A/N: Hi, hello, how are things? Yes, I'm honestly curious! If you ever feel like talking to a random stranger then I recommend me. I'm 100% serious, I'm so chatty online. Even though I'm busy with school, I'm always up for a chat. It's been a while, sorry about that. You know how it is with school. Technically, I should be busy as fuck trying to keep on top of all of my schoolwork but what can I say, I need to write.
I would apologize for the pointless ramble but I'm not really sorry. Sorry?
Thank you so, so much to the people who have favourited/reviewed/followed, you guys are awesome! I know I haven't replied to any of the reviews that you've made while I'm away, and I'm sorry about that. But I will, eventually. Probably when the holidays come around and I have plenty more time on my hands. But feel free to continue with reviewing. I am sorry it took so long for me to update, but here's a fairly long chapter to make up for it. Feedback (of all kinds) is my seven percent solution x
Chapter 6: The Ponderation
"John!" Sherlock calls from his lair, "Have you seen my trousers?"
John shakes his head even though the other man can't see him.
"No, sorry," he calls from the kitchen, where he's making his morning cuppa.
"I can't find them anywhere!" Sherlock's irritation is saturated in the morning air.
"Well, what makes you think I'd know where they are?" John calls back incredulously.
"Keeping track of the trivial details is your job!" Sherlock yells.
It's times like these that John is reminded that Sherlock is a total mummy's boy.
Sounds of crashing around come from within Sherlock's room, enough to set John's teeth on edge. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I'm not your slave, Sherlock."
There's a pregnant pause.
"I know that," Sherlock says in a low voice, but it still carries through the relative quiet to John's ears.
John scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling a bit torn for no apparent reason.
"Why can't you just deduce where they are?" John blurts, dispelling the tension.
Sherlock sighs heavily as if it's the most obvious thing in the history of the planet, "Because, John, when I'm focussed on mulling over a problem, I eliminate all sensory input to a bare minimum and turn off any unnecessary trains of thought to enhance the process. If I had put my trousers away while in such a state, they could be in your room for all I know."
John tries to stop his mind from wandering, but with the themes threaded through their latest case, it's hard not to imagine what Sherlock's trousers in John's room would imply.
That's the thing. The elephant in the room has morphed into a bloody blue whale and even though John's trying ever so hard not to think about it, an elephant's pretty hard to ignore, never mind a whopping great whale.
John supposes he shouldn't be surprised by any of this, but he's a bit fed up with the mind games that Sherlock's playing. John knows Sherlock's up to something, because it's so subtle, it's obvious. He hasn't been himself in a long while. Not since this whole getting–married–to–catch–a–killer thing started. It's all a ploy. John can see right through the consulting detective, but he doesn't want to talk about it. Not yet anyway. He's curious.
Perhaps he has a death wish; there's no way of knowing what the hell Sherlock's really up to with the kissing, fog horns, and god knows what else John's in store for. Yet here he is, going along with it.
"Found them!" Sherlock cries triumphantly, "They were under the textbooks. Wonder how that happened."
"You're not the only one," John mutters to himself.
Sherlock walks into the kitchen a moment later, running a hand through his hair. John wordlessly hands him his mug of tea. He actively ignores how their fingers brush.
"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes drawing John's in like a south pole to a north.
John feels stranded on a small tropical island as Sherlock's eyes assess him, shining seemingly from within – the way they do when he's being particularly observant.
Seriously, what is with Sherlock lately? Is he doing this, planting ideas in John's mind that refuse to be killed like a magician with his illusions? Or is it John? Is it John that's seeing things that aren't there, because he can't get the bloody idea out of his mind? The idea that's meant to be an act for a case, and not affecting him at all because he's 100% sure what he has with Sherlock isn't like that?
John just doesn't know – and he usually does with these sorts of things – because this is his flatmate, friend and associate. Previously thought to be asexual flatmate, friend and associate but now might just not be. So is it him then, seeing things for some reason he isn't sure he's ready to think about? Or is Sherlock manipulating him for some reason he also doesn't want to think about?
The uncertainty of it all is setting off mini explosions in his brain.
"No problem," John replies in equal volume, hurriedly looking down at his own mug, but he can still feel Sherlock's gaze on him like a brand.
He clears his throat and says, "So what time are we set to be there?"
"Ten," Sherlock says crisply, taking a sip of his tea, his eyes roaming over John's face for a second longer before flicking away.
"Right."
When they've finished their tea, Sherlock dumps his tea mug into the dish–free (thanks to John) sink and gallops down the stairs.
John follows suit.
–––
"Sherlock."
" – is absurd. I don't even like blue! Why on earth would the designer think to add blue flowers and ribbons? I thought white was the traditional colour for these affairs?" Sherlock's voice is filled with scorn.
