Sorry I'm updating this kind of late. I had a class party thing that you really don't care about so here. *throws fanfiction at you*

Chapter 8 – Johann Sebastian

Some of you may be hoping I start this bit by saying I chased after Sherlock and shagged him dry.

I didn't.

Even if I had wanted to (which I'm not saying I did), I'm not sure it would have been possible at that moment in time. I mean, I was dying a minute before, had been tortured, and I'd been drugged. I have valid excuses.

The kiss…well, The Kiss had been more or less monumental. And horribly revealing, I believe. It also left me awfully confused, on so many levels. Where do I even start? Straight man, previously assumed asexual man, near-death experience, last-minute rescue...

A large part of me is inclined to believe it was just the prospect of losing me hitting Sherlock hard in the face with a frying pan that caused him to lip-assault me like that. But honestly, Sherlock Holmes lip locking? I had never even allowed myself to imagine it. The man is so detached.

He had surprisingly soft, warm lips, though.

And really, isn't that part of my problem? I've been dating and sleeping with women my entire life. (Okay, so maybe there was that one time in Afghanistan, but I was horny and a man only has so many options in the middle of the desert and…I'll just leave it at that.) Then Sherlock had kissed me, and it was different. Completely different. And I'm not talking stubble-burn-in-the-morning or oh-god-it-has-a-penis different. It was emotionally explosive. And that's just a bit too cliché, so please ignore that sentence.

It makes me slightly uncomfortable with myself, honestly. A heterosexual man in his early forties suddenly realizing he has feelings for another man? Does that even happen? Well, I suppose it does, of course. But this is me, and the other man is Sherlock. It makes it feel like so much more uncharted territory, because there has never been a John Watson and Sherlock Holmes before us.

Minutes after Sherlock fled the scene, Lestrade arrived with an ambulance and I had been forced to endure the rest of the evening in A&E. It had been exhausting, and Sherlock hadn't even bothered to come with me. Despite some light pain medication, I hadn't been able to sleep well that night.

The next day had been slightly tense at first, almost as if we were both trying to feel each other out. I had been up for several hours before Sherlock snuck out of his room.

Slipping a look his direction over my coffee mug, I watched as he fluttered about the flat in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His bare feet were silent against the creaky wooden floors in a way that almost had me checking my ears. No one else could move that quietly around a flat as old as this.

At first, he refused to look in my direction as he began the setup on one of his experiments, but after a bit, he began giving me little peeks whenever he thought I wasn't looking. I always was.

I'm about eighty-nine percent sure that during one of those shared looks, a silent agreement was made.

So we ignored what had happened.

The murderer's motive had been quite simple and typical, actually, much to Sherlock's disappointment (though he never said as much out loud, probably because I had almost been drowned by said murderer). Mrs. Rochester's son, Harold, had killed her for his inheritance that he assumed he would receive through her will. However, the money had gone to the younger daughter, Abigale. He had been furious, but probably wouldn't have killed his sister if she hadn't found out the truth about their mother's death. The bastard had been bleeding-from-his-ears wealthy for about a day before Sherlock caught him.

Apparently, Mrs. Hudson wears the same scent as Mrs. Rochester had.

The detective had really scrambled the guy's brains when he knocked Harold out. He had to be taken to the hospital to check for severe head trauma.

I didn't really care.

Sherlock and I gave Lestrade our statements and pushed the entire incident out of our thoughts.

Water.

Splashing.

A door.

A muffled voice.

"I don't know."

John.

Death.

Crime.

Criminal.

Consulting Criminal.

"You're insane."

"You've gotta admit that's sexier."

"Off you pop."

"You're just getting that now?"

"Thank you."

"I may be on the side of the angels…"

"You're ordinary."

"…but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"Aren't ordinary people adorable?"

"You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

"Your friends will die if you don't."

"What…would you like me…to make him say…next?"

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"You're insane."

"Gottle o' geer."

"Stop it."

"I gave you my number."

"Gottle o' geer."

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket…"

"Gottle o' geer."

"…or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Did I really make such a fleeting impression?"

"Doofus!"

"Don't be silly."

"Gottle o' geer."

Stop it!

"I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"I'm a specialist, you see…"

"Gottle o' geer."

"…like you!"

"Gottle o' geer."

STOP IT!

"You're me!"

