A/N: Hey guys! So, as I was writing this I realized I have a tendency to lean towards certain Johnlock tropes: Protective!John and Protective!Sherlock, Pining!Sherlock , John running his fingers through Sherlock's hair (idk, this may be because Benedict just has such lovely hair that I assume anyone would run their fingers through it if given the chance) and Meddling/Protective Older Brother!Mycroft. Also, the Mycroft-diet-jokes are my favorite thing ever.
ANYWAY: I am having so much fun writing this story and I just wanted to thank all of you guys that have commented or favorited this, because it means more than you know. This was one of my favorite chapters to write, I hope you guys like it! Enjoy~
I'm in love with John.
For the span of several decades, Sherlock just lays there, frozen, staring unseeingly at the wall. A sickening combination of shock and denial twist inside his chest and if he does not leave right this second and get some fresh, ice-cold, nearly hypothermic air he is very well going to vomit all over the both of them, which would be a decidedly bad way to start a morning. Sherlock carefully extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, rolling from the bed and onto the floor with the harried gracelessness of a man in panic. His mind immediately attempts to review the realization that just occurred several feet to his right, but he refuses to entertain it until he is a safe distance from this bed, this hotel, and most importantly, John.
In fact, he refuses to even look at John's mellow, sleeping form. He refuses to pay attention to the lovely peaceful expression he is wearing. He shows no interest in the way John looks so young right now, innocent and pliant and utterly content.
No, Sherlock doesn't care one bit about any of that.
He feels like he needs a shower first, though. Perhaps some nice, freezing jets of water will clear his mind and allow his heart to calm the bloody hell down. Yes, that's what he needs. A shower.
Without a second thought, he sweeps into the bathroom and slams the door shut. Belatedly, he wonders if he should've been quieter so as not to wake John, but then brushes it off because even if he has woken him, John hardly has the right to complain since it isn't John that is currently having a crisis in a hotel bathroom.
He discovers rather quickly that he is far too tall for the shower head. The jet of water only hits his collarbones, so in order to wet his hair and face he is forced to bend his knees and hunch underneath the spray like some awkward, gangly giant. His annoyance is only furthered when he is met with the repulsive, silicon-filled shampoo the hotel has made available. To make matters worse, there is only enough gel to wash about two-thirds of his hair. Irritated beyond belief, Sherlock empties the bottle's entire contents over his wet, curly head, resigning himself to the terrible itch that'll undoubtedly plague him later. Stupid, cheap, silicon shampoo.
He runs his fingers through his wet hair and decides that this is as good a time as any to confront the jarring—genuine—thought that occurred to him whilst curled around John. He takes a deep breath. He needs to try and say it out loud, that'll make it real. That way he'll know for sure if he actually meant it or if it was just an in-the-moment fancy.
He screws his eyes shut, clenches both fists, and grits out, "I am in love with John Hamish Watson,"
He waits for a moment with bated breath, but when the universe remains intact and the entire population does not simultaneously keel over in shock, he hesitantly cracks one eye open. He is irrationally surprised to find that virtually nothing has changed. He feels exactly the same as he did yesterday and the day before that. Better, even.
Okay then. That's that.
"I love John," he says, experimentally. It has a surprisingly delightful ring to it. "I am indeed in love with my flat mate. I love a former army doctor. I love a man that types with two fingers. The one that I love has an unfortunate affection for ugly jumpers. The object of my love is named John. Dr. Watson. I love John."
Sherlock continues babbling gleefully to himself, his sudden ascension into a good mood silencing his urge to fuss over the hotel's lack of decent conditioner. Something warm and bubbly swells in his chest and he finds himself powerless to resist the huge, beaming smile that spreads across his face. Not only has he been gifted with clarity—he certainly knows how to define his feelings for John now—but he is also experiencing the strangest, giddiest feeling of his life. He feels as if all of his blood has been replaced with champagne and fireworks.
Is this what love feels like for other people too? This exciting, swooning sensation that sends sparks from the top of the spine to the ends of each toe?
Sherlock loves John and it feels delicious.
He finishes his shower with great enthusiasm. The world somehow looks three shades brighter than before; even the dingy bathroom seems a bit prettier now that he is officially in love. Oh, this is just wonderful. As he towels his hair dry, he finally allows himself to happily reminisce on this morning, wherein he was snuggled into John's steadily rising chest, with John's warm, rough palm splayed across his shoulder blades almost protectively.
Sherlock hums in pleasure and dresses quickly. He needs to talk to John right now.
He pushes open the bathroom door with gusto. "John, I must speak to you,"
But John is not lounging in bed like he expected. Instead he is standing outside on the balcony, fully dressed, holding his mobile to his ear and conversing enthusiastically. Sherlock blinks, his grand mood deflating. Laura.
Sherlock suddenly finds himself feeling thunderous. He storms across the room, grabs his coat, and flings it from the rack. Of course he immediately decides he'd rather wear it, so after he picks it up and puts it on he throws John's coat from the rack instead. There: that's better. He notices that John, who still possesses cleaning habits from his days of service, has unnecessarily made the bed. Sherlock strides over and promptly rips the sheets from their neatly tucked in corners, sending blankets and pillows flying about the room in disarray. Yes, this is childish, but it feels vindictive and petty and good.
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and stands in the middle of the messy room, watching as John eagerly gesticulates a story to Laura. Sherlock can only see bits of his expression since he is pacing and constantly moving in and out of his vision, but John looks quite happy. Even from here Sherlock can see that John's blue eyes are sparkling with laughter and enjoyment. He looks relaxed, he looks pleased.
An abrupt, jarring sadness quells the burning anger in Sherlock's stomach.
