Hello *she calls to an empty room*? I'm incredibly sorry that I've been gone for so long. I've been anxiously awaiting my A-level results and now they have finally arrived I can relax and continue with this fic. I really hope my past readers haven't given up on me, if you have I completely understand. Anyway, this chapter was getting too long so I cut it in to two, the other section will be up at some point in the week. Please forgive any grammatical errors, I've stayed up til 3.00am writing this in time for the bank holiday so I'm rather knackered. I hope you enjoy.
"Sherlock, this is not the definition of a date!" John shouted over the howling wind as he trudged through mud and clumps of half frozen grass. They had been walking for over an hour and John's feet were starting to feel numb. Sherlock – in his true long legged fashion – was striding several meters ahead, forcing John to practically sprint to keep him in eyeshot.
"I know you've never been on one before, but traditional date activities include going to the cinema or getting something to eat at a restaurant, with candles and wine and comfortable conversation. Trekking through a field, in subzero temperatures, while watching your arse disappear into the distance is not what I would classify as a fucking date!"
This had been a bad idea, he should have known that Sherlock's warped mind would have corrupted any semblance of normality out of what should have been an enjoyable evening. But then John supposed that this was mainly his fault. You didn't date Sherlock Holmes. You dragged him out of drug dens or argued with him as you scraped exploded organ out of the microwave. You didn't date him. It was wrong. It went against nature. It was like soaking the roots of a plant in pure ethanol. You just didn't do it.
"Could you slow down?" John asked and then swore loudly when he slipped and hit his knee against a tree stump. The sun had just started to set and now shadows were encroaching on them from the tree line, making John feel slightly anxious about the impending darkness. It felt like they were walking into battle and John wasn't used to going into a fight without a gun tucked into his jeans and Sherlock standing directly beside him.
"Hurry up John." Sherlock called, "You're lagging."
"If you tell me to hurry up one more time I'm going to beat you to death with the next rock that I find." He muttered as he readjusted the bag on his back. He didn't know what was in it; Sherlock had simply thrust it at him before they set off, saying that "We'll need them later." What "them" referred to he hadn't explained however every time John shifted the strap from one shoulder to the other, something clinked inside the bag.
"Where are we going?" John asked – not for the first time since they had started trekking through the wilderness.
"We'll be there in a minute."
"That's not an answer."
"Well it's the only one I'm willing to give."
John stopped walking and – even though he didn't know how – Sherlock must have sensed this because he stopped walking too. John heard him sigh loudly before he turned and began closing the space between them with the speed and effortless ease that only a long legged man could possess. When he was less than a meter away Sherlock stopped, his cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion of having walked miles with an injured leg.
"I'm taking you back to the windmill." He said.
John stood speechless because for a second he didn't understand what Sherlock was saying, "The windmill?" He asked dumbly but as he took in Sherlock's expression of sheer exasperation, understanding smacked him full in the face, "The windmill? The place where, less than a day ago, I was held hostage by Moriarty? The place where we both almost died?"
"Technically it was almost two days ago but yes of course, what other windmill would I be talking about?" Sherlock asked, utterly perplexed.
John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and breathed deeply a few times before he said, as calmly as he could, "Why are we going back there?"
Sherlock seemed to consider his answer for a few seconds before he said, "Because I want to play a game with you."
John opened his eyes and saw that there was a small, excited smile tugging at the edges of Sherlock's lips, "You want to play a game? I thought we were going on a date?"
"We are. The game is the date – or at least the first stage of it."
"How many stages are there?"
Sherlock's eyes briefly flitted towards the bag on John's back, "A few." He said.
Although Sherlock's obvious excitement was infectious, John couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive. Playing games with Sherlock – although not necessarily pleasant – were never boring nor particularly safe.
"Is this game... dangerous?"
"No, it's informative, illuminating even. It will make you see everything much more clearly."
Deciding that Sherlock was being as ambiguous as he possibly could - and knowing that he wouldn't get a better answer if he asked - John turned his attention to the next worry that was niggling at him.
"Are you sure it's safe for us to go back there?"
"Of course, calculating psychopath Moriarty may be, unoriginal he is not. Whatever he's planning on doing he wouldn't be as sloppy as to try and kill us in the same location twice. That's the mark of a common criminal not a sadistic artist."
"Is that how you see him? As an artist?"
