Emblazoned
CHAPTER FIVE
"Ireland," Sherlock said definitively. "John wants to go to Ireland. So we're going to Ireland."
"Yeah, I heard you," Lestrade said as he haphazardly shuffled papers and dismissed ringing phones. Scotland Yard was a mess today. Paperwork was late, cases were everywhere, and for some reason the entire world wanted Lestrade's attention.
"I don't see why you want us gone, anyway," Sherlock said sourly, sitting back on the small futon in Lestrade's office. "I could help with all..." He waved his hand in the air dismissively. "...this."
"No," Lestrade sighed, finally sitting in his chair and looking towards Sherlock. He crossed his arms and leaned back. "We can function without you. We'll be fine. We didn't always have you, you know."
"What a dark time that must have been," Sherlock mused, to which Lestrade responded with a dismissive huff and a grumble as his phone rang yet again. Sherlock looked out into the chaotic work floor and spotted John, who was desperately trying to make his way back into the office from the lounge without spilling coffee on anyone who crossed his path. He finally made it to the door and closed it with a sigh of relief.
"It's a war zone out there," he said, handing a cup to Sherlock. He plopped lightly on the futon next to him. "And I've been in a war zone before, so that's saying a lot."
Lestrade hung up the phone on the receiver with a sigh.
"Amazing what people categorize as a matter of criminal importance," he muttered as he regarded the two from his desk. "Now, Sherlock mentioned Ireland. Several times. Is that for certain then?"
John nodded as he swallowed a gulp of coffee and smiled.
"Finally got him to agree to it, yes," he said cheerily. He pat Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock flinched just barely. John sighed and sipped his coffee once more.
Lestrade took note of Sherlock's resistance to the touch, and his face went grim.
"Alright then," he said. "But in all seriousness, you two are alright? We're doing the best we can to make this as prioritized as possible without getting too noisy about it."
He looked at Sherlock, who was intently educating himself on the apparently very intriguing rim of his Styrofoam coffee cup.
"Sherlock...we're not going to let this happen again."
"I'm sure," Sherlock said distractedly. He looked at Lestrade then, stone cold eyes glazed with exhaustion. "You're busy already, don't busy yourself with this. Besides, I've already-"
Lestrade held up his hand.
"You are not going to work on this," he said firmly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Already have," he said. "Thought you weren't my handler anyway."
John looked slightly alarmed and regarded Sherlock with an inquisitive look. Sherlock looked at his friend and shrugged, shaking his head carelessly and taking a sip of coffee.
"If it's any consolation," Sherlock offered. "I don't plan on pursuing...them...by myself. Or at all, really. I just want to...know. I have to know why..."
He trailed off, looking away from them with a swallow and a slight shake of his head. John shot a look to Lestrade, who seemed a bit perplexed. John knew that Lestrade didn't exactly understand how to deal with this new Sherlock that was presented before him. The vulnerable Sherlock. The confused one. The damaged one.
John stood, seeming to alleviate the tension.
"Well, I think we're all decided about Ireland then, right?" he quipped, looking at Sherlock encouragingly. "Let us know when we're good to go, alright?" Sherlock glanced at him and nodded once. Lestrade blinked and nodded, shaking him from his thoughts.
"Right then," he said. "I'll make the arrangements with the powers that be, and I can probably manage to get you two on a flight by the day after tomorrow." He smiled and stood as John went to shake his hand.
"Thanks for this," John said quietly. Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock, who was standing at the door, his back to them, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
"Just...take care of him, John," Lestrade said finally, locking eyes with the doctor. "No telling what'll come of this. Hopefully we'll get back into the swing of things."
John smiled sadly and nodded.
"Of course," he said. "Take care Greg."
"Try to get some rest, for Christ's sake," Lestrade said to Sherlock with a sarcastic smile as Sherlock opened the door.
"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock replied indifferently as he dropped his now empty coffee cup into the rubbish bin. John followed suit, and the two made their way out of the office, leaving Lestrade to return to his tedious phone calls and unsolved cases.
Sherlock was eager to get out of the building, it seemed. He kept darting this way and that, his eyes flickering and his movements short and quick. John was beginning to get out of breath trying to follow him as they crossed the work floor. Unfortunately, Sherlock rounded a corner a bit sharply, and it just so happened that Sergeant Donovan was making her way around the same corner with an almighty stack of paperwork.
