NOTE: Thanks to all my devoted readers! Sorry the previous chapter took so long. In this chapter, hidden in the tiny mentioning of otherwise passer-by observations, there's some shout outs to two of my favourite people in the fandom: Damagoed, writer of awesome Sherlock fanfictions, and jackroxby, king of all things Glamlock. You guys are super cool kids, and I wanted to say so by including a remnant of you in some way in my fic. Enjoy!
Emblazoned
CHAPTER SIX
Sherlock Holmes could not stand the sight, smell, or atmosphere of airports. Airports meant noisy luggage and stupid people, his brother's hand crushing his own and the sharp commands of his mother; "keep up with me boys," "I'll leave you behind if you don't hurry," "you'd better not be forgetting anything," and etc. Sherlock remembered being relatively young whenever he first beheld the monolith of an escapade at an airport. His brother was back from boarding school for the holiday, and his mother had decided they were to venture to Rome to spend "quality time" before Mycroft left. Sherlock was vehemently against it, but he had no say in anything. He never did.
And so he was dragged ruthlessly by his brother across the dirty tile floors, skipping and limping just to keep up, his suitcase clattering behind him and his precious knapsack bumping gently against his tiny frame. His mother never checked to see if they were keeping up, only ever stating the occasional "Mycroft step lively" or "Mycroft hold onto your brother" or "Mycroft let's keep up now" as they approached the luggage check. It was in one of the moments when their mother was very far ahead of them and Mycroft's hand was practically rearranging Sherlock's carpels when Sherlock had to very urgently answer one of nature's most inconvenient calls.
"Mycroft," he said weakly. "Mycroft tell mummy to wait up. I have to go."
"No time," Mycroft said dismissively. "You should have gone before we left." Sherlock whimpered and wiggled out of his brother's grasp. Mycroft turned to glare angrily at him.
"I didn't have to go then! Please!"
Mycroft sneered.
"I'll leave you if you don't hurry," he said, mimicking the tone of their mother, who was already nearing the gate. Sherlock nodded vigorously, his bouncy, light curls bobbing up and down before he scuttled off to the men's lavatory, Mycroft tapping his foot impatiently outside. After about a minute, Sherlock had hurriedly emptied his bladder and had run out of the men's room, found Mycroft beginning to walk away, and sped after him, not even realizing until they had been seated comfortably in first class that his knapsack, containing his absolute favourite books and a tiny stuffed tiger named Jack, was nestled lonesomely next to a toilet in the loo.
He had cried the Nile river that day. Yes, Sherlock Holmes hated airports.
However, airports were one of John Watson's secret favourites in the world. He loved sitting in the slightly uncomfortable chairs, watching the thousands of different types of people from all over the world, coming and going, their lives coinciding for only just a moment before they boarded their separate fly birds and took off into the big blue. Ever since John was a boy, he had been fascinated with the idea of flight, but his fear of heights-which he had learned to outgrow upon joining the forces-had prevented any further aspirations in the field. His only consolation was the occasional family vacation to far away places. His mum and dad would be walking just ahead of his sister and him, holding hands and looking over their shoulder with smiles of excitement, singing out to them "stay with us now, kids! Don't want to get lost!" He and his sister would dazedly follow their parents, bumbling through the sliding doors and beholding the barrage of rolling suitcases and unfamiliar faces that flooded John's senses euphorically.
His tiny legs would feebly toddle onto the aircraft with rigid apprehension but curious fascination. It was the exhilaration that he enjoyed most, his fear and his adventurous nature colliding when he approached the gate, clinging to his carry on and his favourite green stuffed hippo, taking a seat at the window, not daring to look through but wanting ever so much to do so. Yes, John Watson loved airports.