He exhales through his nose and suddenly feels quite boneless. Not ten minutes ago he was practically floating, and now all he'd like to do is lie here and feel sorry for himself. Because unfortunately Sherlock forgot to take into account the reciprocal aspect of love—or, in this case, the lack thereof.
He sinks onto the bed and lies atop the pile of disheveled, fluffy blankets. He stares at the ceiling with a scowl. For a man who typically possesses the emotional changeability of chair, this is entirely too many feelings for one morning. He started off in denial, then accepting, then gleefully, deliriously happy, then positively furious, and finally, absolutely dejected. He is quite exhausted now, actually.
He wonders if he should call someone and talk about this. For one brief moment of insanity he considers Mycroft, but thankfully his wits return to him before that atrocity of a plan is carried out. Gavin is out of the question, being that he's hardly adept enough to solve cases, let alone navigate Sherlock's personal problems. Mrs. Hudson would be a viable option, except she is staying with her sister at the moment and Sherlock only has her home number. That leaves Molly. Well, at least she'll be pleased to know her little "crush" theory was correct.
Deciding it will be better for both parties if Sherlock evacuates the room before John sees the mess he has made, Sherlock sweeps out the door immediately. He pauses in the hallway with his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he should leave a note. After a moment of contemplation, he dashes back inside and pulls some paper and a pen from one of the desk drawers.
Working on case. He pauses, hovering the pen tip over the page for a moment of hesitation, before pettiness gets the best of him and he finishes with: Had to leave without you. You were talking with Laura for too long. SH
Feeling very satisfied with himself, Sherlock neatly places the paper on top of the mess of sheets where John is sure to see it.
Unsure of exactly where to go, Sherlock wanders into one of Kent's many parks and seats himself on a bench. After a few minutes of jittery overthinking, he pulls out his mobile and dials Molly's number.
"Hello?" Molly's sweet, high voice sounds tinny and distant. Sherlock realizes with slight surprise that he's never actually spoken to Molly over the phone before.
"Yes, hello, Molly. How are you?" He asks cordially. He isn't quite sure how 'friends' are supposed to open a conversation, being that his only phone calls involve him shouting abuse at the Yard or listening to mum chatter on about gardening while he contributes the occasional, 'Ah, I see'.
"Er—Sherlock? Is that you?" She sounds completely nonplussed.
"Yes, it is I. Molly, I require your assistance,"
"I don't remember giving you my number," she sounds like she is blushing and on the verge of a nervous giggle.
He sighs, already annoyed with the progression of this conversation. "No, Molly, you did not personally hand me your number but I've heard you say it several times throughout the years that I've known you so it was not exactly grueling to recall a mere eleven digits. Now then, like I said, I need your help,"
"Okay," she says, agreeably, "with what?"
"Well," he begins, but finds that the words are stuck in his throat. He takes a deep breath and quickly attempts to articulate his dilemma. "You see, you were quite right when you said I had romantic feelings for John, though I had not recognized them myself until quite recently. It happened when I woke up next to John after we slept together—"
"You what?"
Confused, Sherlock starts to repeat himself, before the double meaning of his words hits him square in the face and sets his cheeks ablaze. He tugs at his collar and clears his throat. "No, not like that. I meant we shared a bed," he can hear the relieved 'oh' from Molly, but plows on without acknowledgment. "I realized quite abruptly that I am in love with him. At first I was pleased, but then it occurred to me that he does not feel the same way at all,"
Molly hums sympathetically, but her voice sounds much sadder than the situation merits. Almost as if she is grieving something other than Sherlock's problem. "Oh, Sherlock,"
"How am I supposed to deal with this?"
Molly clears her throat and sounds rather choked up as she says, "Well, loving someone that hardly notices you is quite difficult. I can't say there is much to be done, unfortunately,"
He doesn't have time to puzzle over her melancholic tone (surely she isn't that empathetic?) because he immediately feels a similar sadness engulf him. Her words drift through his mind like a cold, sobering fog. "So, am I expected to just ignore my feelings? Pretend that we are only friends?"
She clears her throat. When she speaks again her voice sounds a bit watery. "Yes. It really helps to move on and meet other people. Or so I've heard."
He furrows his brow. This conversation has taken a very strange tone. For the first time in all of the five years that he has known her, Sherlock asks, "Molly, are you alright?"
The other end is silent for several beats and Sherlock wonders if she has hung up. "Molly?"
"Yes, yes I'm here," she sniffles, then covers the receiver so he can't hear whatever is happening on her end. "And…and yes, I'm okay. I'm fine, or at least I will be. I met this great bloke at work last week and I-I think I'll say yes next time he asks me out. So…yes, Sherlock, I'm alright." By the end of her strange and fairly irrelevant sentence she does sound better, so Sherlock contents himself with one final question.
"Is love worth it, Molly?"
Sounding much stronger than she has for the entire conversation, she replies, "Yes. One thousand times yes. It hurts like hell sometimes and it often leads one to look like a babbling fool, but it is the most wonderful feeling in the world once that person loves you back. Suddenly all of the shite you went through is worth it. It's such a beautiful, fragile, rare thing, Sherlock, and I hope you find it with John, I really do. Almost as much as I hope to find it for myself," she sniffles again, but this time she sounds tentatively happy. Sherlock realizes with no small amount of surprise that she has been crying. On the tail end of that realization, another of equal blatancy occurs to him: Molly feels for Sherlock the way Sherlock feels for John.
"Molly," Sherlock begins, wishing his voice did not sound so unsure, "You are a very important person to me," he pauses again and clears his throat. "You are a good friend. Thank you for helping me with this."