Sherlock collided full on with Donovan, and in a flurry of papers and swearing, Donovan staggered back against a wall and Sherlock was left to stumble up against his shorter companion.
"Jesus shit!" Donovan said angrily as she collected herself. John practically fell over himself as the tree trunk of Sherlock's body came crashing into him, but they managed to regain balance as Donovan realized the situation.
"Oh," she said. "Um...hey."
Sherlock huffed and straightened his coat as John appeared behind him, slightly bewildered.
"Apologies," he muttered curtly. He bent down to collect her papers. Both John and Sally exchanged glances and small smiles.
"Don't worry, I'll get it," she said to Sherlock as she stooped to the floor and grabbed the remaining papers. Sherlock handed her the ones he'd picked up, and they simultaneously stood.
"Busy today, are we?" John said cheerily. Sally huffed through a smile.
"Unfortunately," she said, flipping a wisp of curls out of her face. "Nothing we can't handle though."
Sherlock appeared flustered, and Sally shot him a curious look before stepping away from the wall.
"Well, gotta get this done," she said, bustling past them. John nodded her a good bye and when he looked back, Sherlock was already heading out the door. John sighed and trotted up to him.
The snow covered ground was unwelcome to Sherlock Holmes. Despite his normal agility and impossible dexterity, he was wretchedly awful at maneuvering on wet ground. John had once been rounding a corner during one of their thrilling chases through the backstreets of London when he had found the ebon detective, quite frankly, flat on his back like a troubled turtle, groaning frustratedly. He had practically flipped over when he had slipped on a wet patch of ground-it had just rained-and John had stifled his laughter as the other man had moaned about his bruised tailbone for a good three days following the incident.
Because of this slight hindrance, Sherlock tended to walk very deliberately, more so than usual, when inclement weather conditions were running amuck. John found it much easier to keep up with the detective this way, since he would slow his purposeful pace and shorten his otherwise ridiculously long stride.
"Call a cab?" John offered after a good bit of silence while the two were walking. Sherlock shook his head.
"Rather walk," he said. John cocked his head.
"You?" he asked, incredulously. "You want to walk all the way from the Yard to our flat...in the snow?" Sherlock looked down at him.
"Yes," he said matter-of-factually. "Problem?" John shook his head and smiled.
"No, just odd for you is all," he said as he admired the snow speckled London around them. He heard Sherlock sigh lightly.
"John," he said. John looked up at him. The detective's eyes were grave. "I'm not...myself. Obviously. And today I want to walk. In the snow. In the cold. Because I am not myself."
The declarative, nearly agitated tone in Sherlock's voice made John feel guilty for even asking, but he nodded as if he understood.
"It's fine, you know," he said after a long silence. "To not be yourself sometimes."
Sherlock scoffed.
"I'm serious," John said pressingly. "Especially for you." Sherlock smirked at him as they approached the flat. As Sherlock was fumbling for his keys, John watched the detective.
His breath came like smoke from his lips, which were light and pale in the cold. His nose was slightly reddened, and his eyes were brilliantly bright. John loved how the weather seemed to reflect itself in Sherlock's eyes. For instance, whenever it rained, Sherlock's eyes would glow a murky pool of blue and green, like oil paints smeared on a canvas, but in the sun, they were a brilliant sea foam green with star bursts of turquoise, shining and glittering with such magnificence that it made John almost envious. In the snow, Sherlock's eyes were a hard, diamond silver blue with just tiny traces of green, like glistening marbles in the face of a porcelain doll. But, as of late, there was always some overcast in Sherlock's eyes. A confusion, a concentration, a horror that the detective couldn't erase and that John couldn't bring himself to delve into.
John caught himself staring again, and, to his surprise-and perhaps dismay-Sherlock was staring back with his precious glass orbs.
"Something wrong?" he asked. John shook his head, partly to answer and partly to clear his head of the images.
"Fine," he said. "Let's get inside. I'm freezing."
Sherlock flicked his silvery globes up and down John's face once before deciding not to pursue the subject any further and enter.
When they reached their flat, a tray of freshly made peanut butter biscuits and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate was sitting on the coffee table with a note in flowery handwriting that said:
"Out for the evening-keep yourselves warm! Sherlock, save some of these for John you greedy git! Love! Mrs. H xx"
John's face lit up.
