A/N: Remember how I said I'd reply to all your reviews? I'm a lazy sod. There's so much going on in my life right now and it's hectic, but I'm lazy. I owe you all a thousand apologies. Do take note that I do read them all, even if I don't reply. Chances are you had me squealing and my mind floating on a marshmallow cloud of happiness. So thank you, all of you. It means so much that you take the time to tell me what you think. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Chapter 8: The Pass
John types up most of what's happened on the case so far, saving it as a draft to add to when it's over. He has no idea if he will actually publish it, however; it seems to be getting a bit more personal than he would prefer to have published.
Too personal for his own blog, now that's something.
He cleans up the flat a bit; scrubs and puts away the dirty dishes, puts the laundry in to wash and then dry, dusts the flat. He tries starting a novel, but a few pages in, he finds himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over and each time having no idea of what he's just read.
By then it's too late for lunch, so he makes himself a proper meal for an early dinner. Getting himself comfortable in his chair, he mechanically eats the bowl of spaghetti bolognese whilst staring at the flickering TV screen.
His phone chimes and he picks it up off the armrest to read the text.
Analysing data. Don't wait up – SH
He places the phone back down without replying, and continues staring at the TV screen. Minutes later he sighs, and decides he's had enough crap telly for one day.
He's not surprised to find that his mind resistant to the rest his body craves as he tries to fall asleep. He tosses and turns and fazes in and out of consciousness for hours before giving up and going downstairs to make himself a cup of tea.
John grabs the kettle and fills it before setting it to boil. He takes a mug from the pile of freshly cleaned crockery and plonks it onto the kitchen bench. Fishing a teabag out from the box in the cupboard – thankfully untouched by Sherlock's antics – he puts it in the mug.
Waiting for the kettle to finish whistling, he goes over his strategy. First thing he's going to do when Sherlock comes through the door: ask questions about the case. He'll ask about the research, about what's really expected of him on the day, about everything to do with the case he can think of. Basic recon. Then, he'll analyse anything that doesn't seem to fit, that smells like a rat, that is not like Sherlock. Then he'll examine these oddities and go from there.
John glances at his mobile, pressing one of the buttons to light up the screen. Five hours since Sherlock texted.
No matter that John is convincing himself that he's going to get to the bottom of this mess with minimal damage, he feels just the same as when he was 13 and dared to kiss his first crush in front of all his friends. Which is absurd, because this is Sherlock – his best mate, and he shouldn't feel this way. He wouldn't have felt this way about confronting Sherlock on his not-goodness before the man proposed.
No matter how emotionally inept the genius might be, it's not like he's going to run away screaming, "Gross! Coodies!" at the mention of feelings.
Just the image is enough to make John giggle out loud, and if it sounds a bit hysterical, he ignores it.
Sipping at his tea, he stares at the grainy kitchen bench and nothing at all.
John, being a soldier, has plenty of patience. It's a learned virtue from his time in the army. There's patience involved when waiting for orders to move out, to observe, to fire. There's plenty of waiting around too; these times filled with loud joviality from his mates and hushed noises of the desert around them. All this has transferred to his life with Sherlock – the waiting, waiting, waiting and then with the eventual, precise crack, they'd be off and running through winding alleyways, running from criminals, running against the clock.
This is no different. Well, aside from the sore lump in his throat, the wretched tightness in his chest and his trembling hands.
He places the mug down on the bench, the remaining tea sloshing around in protest. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.
A technique that helped lull him to sleep when out in the desert, staring at the insides of his eyelids, comes to mind. It's a self-distracting thought process. He would listen to the sounds around him, focus on them and only on them. He wouldn't think about what was making them, or what they meant, or anything about them. He would just listen, listen to how loud or soft they were, how jarring or melodic, how brief or strenuous, and all variations thereof. It would help calm him enough to slip into unconsciousness.
He'd used it again and again after returning from Afghanistan. He had waited for the nightmares to fade into the recesses of his mind, and with his heart was still racing, his skin too hot and tight and sticky and his nerves still jangling, he would use this technique. \
He uses it now.
He hears honking, an approaching then receding and repeating roar, a drip, drip, drip. He hears scratching, yowling, scuttling. He hears whirring drawing nearer and then stopping, a dull thump, whirring receding. He hears a slam, close by, then smaller thumps drawing closer, and then a jarring crash.
John's eyes spring open. The door to the landing. Oh.
Sherlock.
John turns and walks into the living room to appraise the detective. Sherlock glances over John, eyes flicking from head to toe and back as he removes his gloves and coat and hangs them up. John notices Sherlock seems deliberate in his movements. They're quick and agile, but there's a tightness to his jaw and a set in his shoulders that has John thinking of iron bars and impending doom.
"Sleeping well?" Sherlock asks lightly.
John raises an eyebrow, "No. But you know that."
"No, I noticed," Sherlock corrects, mouth pulling into a slight sneer.
John pinches the bridge of his nose and controls his breathing.
"Sherlock. We need to talk," John begins steadily, crossing his arms and clearing his throat.
"What about?" Sherlock walks past John and flops onto the couch, lying on his back and settling into his thinking pose.
"This - this case," John frowns at his flatmate.
Sherlock is a master of distractions and playing people. He does what he has to, no matter how immoral the action. John sighs and revises his strategy.
John says it straight, "There's something you're not telling me."
"There are plenty of things I'm not telling you," Sherlock murmurs, staring up at the ceiling, the tips of his fingers grazing and tugging on his bottom lip so his mouth parts slightly.
John's eyes stray to the movement. He runs his tongue over his own lips and shifts where he stands.
"Right. Well. Whatever you're leaving out about this case, you need to tell me. I might be stupid but I'm not blind, Sherlock," John says, forcing his gaze back to Sherlock's eyes, "The more I know about what's going on, the more prepared I'll be."
Silence deafens the flat. John watches Sherlock's chest rising and falling, and so notices when he freezes, his hands also stilling. The detective has his eyes focused on something John can't see.
John grinds his teeth in exasperation.
"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?"
"John," Sherlock says, sitting up slowly and turning to look at him with a burning epiphany in his eyes, "We need to have sex."