Molly is silent again, but this time it feels like she is perhaps smiling to herself on the other end rather than crying. "Thank you, Sherlock, I'm sure that wasn't easy," she teases, offering a watery chuckle. "I'm glad that we are…friends."
He can tell she is feeling better, which is a considerable achievement considering the circumstances. Despite this feeling of accomplishment, he is rather uncomfortable with the onslaught of emotions today has flung at him, so he offers Molly another genuine thank you and then says goodbye. He sets his mobile down beside him, somehow feeling both better and worse than before. It is nice to hear how wonderful love is when it is reciprocated, but that hardly improves his current situation. If anything, it has made it even more unbearable because he now knows what he is missing out on.
He sighs and begins absently deducing boring park-goers. A few minutes into it, his phone buzzes with two texts: Mycroft and John. Obligation before pleasure, he thinks to himself and opens Mycroft's text:
Sent at: 10:30am
What have I told you, brother? Caring is not an advantage. MH
Sherlock breathes loudly through his nose. What the bloody hell, Mycroft. Must he have his fingers in every pie in England? (Which is to say, both figurative and literal pies)
Sent at: 10:32am
If you send me another text that does not directly pertain to the case, I will throw my phone into a river and never get a new one. SH
Sent at: 10:33am
Ah, but then how would dear John contact you? MH
Sherlock glares so hard at the screen that his eyes actually feel hot. He doesn't bother deigning to reply. Instead, he stands up and roams the scenic park in hopes of returning his blood pressure to normal levels. Mycroft does agitate him so. Time slips by as he paces his way up and down the cobblestone paths, wracking his brain for solutions to his John Problem while simultaneously trying to distract himself with irrelevant thoughts so as not to think about said Problem. It's all very contradictory and tiring.
Eventually, he remembers John's text and pulls out his phone to read it, only to find that he has sent several more since:
Sent at: 10:30am
You absolute berk! Why did you unmake the bed? This place is a disaster! JW
Sent at: 10:35am
And what do you mean I was taking too long! You were out the shower for ten minutes before you left, why didn't you give me a heads-up? JW
Sent at: 10:50am
Where are you? JW
Sent at: 11:00am
Sherlock answer your blasted phone right now. JW
Sent at 11:15am
SHELOCK. JW
Sent at: 11:40am
I did not come all the way to bloody Kent to sit in a hotel while you have all the fun. JW
Sherlock immediately texts back with trademark ambiguity that he knows will both annoy and excite John:
Sent at: 12:05am
Meet me police station. Case solved. SH
And he is not lying, either. He solved Mycroft's case the moment he laid eyes on the man's corpse—because as it turns out the biggest obstacle in this mystery was the idiocy of Kent's investigators and their lack of substantial evidence files, not the actual case itself. The man was clearly not killed by a gang, rather his death came by his own hand. Several grams of cocaine and a handful of antidepressant tablets; quite the lethal mix.
The only reason he did not inform the simpletons—er, detectives—of his discovery yesterday, was because bloody Richards wouldn't let him speak three intelligent words without immediately interrupting, and it would have hardly been satisfying to just blurt out the case's conclusion without the stream of deductions that customarily followed.
Although he knows John will not like to be kept waiting at the Station, he must first run a few errands in order to collect enough evidence to appease the detectives. It'd be a much quicker process if the idiots would just take his word for gospel, but unfortunately they are especially obtuse and will require tangible proof to be convinced.
After briefly visiting a tattoo parlor and the victim's flat building, his arms are filled with a sufficient amount of evidence.
Sherlock readjusts his scarf around his neck, lifts his collar, and begins his walk to the Station. With a smirk, he imagines the utterly dumbfounded expressions the detectives will wear once he strolls into the building and solves the case before their very eyes. Despite his aversion to preserving memories, Sherlock has to fight the temptation to purchase a camera on the way, solely so he can capture Detective Richards's fuming expression as he is proved incorrect. It will undoubtedly be priceless.
John looks somewhere between cross and amazed when Sherlock approaches him on the front steps of the Police Station and casually remarks, "I've solved it, let us inform the detectives and leave,"
John's face starts to scrunch up in annoyance, but curiosity wins him over before the scowl has time to fully form. "You solved it already? How? Where did you go?"
Aloof as anything, Sherlock lifts his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "Details, John, are tedious and unnecessary at the moment,"
John then notices what he is carrying. "Why are you holding a laptop, a mobile, and some bloke's trousers in a box?" John narrows his eyes at the label Sherlock has messily scribbled onto it. "'Evidence for the evi-dense?' I'm guessing you're referring to the detectives?"
"Yes," announces Sherlock, proudly. "I was feeling rather accomplished on my way over, so I decided a bit of wordplay was in order."
John does an impressive job of hiding his amusement. "Bit cheesy, don't you think? Seems like something I would write."
In a moment of complete candidacy, Sherlock thoughtlessly replies, "Well, I was thinking about you quite a lot today so perhaps that's why." He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips. He bites the inside of his cheek and stiffens in anticipation of John's confused-and-disturbed 'what?'
But John just grins and rolls his eyes. "Well, Sherlock, if I knew I was going to rub off on you so easily, I would have made sure you gained my cleaning skills rather than my appreciation for puns,"
Sherlock is so surprised by John's completely relaxed response that he finds himself speechless for a moment. He clears his throat as soon as his wits return to him, averting his eyes to something that is not unpredictable and wonderful and named John.
"As I said, we ought to head inside. I may have texted Richards and demanded that he and his entire team show up. Wouldn't want them to leave before the case is concluded." Sherlock turns on his heel and begins to stride up the steps.
"Wait," John stops him, his warm, rough palm firmly clasping Sherlock's shoulder. "Aren't you going to tell me how you solved it?"