"Sherlock," John presses.
Sherlock throws a look at John and rolls his eyes, "I refuse to apologize for pointing out incompetency, John."
John shifts back on his heels slightly and raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms at the same time. His expression speaks volumes.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at the smaller man, huffs, and storms off with all the disdain of a snotty teenager.
John heaves a sigh and after apologising to the member of staff, follows Sherlock.
"Sherlock, you can't just go around saying things like that. You heard the manager; it's not their fault they don't have white decorations up yet," John explains with extreme patience.
Sherlock heaves a great sigh, "Yes but this is our rehearsal, John. Although I do suppose it's a bit much to expect people to do their jobs correctly."
John gives a small smile and shakes his head, directing his attention back to the expanse of the hall. There are rows of seats, all facing a raised stage. A wide aisle runs down the middle, marked with a red carpet. The erroneous blue decorations include ribbons linked together with bunches of flowers running down the rows of seats on the aisle side. The same blue adornments run high along the walls.
"Why does it matter what colour the decorations are, anyway?" John mutters, holding one hand in the other behind his back and continuing his perusal of the scene.
"When setting a trap up to catch a rat, cheese is placed in exactly the right position, correct? This is a trap, John, and if the right bait isn't used, or placed in the wrong position, it won't catch the killer," Sherlock rumbles.
John snorts, "Bullshit."
Sherlock jerks his head to look down at the older man, "I … beg your pardon?"
John glances at him and gives a bit of a smirk, "The colour or layout of the decorations won't determine whether the killer will show his face later on. You just want everything to look nice."
It's Sherlock's turn to snort, with a bit more disdain than his companion, "How fanciful of you."
"That wasn't a 'no'," John returns mildly.
Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but the doors to the hall open with a groan, revealing one Molly Hooper. Her face is one better suited for a poker game, but flashes of emotion escape in her eyes as she takes in the hall – which is exactly how John knows that she'd rather be anywhere but here at the moment.
John turns to face Sherlock and says with a warning tone, "Sherlock."
"Molly!" Sherlock cries and claps his hands together in false enthusiasm, making his way forward, "Excellent. Delighted you could make it."
John can feel a pounding in his head as he follows Sherlock. Molly has a small smile on her face as she gives a little wave.
"Hello. Love the decorations," she says, smiling a bit and giving a nervous laugh.
Sherlock gives a wry half–smile.
"Sherlock?" John prompts.
"Ah, of course. Molly's here as a witness, John. Lestrade should be along soon," Sherlock explains.
"I – right, okay, and when were you planning on telling me this?" John tries to keep the tension out of his voice.
"Hardly matters, you know now."
"You – are you serious?" John eyebrows attempt to fly off his head.
Sherlock just blinks at him.
"Sherlock, we talked about this!" John cries, his hands clenching.
Sherlock shoots him a disapproving frown, "Really, John, what did you expect? We couldn't get married in a vacuum. For it to look legitimate, naturally we'd have to have a few witnesses."
John glances at Molly; she looks like she has indigestion and is trying to keep it all down.
"Molly saw us kiss, John. The cat's out of the bag, so to speak," Sherlock gives a false smile.
John swallows hard as Molly away with moist eyes. He feels a stab of remorse, then turns to Sherlock and says through clenched teeth, "Hmm. And I suppose Lestrade knew about this plan all along and he insisted on being a witness."
"Actually, yes. Spot on," Sherlock tilts his head and smirks.
John's temper flares just a tiny bit hotter.
"Sherlock. You could have talked to me first," John says quietly, all bottled-up anger.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him before they widen slightly in realisation, "Ah. Not good?"
"Not good," John confirms tightly.
If John's being honest with himself, he hadn't expected Sherlock to keep his promise of keeping this quiet. It's true they need witnesses so his anger with the man. Perhaps Molly and Lestrade aren't the worst choices Sherlock could have made. Molly does need a bit of a wakeup call, but there could have been nicer ways to break it to her even if Sherlock has never been interested in a relationship with her. He supposes including Lestrade makes sense, because it's best that he's in on the operation in the first place in case of a need for backup. Neither of them are the type to go around gossiping about it, either.
So maybe that last bit is just fervent hope disguised as wishful thinking but there is a chance – however slim it really is. John tries not to feel like he's clinging to that. Mrs Hudson, after all, would have had a field day with this and called up Graham Norton on the way.
The door opens once more to reveal one Greg Lestrade, looking about as smugly amused as John can handle.
"Aw, well don't you two look spiffing," the DI grins before nodding politely at Molly, "Molly."
"Greg, one more word and I'll murder you in your sleep," John warns, fighting valiantly against the heat rising to his face.
Lestrade only winks, eyes glinting, "Not a one."
