Notes before reading: Finally! It's finally here! A new chapter :-D I'm sorry for my terribly update timing. I haven't found the time to sit down and type this up. Also, I apologize if this seems a bit messy or rushed in any way :-I
It had been four days since John and Sherlock's strange event of sharing a bed.
Those days had carried on like they usually did: John would let Sherlock sleep in his bed at night and every time he left, he knew Sherlock would curl up in a corner. Many of his spontaneous habits were much different than now; he wouldn't even play the bloody violin anymore! But what affected John the most was that the detective had become a zombie, unresponsive to life, an emptied out shell of the man he used to be.
And not even when Molly Hooper had arranged with John to visit them on the fourth day had things looked a little better.
She'd burst into tears at the sight of Sherlock and had hugged him, making sure to hold herself back in order not to kiss him all over. Then she'd asked how he'd been and how was life during the three years –unsuccessfully trying to get an answer of out the consulting detective.
In the end, she'd left the same way she arrived, crying, but hid the feelings well while saying goodbye to the flat mates. John noticed then that he wasn't the only one so deeply affected by Sherlock's attitude. It wasn't his fault, nor was it hers. John sighed.
It was there when he noticed that even after all this time, things hadn't changed for the better with either of them, especially himself, who felt completely disheartened with the fact that the detective barely showed any signs of recovery.
And that had really gotten on John's nerves. So much, that one day he decided his recovery techniques needed to change to something with more impact.
"Sherlock," John began that next day, sitting in the living room across from his friend, "we have to get you outside."
"No." The other man tapped his fingers unenthusiastically on the armrests.
"You need some sun and fresh air." John insisted.
Sherlock shook his head, avoiding John's eyes.
The soldier in return sighed and stood. "Well then, you give me no choice." John grabbed the detective's arms, forcing the man to stand. "Up you go." But as soon as Sherlock was on his feet, he sat himself back on the couch stubbornly, not a slight expression available on his face.
John didn't give up. Twice more he repeated the procedure, and on the last time, he made sure he didn't let go of Sherlock, who finally acquiesced.
And as they marched down the stairway, they passed Mrs. Hudson who had just entered the flat.
"Both of you are out already?" She said affably, eyeing the men up and down.
"Oh yes." John said with confidence. "He needs some air." John stated.
Sherlock protested lazily against the soldier's grasp when he'd said it, but John only made sure to grip a little tighter.
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I suppose a little bit of the outside world wouldn't hurt anyone. I mean, especially since Sherlock's been locked up like an animal for so long. Do take advantage of the weather today, you two. It's so beautiful, the sky's so blue." She smiled, sounding much like a mother telling her sons to go out and play while holding the door open for them.
John nodded on the way out with Sherlock following unwillingly behind onto the streets of London.
Out on the streets, everything seemed terribly fine. Mrs. Hudson was right. The day was fine.
Yet unlike the perfection of the outside world, something happened that John hadn't been expecting at all, something stranger than their nights together.
All throughout the walk, Sherlock seemed completely overtaken by paranoia. When a car honked suddenly, Sherlock jumped, when someone passed by, he cowered closer to John, if they had to cross the road, he walked so near his flat mate the latter thought more than once that he might trip.
Eventually, as if it couldn't get any worse, the soldier felt a hand grab his own tightly.
With a moment of realization, he turned to the detective. "Do we really have to hold hands?" One frightened look from Sherlock's face was all it took for them to stroll the rest of the way in that manner.
Upon entering the desired –nearest- clothing store (McCarthy's Clothes, it was called), John and Sherlock received enough odd, cold stares to last the whole year.
The soldier tried his best to ignore the people who were beginning to whisper, reminding himself that Sherlock's present state was more important than John's… well… future reputation. His embarrassment was hidden by a pretense that he didn't mind his situation.
He turned to the detective, who looked at everyone through dead eyes.
A flashback of Sherlock lying apparently dead on the pavement that horrible day ran through his mind. It gave him a small headache afterwards. His eyes, Sherlock's eyes, they were the same since then and now.
John quickly deleted the thought from his mind and turned to his friend, who was still grabbing his hand. "Choose what you want Sherlock."
The detective nodded, and walked around, letting go of John momentarily just to pick up some shirts and pants of his size.
One of the store clerks, a young man, had approached them hesitantly. He'd been one of the people who saw the two come in. "Welcome to McCarthy's Clothes, do you need any help? Feel the need to try something? Doors are right back there on the left." He offered robotically in his best sounding voice.
John shook his head. "We're all right. Thanks uh-" he quickly read the boy's name tag. "Matt." He fumed mentally after the bloke left. Bloody ignorant idiots. He couldn't help thinking with contempt towards everyone who'd eyed them. If only they knew everything that happened to Sherlock.
Dismissing the feelings, John moved on to more important things. He walked after Sherlock all around the store and found some fairly nice things for the detective to wear, which were in his preferred colors, that is, mostly purple and black.
Similar to his behavior in the streets, in the store Sherlock would avoid the spaces that already had a stranger near, which meant that he and John would need to return later to fetch his clothing item.
Around three hours later, before they left, John had wanted to give Sherlock a gift. He had picked a coat that was similar to the detective's old one, likewise with a scarf, which was blue. Although it was a bit lighter than the original piece, it would have to do.
John paid for Sherlock. He had to. The man hadn't any money left (or at least acted as if he hadn't any). Yet to his luck, the things in McCarthy's Clothes were either cheap or with a discount, so John took advantage of that.
They left with three big bags. Sherlock carried two and John carried the remaining one.
The walk back was just as aggravating as the one to go to the store. Through the journey Sherlock dropped his bags twice out of fright due to a honking car and a jogging stranger.
It only made him run near John to catch up with him, only not grabbing his hand because both of his were already occupied. And never had it felt like a bigger relief to finally return home.
"That was er- quite interesting." John cleared his throat as he dropped his bags in Sherlock's room.
The other man said nothing in reply.
The silence in his room was great.
Until John heard a familiar erotic text alert, then he saw Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise and anxiety.
John titled his head, completely shocked. "Since when do you have a phone that works?" He checked his pocket just to make sure the consulting detective hadn't pick-pocketed him. No, his was there with him.
So who was texting Sherlock?
"What's going on?" John frowned.
"Mycroft." Sherlock answered monotonously.
"You've been texting your brother? All this time?" John snapped, not being able to stop himself from feeling a bit betrayed.
There wasn't any answer from the other man, which only raised John's suspicions.
"What? So now you'll tell me you've only been pretending to be an "altered" man? Congratulations, Sherlock. You've managed to confuse the hell out of me."
No, Sherlock hadn't changed. He remained physically the same as he had the whole week. Expressionless.
"John-"
"What?" He said harshly.
"It's time you know… the truth."