Sherlock ignores John's hand and the resulting blush that is spreading on his neck and simply shakes his head. "No, but you needn't wait long, John,"
John chuckles in spite of himself, his eyes bright and playful. "You utter prat. You just want to wait until we're in a room full of people to explain the case, don't you? You and you're bloody dramatics." Then John sidles up alongside him and begins walking up the steps too.
Sherlock doesn't reply, but the undeniable fondness in John's tone inspires a smile that he is powerless to conceal.
Unlike John, Detective Richards is not exactly charmed to find Sherlock has solved the case on his own.
"You what? How?" His mustache is twitching angrily, face as red as boiled tomatoes.
Calmly, Sherlock replies, "Yes, Richards, I did. The man's name is Joseph Malloy and he was not killed by a drug-gang; he killed himself in his room with about eight antidepressant tablets and several grams of cocaine. Afterwards, he was discovered by his flat mate—"
"Whoa, hold on just a minute. The body was discovered on a beach, Mr. Holmes," he corrects tersely, "not the victim's room. And even if that was the case, how could you possibly know he was found by the flat mate?"
Sherlock glares down at him and scowls. "If you would just let me finish without your inane interruptions you'll perhaps find out," he peers around the room at the several investigators and detectives, daring one to say something. To his satisfaction, no one speaks. "As I was saying: Joseph killed himself in his room—physique says homebody, autopsy identifies the lethal amount of drugs, thus: in-house suicide by overdose—and soon after he died, he was discovered by his flat mate. His financial records will easily verify that he had a flat mate by the way, in case you have doubts," he directs that particular comment at Richards, "Now, this of course begs the question: if Joseph died in his room by his own means, who would move the body to the beach and risk incriminating themselves? Well, that answer is slightly more complex. You see, Joseph and his flat mate did not get on, and their animosity towards each other can easily be deduced from the items found in his room," Sherlock gestures to the box he has set on the table. "Many of his personal articles are in mint condition, indicating that he took very good care of his things. However, other items such as his mobile, laptop, and several pieces of clothing, are in poor condition. Look at these scuff marks here, and the cracked screen here; clearly, this damage was done by someone else. That 'someone else' was his flat mate, Gregory Paulson.
"The two often 'pranked' each other by messing with the other's possessions. But three days ago, Gregory became particularly malicious and went too far. He filled a mint tin with ecstasy tablets and slipped them into Joseph's room, in hopes of humiliating the man while he was unintentionally high. Little did Gregory know, Joseph was already doing a hefty amount of drugs in secret. Three days ago while Gregory was out, one suicidal Joseph Malloy began ingesting the pills and cocaine. In the throes of death, he swayed and knocked over the tin of 'mints', scattering them across the floor. When Gregory returned, he took one look at the dead body and spilled tablets, and drew the logical conclusion that Joseph had overdosed on ecstasy. Thinking he killed Joseph, he threw his body into the back of his truck and drove to the nearest place he could dump a corpse: the ocean. There, he stripped him of his clothes and identifications in hopes that the body would never be identified and traced back to him. As we all know, Joseph eventually washed up on shore. Gregory has not yet left the country, though that is subject to change, being that he is still convinced that he is a murderer."
Complete and utter silence falls across the crowd of investigators and detectives. Sherlock experiences a brief sting of regret when he glances at Richards's dumbfounded expression and remembers he does not have a camera to capture it.
Weakly, Detective Richards asks, "And the severed tongue?"
"Bitten off during a seizure that occurred seconds prior to his death."
"And… and as you said, he had no identifications on him, so how do you know who he is?"
"Quite simple. The tattoo on his chest—the one you lot wrongly assumed was a gang marking—was designed and inked by a local tattoo artist, who luckily keeps a very organized log of his clients. I simply showed him a photograph and he immediately recognized the design. It took minutes to find the identity of the man,"
"But-but how could you be sure about the ecstasy tablets?
"Well, today I visited his flat and inspected his room—"
"How did you get into the flat?" Richards interrupts, accusingly.
Sherlock's eyes flash. "The door was unlocked. Didn't I say Gregory left in a hurry?" (And yes, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, but the fact that Sherlock picked the lock is hardly relevant) "Anyway, I found the empty mint tin kicked underneath the bed as well as the granules of an ecstasy tablet that had been crushed into the carpet, probably by Gregory's shoe. The rest had been haphazardly tossed into the bin. I made sure to place some into an evidence bag, if you'd like to see for yourself,"
Detective Richards, still reluctant to accept that Sherlock's theory has no holes, furrows his brow. "Okay…but how can you prove the drugs belong to Gregory?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "His room is stashed with several types of drugs, each far less benign than ecstasy. If you go to his mother's house—where he is currently hiding—and put him under questioning he will confess within minutes. He's a jittery young man with frequent anxiety attacks—the neurotic nail marks on his furniture, the obsessive cleanliness of his room, not to mention the paranoia that naturally accompanies drug use—so it is unlikely that he will hold up very long under questioning. In the unlikely case that he does not confess, I recommend getting a search warrant and looking around his flat with drug-sniffing dogs and a few investigators with more than half a brain. That should provide you with all of the evidence you need. Although Gregory is no murderer, he still possesses enough illegal substances to earn a lengthy sentence." He pauses to take a deep breath and assess the room, finding the crowd just as shocked and silent as before.
"Now then!" Sherlock says, loudly clapping his hands together, effectively shaking the group of out their daze. "In summation, this was a suicide not a murder, and the dead man's flat mate is currently hording about ten thousand pounds worth of drugs in his flat. Arrest Gregory, bury Joseph. Consider your case solved."
