, and she held out her arms. He sighed and picked her up, then returned to the wall and surveyed his handiwork.
The giant red 5 on the front door.
The layout of the living room.
The boy's dead body, the marks on his throat evident.
The small window in the storeroom.
Sherlock knew that he was at a dead end. He couldn't move forward with the case until he found out more about the boy's history, and he couldn't do that until he talked to Irene and John talked to her father. Rosie raised her head and peered at the wall, too, pouting.
His phone softly moaned, and he unlocked it to reveal Irene's text.
Finally hungry, are you?
And another.
So am I. Lucky you.
-IA
"John, you have to help me!"
John had barely started ascending the staircase when he heard Sherlock calling him. He sighed. He'd spent a long, arduous day dealing with the most obnoxious patients, and the last thing he needed was Sherlock asking him to take his phone out of the coat pocket because he was too lazy to reach it (not that he minded fishing around in Sherlock's coat, as long as Sherlock was wearing it). As the door to 221B swung open, however, he realized exactly why Sherlock needed his help.
"What on earth…?"
Rosie was sitting on the floor, clutching Sherlock's skull. Sherlock was trying to snatch his 'friend' away, but she wouldn't let go.
"I couldn't find her teddy bear, and she wouldn't take any of her other toys." he said desperately.
John just shook his head hopelessly. "So you gave her a human skull."
"It was either that or my gun. Besides, she likes it."
John stared at Rosie as she ran her hands along the skull, giggling. "Well, what'd you expect? Her mother was an assassin, her father has an abnormal addiction to danger and her godfather solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. Oh, let her keep it. At least she'll be busy for a while."
Sherlock watched him as he pressed his palms over his eyes. "Long day?"
"Very." he said, looking up at Sherlock. He was forcibly reminded of their moment at the breakfast table that morning. His apology had been on the tip of his lips, but he knew that once he started, he would never stop. "So, what time are you meeting Irene?"
"Around 7, which means you need to get cracking." Sherlock said, suddenly businesslike. "Hang around her house for a while - I saw some hedges which would suit the purpose perfectly - and make sure she leaves. You mustn't be seen. We can't afford to arouse her suspicions. When she's gone, knock on the door and invite yourself in for a little chat."
"Okay. I'll figure out how to slip away from Mr Oliver once I'm inside. Do you think I should check James' room?"
"No, she'll almost definitely have removed whatever she's hiding. Can't risk leaving it there with the police crawling all over the place. But I've had my homeless network watching the house since we left it, and she hasn't gone out. A number of policemen have been in and out, of course, but it's highly unlikely she'll trust someone else to hide something she's so paranoid about. Whatever we're looking for is still in the house."
"That means it's either in her luggage or on her person." John remarked.
"Yes. You check her luggage, I'll check her person. I mean..." Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, "That's not what I meant, um…"
John just shook his head. "Nevermind. When she leaves, drop me a text, all right? I'd like to be out of there before she comes back."
Sherlock nodded. "One last thing, John." He looked up at John, all puppy-eyed, and John could feel his heartbeat speeding up. "What on earth am I supposed to wear?"