"She is a magnificent woman," he declared as he picked up a mug and sipped the brew with a welcome smile. Sherlock said nothing and shed his coat and scarf. He tossed them over the chair and plopped on the couch with an exasperated sigh. He curiously watched John as he set his mug down and hung his parka lovingly on the coat hook, then retrieved the beverage again along with a biscuit and sat next to Sherlock on the couch happily. Sherlock looked at him.
"Those are my favourite," he said, eyeing the biscuit. "Mrs. Hudson only ever makes those when she wants me to do something for her."
John shrugged and bit into the morsel. He made a face of ecstasy before looking at Sherlock.
"I know," he said, munching. "But maybe she just felt like making some this time."
Sherlock shrugged.
"Maybe," he said, sitting back. John narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe?" he said.
"That is what I said John, yes," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap.
"You never say maybe," John remarked before taking another bite of the biscuit. Sherlock looked at him and sat up again. John looked back, chewing thoughtfully and smirking.
"Problem?" he asked when Sherlock kept staring. He washed down the sweet snack with a swig of cocoa, and then sat back on the couch with a look of satisfaction.
"John," Sherlock said gravely. John was slightly alarmed by the sudden change in tone, and he looked at his flat mate inquisitively.
"What is it?" John asked. Sherlock drew close to him, his face coming closer and closer to John's. John was confused.
"And...is there a reason why you're this close to me?" he said quietly, hesitantly. Sherlock put a hand on John's chest, and looked down at it.
"If," he began in a small voice. "If I asked you to do something that you may not want to do...would you do it? Would you do it for me?"
John cocked his head as Sherlock looked back up at him. His eyes were glazed and hazy, but ever calculating. John sat, captivated briefly, before licking his lips and opening his mouth.
"Sherlock...what do you-"
The detective didn't allow for any more chatter as he leaned closer and pressed his lips against the flabbergasted doctor's in a small, innocent kiss. John had absolutely no idea how to react as Sherlock's hand made its way to John's face, his cold fingers brushing his cheek as his lips were locked with the other man's. Sherlock's other arm snaked itself around John's waist, pulling them even closer as the kiss now intensified, Sherlock's lips nipping at John's and hungrily prying against them.
A small, subconscious moan seeped from the side of John's mouth, and his hand rose from his side to the nape of Sherlock's long neck, entwining his fingers in the detective's murky curls.
Sherlock broke away and looked at John with eyes of flame.
"Sherlock," John said in a hoarse whisper. "Why did you...?"
The silver eyes that stared into John's blue ones made him nearly melt. He didn't know what to say, how to say it, or what words even existed to describe what he was thinking and feeling. Sherlock's thumb lightly stroked John's cheek, and John pursed his lips and looked down.
"What just happened?" he asked, removing his hand and crossing his arms. Sherlock looked surprised, then sat back and looked at John, blushing just so.
"Is that...not good?" he asked, his voice quiet. John sighed through a smile.
"No, it's fine," he said. Something was tugging at his heart, tugging him closer to Sherlock again, leaning into him again, wrapping his arms around him, kneading his fingers into his curls, bringing his lips to press against his once more...
Beautiful.
The one word that kept dancing in John's head as he kissed his flat mate was beautiful. The moment, the feeling, the man he was locked together with...all beautiful in John Watson's mind and perception.
A sigh here, a moan there, a touch, a graze, a nip, a tug. Garments beginning to be pulled off a long pale body, but slowly, gently, so not to alarm him and his anticipation.
Hesitant eyes, then, as the younger man's chest is bared. Fear, gut wrenching memories, a swallow, shifting eyes, some resistance, but the sandy blond's smile is tender, welcoming, and he trusts him as his calloused soldier hands ran across the barren white skin, his lips soon to follow.
John kissed Sherlock's neck and down along his collar bone, Sherlock's head tipped back, eyes closed, drinking in the feelings of the gentle encounter. John's kisses traveled with delicate precision across Sherlock's chest, slowly making their way down to his concave belly, rising and falling just so.
John then reached a thin trail of delicate hair, brown with hints of peachy red, that traced a barely noticeable path down from Sherlock's naval and below. John smiled and grazed his lips across the soft line, amusing himself at entertaining the thought that Sherlock's pubic hair may have traces of red in it. He felt Sherlock's breath hitch, and he felt the man's hand grip his scarred shoulder. One intimate second to the next, touching lightly, John's tongue flicked out from between his lips and slid tenderly across the sensitive skin along Sherlock's pant line.
Beautiful...