John, who has managed to keep his comments at bay throughout the entire explanation, blurts out, "That…that was brilliant, Sherlock!" And the genuine eagerness of his words makes Sherlock's skin tingle. "Absolutely bloody fantastic." He sounds just as amazed as when they first met, and in Sherlock's opinion that is what is truly fantastic.
Sherlock is so busy staring adoringly at John that it takes him a full ten seconds to register the gradually-building applause that is filling the room. He blinks in surprise and turns his focus away from John's grin, realizing that all of the detectives and investigators—save for Richards—are applauding him. Beneath the din, he can hear people saying things like, "I knew he was a genius, but that was incredible" and "Mad but brilliant" and, "What the bloody hell is Richards doing in charge when there's a guy like that around?"
It should be wonderful and gratifying, but in truth it just makes him feel wildly uncomfortable. He 'gets his kicks' from earning begrudging statements like, "Yeah, you were right, Sherlock", because he knows how to respond to that. But, actual praise? He has no bloody clue what to do.
Feeling quite awkward, he shoves his hands in his coat and raises his chin, expression unmoved and distant. To any observer it looks as if he hasn't even noticed the cheering crowd surrounding him. He is just about to make a hasty exit, when he feels a warm hand press against his back and guide him away from the center of the group. Sherlock blinks down at John, who is for whatever reason smiling at him like he just saved a litter of kittens from a tree. The applause peters out as they walk away, and the detectives' attention returns to the box of evidence and files Sherlock placed on the table.
"It's alright to smile, you know. People were congratulating you; they're impressed," John reminds him patiently, once they've reached the outskirts of the crowd. John's smile mellows down, but his eyes remain overbright and sparkling. "You're a bloody wonder, you know that?"
Sherlock swallows, a wave of gooseflesh rolling down his arms. "Not really, John, it was hardly a difficult case."
"Really now? Because it had them stumped, and there's no way anyone else besides you could have figured it out."
Sherlock has the briefest urge to remind John that Mycroft could have solved it too, but any mention of his brother is unsavory at best so he decides against it. However, with that response nixed, he has no idea what to say. He is thoroughly frustrated by his own uncharacteristic inarticulacy. "Well, I mean, I'm sure if they just looked, er, harder, they could've—"
John stops him with a raised hand. "Sherlock, this is me trying to give you a compliment. I know I always say that you are brilliant, because you are, but this time I am officially complimenting you. The typical response is 'thank you'."
Sherlock blinks. Ever since the emotional rollercoaster ride that followed his Big Realization this morning, Sherlock has not really allowed himself to think about his feelings for John. There is just too much going on at the moment to give the matter the attention and deliberation it deserves. Hours ago, he decided he will figure it out on the train ride back home while John is taking another nap. However, John is making it rather difficult to stick with that plan since he keeps doing wonderful little things that force Sherlock's feelings for him to explode through his veins and heart and mind in a way that is quite impossible to ignore.
"Well, thank you, John," Sherlock says at last, face uncomfortably warm. John beams.
"Now that we've got that all wrapped up, what do you say we head back to the hotel, pack up, and then get the next train to London?"
"Yes, let's." He raises his collar and readjusts his gloves. "Kindly inform Richards that we will be departing," he tells a nearby detective, caring very little that he is already engaged in a conversation with someone else. "Adieu." Sherlock calls, airily, before throwing the doors open and leaving the Station in a dramatic swoosh of his black coat.
"Sherlock, will you please sit still?"
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock finds that solving his John Problem is rather difficult while John is running his fingers through his hair. So much for his plans of having a good long think on the way back to London.
Sherlock huffs. "John, we are on a train. I am not the one jostling about, it's this entire bloody vehicle. And for the last time: I am fine! I am not on the brink of a concussion, nor do I have any wounds that require medical attention."
John gives him a look of mock-conviction. "Oh really? You're fine? Then pray tell me: what is this?" John pulls his right hand out from within Sherlock's curls and shows him the smear of red on his fingertips. "Because from a doctor's standpoint, I'd say this is a little medical phenomenon we like to call 'blood'. Amazing thing, blood. In most cases, it tends to be a result of something else we call a 'wound'."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As always, John, your sarcasm is not appreciated. And besides, all I did was hit my head against a wall. I assure you, far worse has befallen me. "
John ignores him. "Sherlock, please explain to me why you felt the need to tell that man about his wife's affair, in his wife's presence? Or at all, really? You're lucky all he managed to do was push you into that wall; big bloke like that could've done far worse damage." John digs into his carry-on bag for a salve to ease the pain, temporarily distracted from his scolding.
Sherlock pouts, unconcerned with how juvenile it may look. "If you've forgotten, John, he tried to start a fight with you first. Big, brawny, brainless fool like that was trying to start something with every bloke he came across today, you were just unfortunate enough to be the last one. He knocked into your bad shoulder on purpose, John! He wanted to push you around a bit to show off to his wife; if I hadn't said something he would've hit you."
John is silent as he carefully dabs the salve along the base of Sherlock's hairline and along the nape of his neck. Sherlock, despite his whining, sighs softly in relief as the cream saps most of the pain away. Without thinking, he pushes his head further into John's careful hand, causing John's entire palm to press against the top of Sherlock's skull. Almost tentatively, he drags his fingers through Sherlock's curls, still silent and seemingly transfixed on the task. The exploration quickly loses it medical purpose when John gently brushes Sherlock's hair back from his forehead with his entire palm, slowly running over the curls in an appreciative manner. A pleased, involuntary noise rumbles in Sherlock's throat and John is snapped back to reality. Almost reluctantly, he withdraws his hand.
"Sherlock, are you saying you were protecting me?"
