As promised, the first proper chapter. Remember, reviews are like cookies – damn, I love cookies.
Chapter One
I rub at my eyes, smacking the top of the alarm clock. Four thirty am. Four bloody thirty! Sherlock always has to hijack the alarm, set it far too early. Still, it gives me time to wake up, prepare... think. It's another of the many good things Sherlock does for me. For us. I hate to wonder what time I'd wake up if I was still alone. I don't want to think about that just now. Right now, I have to go and find Sherlock. My Sherlock.
I trudge down to the kitchen, and he's sat there, bright as day. Sherlock doesn't bother with sleep. It's all just wasted time to him. But at least he understands that I need my sleep, and he won't try to keep me awake. He cares. He cares.
"Morning, Sherlock."
"Morning, John."
That's all I can bring myself to say at such an early time. I still feel asleep, like everything here is a dream. But, I suppose, Sherlock is the sort of person who makes everything feel dreamy. Maybe he is drea-
Stop. Don't think about this.
It won't work. It doesn't work. I know Sherlock is completely unfazed by that sort of situation. It doesn't alarm him. I don't alarm him. So there's no point in trying, surely. He won't return the way I feel. I remember one of the things he said on the first case we worked on. "Married to my work." Exactly. He doesn't have time for anything else. He doesn't have time for me.
Then why am I still here?
Maybe...
"John? You seem distracted. Have some coffee, that usually helps you." Sherlock's drawl crept into me like a warm mug of cocoa. Soft, understanding, yet withdrawn and unemotional. He cares, just not in the way that I want him to care. But I can't help feeling that there's something about this that means more than usual. Something that even Sherlock must have noticed.
He must have. Right?
I eventually grab the kettle. It's warm, but I flick the switch again since it kills some time. Slumping down onto the edge of the sofa, the one nearest to Sherlock's chair, I reach into my dressing gown pocket for my mobile. One message, unattainable number. Who?..
Why so melancholy?
Probably just a nosy friend from a new phone. Irene, perhaps. Yes, I know she's still alive. I just choose to ignore her. Or Mycroft. He likes to do the surprising thing too. Either way, I don't particularly care. I have a breakfast to get to. But before I can rise from the sofa once more, I hear Sherlock: "Stay there, I'll get the coffee." It makes me happy, knowing he'll do something for me without hesitation. He's done things like that many times before. Some inconsequential, like the coffee, but sometimes serious, like the bomb at the swimming pool. He rushed up to help me that time, and I know he'll do it again.
Kicking back over the arm, safe in the knowledge that it's too early for Mrs. Hudson to come and tut at me, I wait patiently.
But then, a scream.
What? I panic, and rush to the kitchen, and I see havoc. A kettle, spilt, cracked and rolling around on the floor. A pool of boiling water. And the world's only consulting detective, clutching his hand at the sudden jolt of pain. I feel bad now. Sherlock's hurt, and now I have to help him.
"What did you do?"
"It hurts, J-John..." Sherlock clearly wasn't used to such a simple accident as this. He looked more frightened than even during the swimming pool incident, and that was pretty nerve wracking, I can tell you. Jogging to his side, I grabbed him by the wrist and led him to the tap. Stream of cold water to let trapped heat escape. He let out another little hiss as the tap water hit the back of his hand, and the water ran off the side of his wrist and in between my fingers. I suppose it tickled a little, but that wasn't important right now. All that mattered was that Sherlock didn't hurt any more.
"J-John..." There was a hint in Sherlock's voice that sounded more like worry than fear. He wouldn't worry about himself, though. I look up to see him staring right at me, into me, into the heart of me, and I melt at the connection. His pale blue eyes follow mine as I flick back and forth between his face and his hand. His hair is floppy, curls obscuring his right eye where painful tears are starting to form. I shiver as I realise how close we are. I have to take lighter breaths – anything more, and I could taste him. That just feels like too much to me, given how this is a one way feeling.
But then I take an even closer look, and I go dizzy with the emotion. This is why I stick around Sherlock. The cases, the daily life, even the simplest of moments. When Sherlock is there, the room lights up as though he was framed by a million fireflies. I know I love him. But does he love me? Fear stops me from ever asking. But I look at him now, and I can almost see what he's thinking, about whether he returns the feeling.
The moment fades. Sherlock's hand is cool now, healed well. I cough to avoid the silence, as if it could give away the truth. Sherlock looks warm, almost embarrassed. Why?
I shall have to ask someday.