Suddenly, a violent tremor erupted within Sherlock's frame, and he jolted into an upright position with a gasp.
"No," he suddenly said definitively. John seemed to awaken from a trance, shaking his head. He looked up at Sherlock with questioning eyes.
"What?" he asked, slightly alarmed at Sherlock's trembling hands. "Everything alright? Are you ok?"
He brought his hand up to stroke Sherlock's face gently, but Sherlock recoiled and made a small gasp again, eyes closed firmly. John slowly retracted his hand, sitting upright once again and running his hand through his hair. He sighed. The two remained still.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said after a long silence. "I wanted to...just to see if..."
John shook his head.
"Stop there," he said, holding up a hand and smirking. He watched Sherlock's still shaking hands frantically try to button his light blue shirt. John smiled sadly and reached over, taking the detective's hands. Sherlock looked down at him, eyes glazed and chest heaving just slightly.
"Sh, let me," John said quietly as he began to button Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock sat completely still, slowly calming himself, watching John still with hazy silver spheres.
"There now," John said after he hinged the last button. "We ok?" He had the tone of a mother comforting a child with a scraped knee, tenderly patting Sherlock's arm.
Sherlock looked at him, blinking away light tears. He cleared his throat.
"Fine," he said distantly, looking away and composing himself. Sheltering himself. He stood.
"I'm going to pack," he declared. And with that, he stepped over the coffee table and went into his bedroom, closing the door with an agitated slam. John was left to sit, bewildered and bemused, on the sofa, the sensations still imprinted on his fingers and lips, the images still fresh in his mind...
...and the uncomfortable bulge in his pants.
John had busied himself with packing clothes and essentials for the trip and tidying the flat to the best of his ability. He admittedly couldn't put away much, since Sherlock's mess was strictly prohibited from cleaning. He organized papers into piles and straightened some lab equipment, then went to check his email. A thought then occurred to him.
His blog.
He hadn't updated since the incident, the previous entry only briefly mentioning the fact that Sherlock and he were to pursue the case of The Merchants. He had then proceeded to insert a witty speculation about how he would enjoy a holiday sometime, though he didn't anticipate one any time soon.
He swallowed. There was no doubt in his mind that he absolutely could not blog about this particular incident, but at the same time, he felt as though if he didn't it'd literally rip apart his insides. He glanced at his phone, laying idly next to his laptop on the rather beaten desktop. He entertained the thought of calling Mycroft, since he obviously knew about the event, Lord knew how-Sherlock was sure that he had bugged the flat-but something told John that talking to Mycroft probably wouldn't get much off his chest and would only do more harm than good, seeing as how he probably thought that it was John's fault to begin with.
Of course, it was impossible to tell with the Holmes brothers. John sighed exasperatedly and rubbed his eyes. He closed the laptop. Not going to tackle that train of thought now.
Finally, John settled down in his chair for a cup of tea and some more of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. The TV was blathering in the background, the fire he had started was mumbling gently, and John Watson, after much deliberation, decided to allow himself to contemplate the previous events of that afternoon.
He couldn't remember the last time any one person gave him the exhilaration and the elation he felt when his skin had touched Sherlock's. Not even all his girlfriends elicited such feelings from him and such deep sensations. It made him crave it now, want to go into Sherlock's room and rip his clothes off and make love to him all day until dehydration and exhaustion simply took over their bodies and minds and they fell asleep in each other's arms.
He looked down the hall towards Sherlock's door. John knew that this was, of course, nothing but a fantasy, but then, Sherlock was the one who had initiated.
That was another thing. Sherlock had initiated it. Sherlock had kissed him. Even after all that happened, Sherlock, the one who barely wanted to shake hands with people, the one who grimaced at the thought of love and sentiment, the one who mocked John's human impulse for "unnecessary physical attachment;" Sherlock had created the swirling, desire driven atmosphere. And honestly, John was surprised he had reciprocated.
But what is all that surprising? John had been thinking for a long time about his feelings towards Sherlock. About how he would wake in the night with curious thoughts and remnants of dreams that he was too embarrassed to let himself think about, or the twinges of jealously he got when Molly would so obviously flirt with him, or the times when he wondered what Sherlock's face looked like when...and of course there was the staring. His fascination with the man he lived with had to be more than just living with him, and John Watson was well aware of this. It was only now that John had actually explored the idea that maybe he was in fact attracted to Sherlock Holmes.