Sherlock blinks languidly, absurdly pacified from that brief touch. Dear god if John ever figures out that the key to a calm Sherlock is his sensitive scalp, he'll be absolutely done for. "Yes, of course," Sherlock replies, unthinkingly. "I don't want you to ever get hurt, if I can help it."
John is quiet for a moment and then he huffs out a little chuckle, a smile spreading on his face. He leans back in his seat and faces the front, but he lays his hand over Sherlock's. Not quite holding it, just allowing the two of them to touch. "I suppose I'm lucky I met you," he muses, "And visa-versa, being that you and I are always saving each other and all."
Sherlock nods. John's hand feels warm and rough and if he were in any state of mind to deduce, he'd know that there are exactly four paper cuts along his index finger, a blister on the heel of his palm, and residual soap from the hotel bathroom in the crease of his wrist. However, Sherlock decides that a moment like this ought to be savored instead of analyzed, so he closes his eyes, tunes out his mind, and revels in the feeling.
The very afternoon that Sherlock and John return to London, Lestrade bombards them with a new case. Unlike in the past, he does not text Sherlock first and ask nicely, nor does he subtly leave a pile of files on his front porch. Instead, Lestrade just knocks on the door of their flat, bold as brass, and hands Sherlock a case file clipped to a stack of photos.
"Listen, I know you lot just got off a case, but I've been sitting on this one for the days you were gone and I'm unashamed to say the Yard needs your help, Sherlock."
Sherlock sighs wearily and snatches the file from Lestrade. "You say that as if it is remarkable, Gavin. When hasn't the Yard required my assistance?"
Lestrade narrows his eyes. "First off all, it's Greg, for the fifth time this month. Secondly, I don't care how it makes us look, we just really need you to look at this one. Serial murderer on the loose, but we suspect that he isn't very clever because most of the victims have been found and identified quite easily, and he has left his weapon of choice at the crime scene more than once. It just reeks of amateurism. Our problem is, we can't find the common thread between the victims; right now they've seemingly been killed at random. Being that we can't find a connection, it's very difficult to pin down a suspect. We've gathered data on more than two dozen possible killers, but now we're stumped. "
Sherlock nods, only half listening as he leafs through the file and makes his own observations about the killer. Lestrade is definitely correct about this being an amateur, but he is completely wrong in his assumption that the killings are random. The one thing that each victim has in common is clearly money, meaning that the killer is someone that is most likely quite young and homeless. He robs people and then he kills him. The crime scenes seem absurdly easy to figure out because they are; there is no finesse to these murders, this is merely the result of a desperate, penniless man who knows nothing other than how to wield a knife. Sherlock snaps the file shut, effectively cutting off whatever Lestrade was in the middle of saying.
"This shouldn't take long. Go back to the Yard and gather all of the suspects' files, I can look through them and align my theories with a guilty party. I'll grab my coat and John and I will meet you there in a half hour."
"Sherlock, don't you think John may be a bit tired from all the casework already?"
Sherlock waves that idea away. "John didn't get to do much hands-on work in Kent, and this case seems like it will involve a chase at some point, so he will definitely be interested."
Lestrade rolls his eyes and turns to leave. "You lot get stranger and stranger every day. See you in a half."
It takes Sherlock less than ten minutes to sift through the thick stack of suspects and find the killer. Just as Lestrade is preparing to assemble a team to scour the city for him, Sherlock points out that the man can be easily tracked by his homeless network. At the word "homeless", Donovan's face scrunches up in distaste.
"You run a network of tramps? Can hardly say I'm surprised to be honest," she scoffs and looks to Anderson. "Should've known Freak would have his own little gang of misfits to guide around."
John bristles. "Sorry, what was that, Donovan? You said you'd rather have a killer on the loose than resort to Sherlock's homeless network?"
Donovan glares at the pair of them but says nothing in response. John squares his shoulder and tips his chin in triumph.
Sherlock watches the exchange with interest. John definitely looks the part of the soldier whenever he gets protective. Sherlock clears his throat, "Well, come now, John. We have a few people to speak with. Lestrade," Sherlock says, turning to face the DI, "I will text you when we've caught him."
Lestrade looks wary, "Sherlock, I can't just let you two go after this guy alone; remember, he has killed three people now. Here, at least allow one of our cop cars to trail you—"
"Are you serious? Lestrade, if there is a police car two hundred yards behind us all evening no one is going to willingly approach us, much less the killer. Absolutely not. John and I must do this alone so as not to arouse suspicion. We will—" Sherlock is cut off by the sound of his mobile buzzing in his pocket.
Annoyed, he checks the text he just received.
Sent at: 4:35pm
Tell Gregory he needn't worry, I'll be watching the two of you over the CCTV system. MH
Sent at: 4:37pm
Since when are you and Lestrade on a first name basis? And whatever, do as you wish. SH
Sent at: 4:38pm
None of your business, brother dear. And I certainly plan to. MH
Sherlock glances back up at Lestrade and wordlessly shows him the screen. Masterfully hiding any sort of discomfort, Lestrade glosses right over the 'Gregory' bit and says, "Excellent, if your brother is keeping an eye out then feel free to go."
Just to be difficult, Sherlock snaps, "Perhaps you value Mycroft's consent, but I would've gone regardless of my brother's permission, Gregory."
Then, he grabs John and strides from the building, leaving a rather flustered Lestrade in his wake.
The pair of them walk in comfortable silence, John taking in the scenery and absently running his fingers over the gun in his left pocket, while Sherlock hums a ballad and contemplates how much he ought to bribe the next homeless informant.
All in all, it is a fairly typical stroll.
Sherlock stops when they reach the corner where a pale-haired woman is raptly working on a crossword puzzle against the newspaper stand. She stops leaning and straightens her posture when she sees Sherlock approaching. When they are within a few feet of each other, he digs into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and two tenners, and her eyes immediately lose their clouded appearance.