John only just manages to keep himself from squirming. God, this is all so surreal. Still so surreal. He thought he'd be used to the idea by now, but sometimes the truth hits him unexpectedly, and he has to stop moving until he's absorbed the shock again. This is one of those moments.
He's getting married to his best friend. Married to his best friend. His male, supposedly asexual best friend, who he doesn't have any romantic feelings for. None at all.
Christ, who does that?
He shakes his head slightly as if to shoo away his squeamishness. He seriously needs to get a grip. He can do this without freaking out, he can. They're getting a divorce. It's fine. Why does he care so much anyway? He doesn't need to care so much, he really doesn't. So why does he?
The possibilities on the periphery are too alarming to consciously address. Yet. He'll deal with it once all of this is over.
There's a silence as the four of them watch the small staff drifting around, making small changes in preparation.
"So – are these the suits you'll be wearing on the day?" Molly asks, her voice wavering just a little.
"Not at all. The real suits are still on lay by. 'Can't rush quality', as Mycroft would say," Sherlock sneers.
"I suppose not," Molly gives another little laugh, "You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?"
"It has to look authentic or else the killer won't take the bait," Sherlock says.
"True, but you're getting new suits and everything –"
Sherlock gives a heavy sigh.
" – don't you think you're overdoing it a bit?" Molly continues, giving a watery smile, "I mean, it's not like you two are really getting married."
"Might as well be at this rate," John mutters.
Sherlock either doesn't hear him, or pretends not to.
In a tone one might reserve for speaking calmly to a disobedient child, Sherlock says to Molly, "You are mistaken, Molly – we are really getting married and we are really getting divorced soon after."
Molly draws her eyebrows together, "I didn't mean it literally. I meant that you're not getting married for the normal reason, you know, because you're in love with each other."
John feels his insides writhe at the idea. God, no. He really doesn't want to think about this yet. Nope. He's not doing it. He looks away from them all as if searching for an easy out from the conversation.
"Of course not, Molly. Don't be stupid. John's not gay, as he's said to death," Sherlock says in a perfect Eton voice.
That gives John pause. That isn't that solid of an argument. He's not gay, no, but he is bisexual.
He's known for a while. He'd had a good mate in high school; they'd liked each other, and then they'd really liked each other. A game of cat and mouse had followed – dropped hints, casual touches and blatant flirting – with both of them unsure about who the cat was and who the mouse was. After a drunken kiss, they'd kicked the relationship into top gear. It had flared bright and hot, but like a lighter, it was only a temporary fire. Just the same as the five or so guys he'd dated – if it could even be called that – afterwards.
He's never really had that much luck with women either, but picking up women came more easily to him for no further reason than he felt more amenable towards them when it came to romance, so he had, for the most part, decided to stick with them.
After Afghanistan dating didn't seem like an option, but then Sherlock happened. At first, he had been intrigued by the way he looked. Androgynously attractive with his high cheekbones and luscious cupid's bow lips, John's had privately grovelled and silently thanked Mike Stanford for introducing them, because damn.
Then Sherlock opened his mouth and spouted mystery and magnetism. At Angelo's John really hadn't been thinking about dating the detective. He'd been curious, wanted to get to know this Sherlock Holmes and what he was all about. The anticipation tied to the case had also been at the forefront of his thoughts.
He hadn't been that disappointed to discover that Sherlock was married to his work. Of course not.
Thanks to Sherlock's companionship, he felt as if he had a chance in the dating game again. He'd stuck with the girls, never picking up any guys – perhaps out of paranoia that he might end up picking up ones that remind him of his flatmate. That would be uncomfortable, and surely Sherlock would not take kindly to it if he ever found out about John's straying thoughts. Either way, he's sure that if Sherlock does know he's bisexual, he also knows that John has no intention of randomly making a move on him. John's certain he's made that very clear over their time as flatmates.
Now, it's as if Sherlock has somehow caught on to John's carefully buried, restrained, incarcerated thoughts and feelings and reserved tendencies and is pushing all of his buttons. All of them. Like a bloody two year-old smashing the keys of a piano as adults watch on cooing at how cute it is. They're already closer and far more tactile than normal friends, already spend most of their time with each other, and for God's sake – this case is not helping.
It's the kiss as well. That damn kiss has been on John's mind ever since it happened. It lingers in the air between them, but the worst of it is John can't tell if he's the only one seeing it or if Sherlock can't stop thinking about it either, for whatever reason he might have for thinking about it. Probably scientific curiosity. Definitely scientific curiosity.
Definitely not as much as John has been in any case.
He can't help thinking about the way Sherlock's breath had ghosted over his cheek, how his hands had been warm, so warm, how his lips had been chapped and soft and insistent on John's still ones.
John shivers.
Shit.
A staff member makes his way towards them, and John, for no fathomable reason, tenses up.
"Shall we get started?"