John chose to save those thoughts for later as he glanced at the clock. Dinner time had rolled around, and Sherlock hadn't emerged from his room for a few hours, which was pretty normal, all things considered. However, John had a feeling the detective could do with some of the leftover Chinese in the fridge, and so he arose from his chair and knocked on Sherlock's door.
"You awake in there?"
"Mm."
"I'm going to heat up some Chinese. Want some?"
There was a shuffling.
"Sherlock?"
"Five minutes. Rice is fine for me."
"Alright then."
John made his way to the kitchen and retrieved the white cartons from the top shelf, safe from the experiments below. Sure enough, five minutes later, Sherlock emerged dazedly from the hall. John had prepared a good sized portion of rice and noodles for good measure on a paper plate, and had set it across from where he currently sat, munching on some steamed vegetables. Sherlock sat, his shirt slightly wrinkled and his hair a bit haphazard.
"Have a nap, did you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded once, and didn't seem to notice the food. John gestured.
"Got you your rice."
"Yes."
John watched Sherlock curiously. He had a delirious look in his eye, and he seemed to be searching the table.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at him, eyebrows raised. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed.
Not again...
"I'm fi-"
"Where are they?"
Sherlock cocked his head. John put his utensil down and stared at Sherlock with controlled anger.
"Where are they?" he asked again. Sherlock looked down.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
John slammed his hands flat the table.
"Christ Sherlock!" he said angrily. "I'm not an idiot. You seem to forget that I'm a doctor, you clot! I know when people are hurting, I know when they're sick, and I know, Sherlock, when they're high!"
Sherlock said nothing. John sighed rigidly.
"What is it this time?" he asked slowly.
"Seven percent," Sherlock answered with quiet disdain. John ran his hands across his face and breathed a "Christ" before looking at Sherlock and standing.
"Give it to me," he said. "Or I'll go into your bedroom and find it."
Sherlock looked up at him.
"Don't be angry," he said.
John shook his head.
"No, we're not doing this. Not this time," he said. "Give me the cocaine, Sherlock."
The curly head hung low and there was a tense silence. John shook his head bitterly and clenched his fists.
"Fine," he said. He stormed out of the room and threw the door open to Sherlock's. There was a suitcase in the corner, packed and ready, and the bed was only slightly messed. Other than that, nothing was out of place.
John angrily threw every drawer open and tore clothes from the closet in a frenzy. Don't talk to your friend, just shoot up your coke. Don't let him comfort you, just get high and sleep. Don't come to his room in the middle of the night and let him tell you everything will be alright, just wake the entire street with your stupid violin playing. Don't let him take care of you, just push him away, and let the drugs keep you distant.
At some point, the search became a flurry of swearing and growling and throwing things. Sherlock watched from the doorway.
Finally, John sat on the end of the bed and put his head in his hands.
"You," he said shakily, his voice laced with fury. "You are the...absolute stupidest..."
He couldn't find words in his anger. He could only sit and fume. Sherlock came up and sat next to him.
They sat in complete stillness and silence until John finally spoke.
"Where is it?"
"Under the bed."
John laughed bitterly.
"The one place I didn't look..."
"I knew you wouldn't, since you normally-"
"Don't."
"Alright."
John heaved a very long sigh, sitting upright and gripping his knees. He looked at Sherlock.
"I'm angry with you," he said. "Very, very...very angry."
"I know."
John nodded once and looked down.
"I just don't understand," he said. "Why don't you just let me help you? Cocaine won't help you, Sherlock. Nicotine and chemicals won't help you. Let me help you."
Sherlock remained quiet.
"That's your biggest, most idiotically simple problem," John said, looking at him again. "You just don't let people. You say you don't have friends, that being alone suits you, but do you really even understand how wrong, how unhealthy that is?"
Sherlock visibly swallowed, looking down.
"I mean, Christ, Sherlock, I'm right here! I'm right here in front of you and I have been since I limped up that bloody staircase on the first afternoon we met! But you just don't...you don't see that. You don't see me. You don't see anyone. All you see is who's got a smudge of what where and what does it mean, or who has some kind of something on their fingers and where it came from, or some other rubbish. Well guess what, genius? I'm John Watson, and I'm with you, and analyzing everyone and everything can't save you or help you or make you feel ok. I can."
There was a thick silence before Sherlock spoke quietly.
"Ireland will be cold," he said. "Bring your parka."
John sighed heavily.
"I know," he said. "I know."