"We're looking for Seth Banks," Sherlock says casually, purposefully not speaking in her direction. From a distance they look like two strangers that just happen to be standing within close proximity.
"Ain't heard of 'im," she replies, not bothering to look up from the puzzle she is studiously filling in.
"Mm, no of course not. Thank you," Sherlock gives her a long, firm handshake, slips the money and cigarettes into her waiting palms, and then strides away from her, John confusedly following behind.
"Sherlock, what…?"
"Sometimes, John, it is safer to use written rather than spoken word." He holds up the wrinkled crossword paper where she has messily scribbled an address. "He can be found right here. I suspect this will not take long, now."
John raises his eyebrows, impressed. Sherlock smirks. "What have I said? The homeless are endlessly efficient."
He is such an idiot, such a damned fool.
Out of all the idiotic, foolish things he has done today, this has to take the cake.
He and John had found Seth exactly where his informant predicted. Then, as Sherlock expected, the man immediately sprinted away the moment he laid eyes on them. They had looked at each other once, exchanged a weird sort of grin, and then dashed off after him like marathon runners.
Everything had been going perfectly: the adrenaline rush, the spike in his blood pressure, the hardy pound of his heart against his ribs. Then everything went to shite the minute John shouted "No, this way," and tugged Sherlock in said direction by the hand. By the hand. John Watson was holding his bare hand—he'd forgotten his gloves at the flat—and his mind completely flew off its neat, organized axis.
Still holding hands, they cornered him in an alley. Sherlock should have noticed the knife concealed in the lining of the bloke's jacket, he should have seen the mad glint of desperation in his eyes as he and John backed him into the alley's corner. He is Sherlock bloody Holmes for Christ's sake, he should have noticed.
But he didn't, because he was stupidly, ridiculously, hopelessly lost in the sensation of John holding his hand and pulling him along, his typically sharp senses numbed by the chaste contact. Stupid.
In his wit's absence, the criminal managed to plunge a short Swiss army knife into his abdomen. It didn't go all that deep—thanks to both his thick coat and the man's awkward stabbing angle—but it was still enough to make him immediately crumple to the floor in pain. John looked at him once, quickly assessed that it wasn't fatal, and then sprinted after the perpetrator with a surprising amount of speed. He tackled him to the ground within seconds. After he phoned the local police and knocked the man unconscious with the butt of his less-than-legal gun—so the man couldn't escape, of course. Not just because it made John feel tough—he immediately darted to Sherlock's side like a fretting hen.
Which brings Sherlock to the present, in which he is laying on the sidewalk, knife wedged into a non-fatal area of his torso, bleeding through one of his nice shirts like the reckless sod Mycroft and half of London often accuse him of being.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, stay with me here, don't worry, it's going to be fine, he didn't strike you anywhere vital," John murmurs, stroking Sherlock's hair back to simultaneously comfort him and check for any injuries. Despite the jarring pain that is shooting through every nerve, Sherlock feels calm the moment John sets his warm, rough palm on his forehead. He feels safe, content. Unconsciously, he pushes his head into the touch.
"Hey, Sherlock, stay with me here, okay? I know I said it isn't fatal and the injury isn't even remotely near your head, but I don't fancy the idea of you passing out, so please try to stay conscious. Tell me about something interesting, make some deductions," he asks, his calm tone clearly masking panic. Sherlock knows he isn't going to die and John knows too, he is a doctor after all, but for some reason he is panicking. At most Sherlock will need stitches and an uncomfortable few hours of recovery in hospital, but nothing more, and certainly not death, which John seems to think is a possibility.
"John, I'm quite alright, it's hardly something to panic over," he says, steadily. Well, as steadily as he can manage, anyway. To his credit he is lying on the ground with a seeping knife wound, so the mere fact that is still able to grit out a reasonable sentence at all is quite impressive.
"I know that, Sherlock, but until the paramedics arrive I'd really like you to remain conscious. Deductions. Now,"
Sherlock's gaze roves unhurriedly over John's features: dark-blue eyes peering at him from beneath an awning of blonde lashes, pink mouth pursed in concern, the white bone of his teeth worrying his bottom lip in a rather tortuous fashion. In the privacy of his mind Sherlock chuckles drily at the fact that even though he is lying on the sidewalk with a gaping knife-wound gushing at his side, he is still thinking of John's mouth and eyes. (To be fair, they are a rather delicious pair of features)
"Okay, that red-haired bloke obviously dislikes his girlfriend's mum – he's tugging at the
collar of an oversized, expensive-looking jumper that was purchased by her as a birthday gift, clearly showing his dislike for her through his irritation with the clothing – and is considering breaking up with his girlfriend because of it," he wets his lips and sweeps the area once more before landing on another target, "And that woman – there – with the crying baby, you can tell she just found out that her husband's been cheating on her by the way she is worrying her ring and glancing at the howling child with regret as if to question what she has gotten herself into,
"And that man over there—" he hisses in pain, "That—he—impending affair with—wife's friend—" Sherlock shuts his eyes very tightly and focuses on breathing in and out through his nose without moving so as not to aggravate his wound. Above him, John is panicking again and running his clinical, searching hands all over Sherlock's face, his chest, his wrists, ghosting over the wound and his heart, all the while muttering nonsensical placations.
"You're fine, you're okay, this is just a delayed reaction you're experiencing, you're alright, look, see, the blood's already clotting, just hold on, deep slow breaths, yes just like that, keep your eyes shut, in out in out, yes, don't worry,"
As they load him up onto the gurney, John grips his hand, says "I will meet you at hospital, okay? You're alright, you're going to be fine," and then presses the world's shortest kiss to his forehead.