And so here they were, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, standing at the gate to board their plane, John looking ridiculously elated and Sherlock merely scowling, arms crossed. John had encouraged Sherlock to wear more comfortable, less formal clothes for the holiday, a request to which Sherlock reluctantly complied, and so he stood in a pair of hardly worn designer jeans and a black buttoned top, one of his usual. He had rolled up his sleeves, his coat folded over his arm and his scarf hanging about his neck. He stood, hip cocked, chewing his lip, with narrow eyes of discontent.
John himself stood in his usual jumper-jeans get up, staring happily at the other man as the gate opened and people bustled in. Sherlock's eyes whipped back and forth around the crowd, examining faces and making observations. They were to fly first class, courtesy of Scotland Yard (perhaps because Sherlock would not settle for anything less), and John was ecstatic. He had never flown first class, and his radiant smile would not leave his face.
"Stop being such a grump," he said to Sherlock as they walked towards the plane. "You look like someone kicked your violin." Sherlock glared at him, mouth slightly agape, seeming to be almost offended at the analogy before answering with a stiff "shut up" as the two strode past other passengers and finally arrived behind the first class curtain. Sherlock took a seat as if they were still in their flat, flopping grumpily in one of the chairs, while John, ecstatic, plopped gently across from him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, regarding him out of the corner of his eye, his hands steepled, pressed against his lips.
"What's got you so happy anyway?" he asked monotonously. John turned to him with a smile.
"Just excited is all," he said. "Aren't you?" Sherlock shrugged and turned his gaze towards the window again. John watched him, waiting for the response he wouldn't receive, before he spoke again.
"Sherlock," he said.
"Mm."
"You ok?"
"You've been a fan of asking that question quite often as of late."
John huffed.
"I just...worry is all."
"Mm..."
John sighed, decided the subject was pointless, and leaned back in his chair comfortably. Sherlock Holmes' sour puss routine would not ruin this for him.
After a long silence, John taking full advantage of the first class perks, including a marvelous breakfast, Sherlock spoke.
"You want to talk about it," he dead panned, his position having not changed, sans for his gaze, regarding John with steely eyes of scrutiny. John wiped his mouth as he finished the last bit of waffles before sitting back and crossing his arms.
"Talk about what?"
Sherlock shook his head only slightly and shrugged, folding his hands.
"Haven't the slightest," he said off-handedly. "But you want to talk about it, whatever it is. It's why you keep asking if I'm ok."
John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He knew this would have to happen, and Sherlock was right (as usual, which made him only a little bit miffed), he did want to talk. He needed to, even if Sherlock didn't. He needed to. Desperately.
Sherlock looked at John expectedly, breathing evenly, waiting. John waited for the stewardess to come take the dishes away before he leaned over his knees and looked up at Sherlock.
"I'm worried about you," he said. Sherlock sighed his normal "boring" sighs, but John held up a hand.
"Just hear me out," he insisted. "I always worry about you, since you have this...uncanny ability to scare the shit out of me, jumping off rooftops, running about in traffic, coming home with hypothermia because you nearly drowned in the Thames at 3 am-"
"That was once, and it wasn't my fault-"
"Regardless," John said shortly, glaring annoyingly before continuing. "I worry. But this is different, Sherlock. This time...well this time don't you think I should be worried?"
Sherlock breathed in slowly, closing his eyes and grazing his fingers over his lips before looking at John, sitting back and placing his hands on the arms of the seat.
"I suppose it's inevitable," he said. "Nothing I can alter about your state of mind."
John shook his head.
"That's not what I mean," he said. "What happened back at that warehouse-"
"Don't."
John growled silently and sat upright.
"You said I need to talk, and you're right, you git, now shut up and let me!"
John became aware of the volume of his voice, and he looked around. Sherlock waited, defeated for the moment. John began again more gently.
"What happened back at that warehouse was...inconceivable. Even if you seem like you've gotten over it, though I have no idea how, I haven't. I really haven't, and I really just need to know if you're ok."
Sherlock simply watched him, his hands gripping the arms of the seat just slightly. He looked away, toward the window again, before he spoke, quietly.