Sherlock eyes, which had grown vacant with thought, refocused on John, "It doesn't matter how I see him, all that matters is how he sees himself. Self perception is one of the most important things in life: if you see yourself as a victim then that's what you become. If you see yourself as a monster then that's what you turn into."
"And what about if you see yourself as unlovable?" John asked as he squinted at Sherlock in the dying light.
Sherlock blinked, obviously taken off guard by the personal nature of John's question. The comment had hit him at his very core and it took him a few moments to compose himself. Finally he shrugged in a way that, John assumed, was supposed to convey nonchalance, and said "Then I suppose you would live a life unloved."
"That doesn't sound very productive."
"I never said it was." He snapped, "It was simply an observation – albeit rather trite and overly philosophical. I was merely trying to make conversation, isn't that what you're supposed to do on a date? Talk about things that retain neither substance nor merit?"
"Wait," John said, trying to contain his smile, "We've already started our date? This... the past hour that we spent arguing and shouting at each other while walking through a field... this has been the beginning of our date?"
Sherlock glanced around them, taking in the marsh land and ice, the scattered piles of sheep manure and the thousands of gnats that were currently floating around their heads.
"I suppose so. Why? Were you expecting something different than this?"
John stared at Sherlock for a moment: his shoulder wound had wept a little and dark, rusty coloured blood had stained his shirt. His hair, uncombed and windswept, looked chaotic, almost like it had been inhabiting nesting hedgehogs and the skin around his eyes looked dark from a lack of sleep and an overabundance of stress. John was sure that he looked similarly knackered, wearing his creased coat that was starting to smell musty with a combination of sweat and rain water.
This was what it looked like to go on a date with Sherlock Holmes and, although he should have been, John wasn't in anyway disappointed. And as he took in Sherlock's dishevelled state he felt a strange feeling starting to burn in the pit of his stomach and, for reasons best be-known to him, John had a sudden, almost aching, desire to grab hold of the lapels of Sherlock's coat and kiss him. Because although it was irrational and completely incongruous to their surroundings, it just seemed like the right thing to do.
Without thinking, he took a step forward, reaching out his hand slightly until it gently brushed against one of the lapels of Sherlock's coat. It wouldn't take much, he only needed to take another step to close the gap and then they'd be as close as face to face as their height difference would allow.
John had a tenuous grasp of Sherlock's coat, almost as if he didn't want to commit to what he was about to do, like he was giving them both an option to back down. It was an intimate thing, kissing, perhaps even more so than the things that had happened between them the night before, because this sort of connection felt almost childish. Too innocent and tender to befit the cataclysmic nature of their relationship.
But nevertheless John took another step forward and finally looked up at Sherlock. He appeared panicked, frantic even as he felt John tugging on his coat, causing his back to bow forward slightly, putting him at a better angle. John leaned closer until neither of them were under any doubt as to what was about to happen.
He tugged harder on the coat and heard Sherlock's breath hitch. John slid one hand up his neck and into Sherlock's hair, knotting his fingers around the strands and angling his head so that his mouth would be at a slight slant.
John inclined his head, felt his lips brush briefly against Sherlock's. They both shuddered. Breathed in the other's breath. John tugged his hair, causing Sherlock to elicit a barely audible whimper. They were so close but not quite touching and all John had to do was move a fraction to the right to finally taste his lips_
Sherlock flinched back violently, taking four long, backwards strides away from John, "That's breaking the rules." He said breathlessly as he scrubbed his hand across his flushed face.
John, who was a little disorientated by being so suddenly left alone, had to take a few moments to realise that Sherlock was speaking to him,
"What rules?"
"The rules of the game." He said, sounding almost angry, "You're not allowed to do that. I have it all planned out, it's all in my head and it will work. But you can't go around changing the rules before we've even started, not until I show you."
"Show me what?"
Sherlock stared at him, his face draining of emotion and colour until it lapsed back into its usual state of cold impassivity, "We need to get going," He said finally, his voice devoid of feeling, "It'll be dark soon." And with that he turned and began striding away from John as quickly as he possibly could.
John stood there, slightly shell shocked, his lips still tingling in anticipation of what they had been about to come into contact with. He watched as Sherlock got further and further away from him and for a second he was sure that he was simply going to leave him behind. But then he called,
"Hurry up John! We need to start the game."