Sherlock has the time to think 'that felt rather good' before the sedatives kick in and oblivion claims him.
When consciousness returns, Sherlock is struck by two rather interesting realizations. One: anesthetics are much stronger than he thought, and two: there is a very warm, pleasant-smelling body half-splayed across his.
Gingerly, he lifts his left arm – which had been limply hanging off the side of his bed – and touches the top of the person's head. In disbelief, he realizes that John is sleeping on his chest.
John's chair is pulled up close to the side of Sherlock's bed and John is spilling forward from it, half of his body laying over Sherlock's. His head is right beneath Sherlock's chin. The slightly sweet, clean smell of John's shampoo tickles his nose and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to inhale deeply. As the feeling in his right hand returns, he realizes that John is not only touching his hand, but has intertwined their fingers and maintained a tight grip as well.
Needless to say, the stitches in his abdomen are easily forgotten.
Sherlock lays there motionless for a few minutes, reluctant to move in fear of waking John, soaking in the delicious, warm feeling that trickles from his wildly-beating heart to his curled toes. Just as he's contemplating running his fingers through John's hair, the door opens and a nurse walks in. She seems startled to find him awake.
"S. Holmes, correct?" She asks, unsurely.
Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock nods tersely and puts his left index finger to his lips to indicate that she ought to keep her voice down, otherwise she'll bloody wake John and that is just not okay right now.
"It's just…well, sir, judging by the amount of anesthetics you've received," she pauses to check a sheet of paper on her clipboard, "you aren't expected to be awake for another two hours,"
Yes, well those estimates don't apply to a former cocaine addict. My body is quite conditioned to drugs.
Dismissively, Sherlock replies, "Well I'm plainly awake right now, so it appears your calculations are wrong,"
She narrows her eyes at him. "I assure you, sir, they are not—"
"Mm, yes, you're right," he snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I am sound asleep. Do wake me in the determined two hours, will you, nurse?"
He looks away from her and returns his attention to John. A familiar rush of adrenaline and warmth floods through his veins just by merely glancing at John's sleeping form. A strange jolt of possessiveness comes along as well, and he finds himself placing a splayed palm on John's back. He digs the pads of his fingertips into the material of John's sweater, holding him as closely as possible.
The nurse, who previously looked like she was contemplating ripping the raw stiches from Sherlock's side, softens at the sight. "Is he your boyfriend or husband?" She asks, her mouth curved into a begrudging smile.
Sherlock considers. "We prefer no labels,"
"Ah, yes, I understand. My partner and I were like that for a while, before we got married. Of course, now I have no choice but to call her my wife," she chuckles to herself and grins. "You two make a very beautiful couple, Mr. Holmes. You should know that as soon as he was allowed in he did not move from that chair once,"
Sherlock's face heats and he can't resist the pleased smile that spreads on his lips. "Yes, well." He mutters vaguely, attempting to appear blasé despite the ridiculous bubble of happiness rising in his chest.
"I suppose I'll go and inform the doctor that you've woken. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes." She gives him one last smile before leaving the room.
Sherlock sighs in contentment. He'll get stiches in his abdomen every weekend if it means waking up to John sleeping on him like this.
He's just started running his fingers through the soft, grey-blonde hairs at the base of John's skull when he feels John's mobile vibrate in his pocket. John immediately jerks awake and blearily pats his pockets for his mobile. In his search for his phone, he gains complete awareness and realizes just how he was positioned moments ago.
"Er, sorry about practically collapsing on you like that," John says, sheepishly. "I was bloody exhausted and overestimated my ability to sleep upright all night."
Sherlock doesn't get the chance to say John can sleep like that whenever he likes, because John finally locates his ringing phone and brings it to his ear. "Laura!" exclaims John, "Hey, yeah, I'm good, how are you?" John stands up and mouths 'I'll be out there' and then takes his phone call into the hallway.
The scowl that overtakes Sherlock's features is so fierce that it actually hurts his face muscles. He lets his head fall against the backboard with a resounding smack, which he immediately regrets because there are at least two tender stiches crawling up the side of his skull from when he fell to the floor, post stabbing.
He groans and rubs the back of his head.
Sent at: 8:10am
Getting involved in matters of emotion is not wise, brother mine. MH
Sent at: 8:15am
Yes, well neither is consuming an entire bakery's worth of cake on a daily basis, Mycroft, but you do so anyway. I suppose neither of us are exactly wise. SH
Sent at: 8:20am
Childish retorts do not take away the truth of what I've said, Sherlock. MH
Sherlock glares at the screen of his phone and scowls even more fiercely than before. Stupid sodding Mycroft and his annoying, bothersome texts. Sherlock will not admit that Mycroft is right. Sherlock refuses.
Sherlock also refuses to acknowledge that perhaps the reason he is so irritated with Mycroft's text is because he does not want to confront the actual dilemma of his one-sided love for John, since facing such a thought is rather disheartening. Thinking about the way he feels for John, and then thinking about bloody Laura and every other unworthy woman in John's life makes Sherlock feel simultaneously furious and heart broken.
It isn't fair. People should fall in love at the same pace, with the same people.
Sent at: 8:22am
Bugger off. SH
A/N: So, what did you think? Just so you guys know, comments and reviews are GREAT motivation to update quicker, just saying. *nudge nudge* *wink wink* Regardless, thank you so much for reading!
Chapter four should be up sooner than this one (hopefully!)
Thanks again! Until next time, darlings X0X0
(but seriously, cannot stress this enough: FEEDBACK IS TO ME WHAT JOHN IS TO SHERLOCK. There. That should do it)