"I've told you," he said. "I don't know if I'm ok. Leave it alone."
John pursed his lips and sat back, crossing his legs. He looked down. Neither of them looked at each other or exchanged any words for a long time then, Sherlock gazing out the window pensively, in defiant silence, while John simply waited for something to happen. He chewed his lip.
"What happened at the flat the other day?" John asked suddenly. The tension was broken. Sherlock looked at him inquisitively.
"What?"
"At the flat. On the couch. You...did something."
Sherlock fell silent again, looking down, then back up at John.
"I just want to know," John said with a smile. He leaned in and put a hand on Sherlock's. "It's ok, you know. It's fine. Just...took me off guard."
Sherlock swallowed slowly, licking his lips before speaking.
"I just..." he said. "...I wanted to know what...it felt like."
John looked at Sherlock curiously.
"What what felt like, Sherlock?" He was putting a theory together, piecing the bits together in his head, but he needed Sherlock's response to solidify it. John Watson was not an idiot. He knew that his flat mate wouldn't just kiss him out of nowhere. Especially not after...
"I wanted to..." Sherlock said with difficulty. He looked away from John and leaned on his knees, his hands folded in front of him. "I...feel cheated."
John leaned close to Sherlock, their faces only inches from each other. They spoke low.
"Cheated?"
Sherlock nodded. He was staring intently at his hands.
"I'd been taught that touch was supposed to be something...tender and meaningful, who knows why," Sherlock began. His tone was a deadpan, but only John could hear the hurt that was concealed. "That to be touched, for some indiscernible reason, should mean that someone cared for you. Some important human ritual that should not go to waste. But then..."
Sherlock cleared his throat briefly.
"Then I learned, through experience, that touching was simply another form of harsher contact. That people abuse through touch. That people hurt through touch. That people use it as a tool for branding someone with their own hatred, inflicting their own carelessness, rather than conveying such comforting and sensitive notions as love or friendship. Obvious."
John gave a sad look to his friend and swallowed.
"But still," Sherlock said, a grimace on his face. "There was still...a foolish thought I had. A hope, a bloody hope for being wrong, just for once...but I'm never wrong."
He shook his head.
"The fly in the ointment..." he muttered. He rubbed his face with both hands and sighed.
John cocked his head slightly and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"So...you wanted to know what it felt like to...be touched lovingly?" he said almost sheepishly. Sherlock looked at him from between his fingers.
"I wanted to..." he said, searching John's face with deductive eyes. John leaned back and crossed his arms again, waiting for his response. Sherlock sighed.
"I wanted to know what it felt like to be touched with affection, yes," he said with the same tone as if he had said he had contracted malaria. John cocked his head in thought. Sherlock took his hands away from his face then and looked at him, as if to say that he should know what he meant. John huffed.
"You're doing the face," he said with a smirk. Sherlock cocked a sarcastic eyebrow. John shook his head.
"You're all sorts of jumbled," he said with a bitter chuckle. "Never thought I'd hear you say anything as...well, heart warming, I guess."
Sherlock looked almost hurt as he straightened and turned to the look out the window again.
"Yes," he said quietly. John looked concerned, immediately guilty.
"Hey, hey," he said gently. "It's completely alright. Really." Sherlock glanced at him.
"Doesn't matter," he said. "I apologize if it caused you an discomfort." John sighed. Just when he thought Sherlock was opening up, getting somewhere, he shut himself up again. John ran a hand over his head.
"Well, it's really alright," he said again. He watched Sherlock, waiting to see if there was anything else to pass through his pale lips. There wasn't. John sat back and closed his eyes.
"Think I'll sleep for a while, then."
"Mm."
"Wake me if I'm not already up when we get there."
And as John drifted into welcome but pensive sleep, he could have sworn he felt Sherlock's hand graze his for but a moment, as if to say "thank you," before he plummeted into the depths of his dreamscape.