"Dear Jim…"

"Consulting criminal."

"Johann Sebastian would be appalled."

Consulting criminal.

Brilliant.

"Brilliant."

"Now you're in my way!"

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear."

"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."

"Although, I have loved this."

"I will stop you."

"Easy-peasy."

"This little game of ours."

So don't you dare mention games, John.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy."

"That's what people DO!"

Everyone.

"Boring!"

"People have died."

"I told you how this ends."

"Sherlock, run!"

"Good, very good."

"…The man with the key is king."

"Isn't he sweet?"

Everyone.

"They're so touchingly loyal."

"Oh, let me guess."

"Sherlock, run!"

Everyone.

"I get killed."

"I'll burn you."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"I'll burn the heart out of you."

"Oh, Christ."

Everyone.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock."

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool."

"Westwood!"

Everyone.

"But we both know that's not quite true."

"The fall."

"That…thing that you did…"

"Goodbye, John."

Falling's just like flying.

"And honey, you should see me in a crown."

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"No, you won't!"

Except there's a more permanent destination.

"I'm fine."

"Are you alright?"

IOU.

"Sherlock."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Fine."

Gottle o' geer.

"People might talk."

"Sherlock!"

"People do little else."

Gottle o' geer.

"I'm sooo changeable!"

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

Gottle o' geer.

"You can't be allowed to continue."

Gottle o' geer.

"I'll burn the heart out of you."

Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer…

STOP IT!

Eyes open.

Reach for weapon.

Pause.

No immediate threat.

Rushing heartbeat.

Listen.

Sherlock.

I'm already down the stairs before I realize what I've even heard, ignoring the aches from my assault two days prior. I think it was a scream, though it could have been a name. Or anything, really.

Sherlock's door is closed, and a distant part of me is surprised that the man actually decided to sleep. Before I can second-guess if this is the right thing to do, I open the door and step inside.

The detective is sitting up, hands braced behind him, breathing heavily and panicked. His legs are twisted tightly in the sheets and his hair is sweaty and disheveled. It's hard to tell in the dark, but for a disorienting moment I think he's shaking. His head jerks in my direction when he hears me.

"John." His eyes are huge.

I step a bit closer. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

He shakes his head viciously. I nearly stop breathing as I watch him reach out a long arm until his trembling fingertips barely rest on my stomach.

We stay there for several minutes. I can hear Sherlock's unsteady inhales and exhales as he drops his head forward.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes." He presses his palm flat against my abdomen where I have a dark bruise from being shoved over the edge of the tub.

No Obviously, John. Just Yes.

In all the times I had been plagued by nightmares, I had never imagined Sherlock having the same problem. Did he struggle in his sleep when he was away? I swallow heavily. Did he ever wake up screaming in a dank hotel room in some dodgy part of a city? Did the darkness of the room swallow him, make him feel captured in a spider's web of terror?

Slowly, not wanting to alarm the terrified detective, I wrap my hand around the delicate wrist close to my body.

"It's okay."

His shoulders shudder, curls quivering against his forehead. It takes me a moment to realize he's laughing. Bitter. Empty. Hollow.

"It's really not," he says.

His fingers suddenly fist into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer until his forehead rests on my chest. I can feel his hot breaths through the thin fabric as he slowly gets hold of himself.

I squeeze his wrist lightly. "You're home now, Sherlock. It really is."

With a heavy sigh, he curls his other hand into the shirt above my hip. "You didn't need to check on me."

"Of course I did."

"I don't need you here," he murmurs into my stomach.

We're still there when the sun creeps in through the window and caresses us with its golden touch.

"Tell me you've never fancied ventriloquism."

I glance up from my laptop. Sherlock has his legs crossed, resting the bow back across his shoulder as he cradles his violin. "I think any fancy for it was effectively extinguished at the pool with Moriarty." I shake my head. "Gottle o' geer isn't quite so amusing anymore."

Sherlock's entire frame snaps up as if pulled by an invisible string and he looks at me, alarmed. His is the face of one who has just witnessed a ghost.

Oh.

Sorry for the filler-ish chapter. Hopefully we're getting closer to some more substantial things. ;)

Also, I apologize if the Moriarty stuff is just really getting over-milked. I promise it's not going to be all Moriarty-centric like this.

Reviews appreciated. :) -C