The Science Of Seduction
::::::::::
By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
:::
Chapter Six: Why Is The Milk Gone?
:::
It was exactly one week from our return to 221B Baker Street that Detective Inspector Lestrade dropped by, hauling two boxes of files and twelve boxes of evidence into the flat, piling them up until the couch was hidden behind evidentiary battlements. He seemed amused by my (admittedly abridged) account of our vacation to France, which irritated Sherlock immensely. Still, I was glad to have the drama behind us. I should have known better...|
Greg Lestrade was a decent guy. John knew he wanted to comment on the battered velvet hat that Mort was sporting, the long, slightly bent feather just brushing the clock. He probably also wanted to ask about the smiley face plaster on Mort's zygomatic bone. He definitely wanted more information on how they got from the B&B to the airport.
Fortunately, because he was such a decent guy (and probably because he understood the concept of plausible deniability quite well), he simply dumped the last box of files next to the couch and clapped John on the shoulder with a grin.
"Next time, try the Hotel de Vendôme. S'right by the Louvre," he explained off John's quizzical expression. "Nice view, posh rooms, and a marked lack of Russian mobsters." His grin turned mischievous. "Can't make promises about sneaky government employees."
John laughed because a week had gone by, so the whole ordeal seemed much further away and a little hazy. Even that moment in the bathroom, with Sherlock's hands on his skin and their eyes locked heatedly, felt somehow removed, like it was part of a space-time pocket that was out of phase with the rest of the universe.
Ever since they'd returned, Sherlock had been doing his best oyster impression - he had slammed his protective shell shut and only peeked out to steal John's favorite biscuits and to do whatever it was he did with the milk. John had stopped caring, provided he replaced whatever he used.
What John did care about was that Sherlock was not talking to him. It wasn't an angry, I'm-giving-you-the-silent-treatment not-talking. It was a preoccupied not-talking, wherein Sherlock would curl up on the couch and promptly forget the rest of the universe. He could lie like that for days at a time, presumably only uncurling once John had gone to bed. He was tempted to pretend to go to bed, just to spy on his flatmate and make sure he really was eating something. Only the thought of getting caught made him think twice about it.
Even so, as he smiled at the sounds of Sherlock shuffling around behind the box fortress, John trudged into the kitchen to cobble together a meal that Sherlock wouldn't have to heat up after John turned in.
He knew it was dangerous, caring so much about a man like Sherlock. He also knew that he could spend all day, every day catering to the detective's whims, giving everything he had and getting nothing in return, and he would do so happily. It was a terrifying realization, the idea that so much of him, of who he was and who he had become, was Sherlock. God, how had he fallen so far, so hard, and not noticed sooner?
It was another week before Sherlock would speak to John, and it couldn't have been under more perfect, more inappropriate circumstances.
At that point, John was ready to break something, anything. He was confused by Sherlock's sudden urge to live inside his own brain. He had tried several times to start a conversation, and the most he got was a distracted "hmm?" There was a distinct lack of Jaffa Cakes in the flat, and the milk kept vanishing, whole gallons at a time, and John had to go and get it because Sherlock was so mired in his own thoughts that John was surprised he was able to dress himself. So when Lestrade had called, dragging Sherlock out of his own mind somewhat, John had hoped that it would be enough to get the man to respond to his questions again.
But no. Sherlock's incredible eyes remained unfocused, his face blank, and John was left having a very one-sided conversation with him in the cab on the way to the crime scene. To say that he was nearing the end of his rope would be a gross understatement. He was dangling at the end of his rope, slowly strangling to death while the hangman pointed and laughed and the crowd tittered amongst themselves.
When Sherlock neglected to comment on Sergeant Donavan's usual greeting of "Hello, Freak," John's face twisted into a scowl. Even more upsetting was that Donavan then turned to him and raised one eyebrow, as if to say 'I told you so.'
Small-minded, plebian bastards, he thought coldly.
It was bewildering when, upon reaching the body, Sherlock greeted Lestrade with a sharp nod. He focused on the corpse, listening to the D.I. explain the circumstances, responding when asked a question, teasing poor Lestrade in that egotistical way of his. John looked on, pretending he didn't care that it was Lestrade that Sherlock spoke his first words in two weeks to. He pretended it didn't bother him when he declared Sherlock's deductions "incredible" and Sherlock didn't so much as grunt in acknowledgement.
But when Sherlock straightened up from his examination and proceeded to walk away, his eyes passing over John as though he wasn't even there, it hurt. It was like being stabbed in the heart with a red-hot knife, leaving him breathless and nauseated. Sherlock was treating him like he'd treated Donavan, ignoring him as though he was nothing. It hurt.
What did I do wrong, John thought vaguely, aware that people were milling about, trying to do their jobs around him, and not caring. He couldn't move yet, because if he did, he was sure his knees would give out. And Sherlock was still walking away briskly, not a care in the world, and why should he care? John was nothing to him, meant nothing to him.
Numbly, John turned, trying to take a breath as he stumbled in the same general direction that Sherlock had taken, as though the taller man had him on a leash that had pulled taut, dragging his lapdog along behind him. Suddenly, fury welled up inside him, righteous fury that blossomed out from the smoldering hole where his heart had been, roaring through his veins. His fingers tingled, his breath coming in sharp, harsh gasps. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he knew the look on his face must have been terrible.
No. I'm not that man. I have no one to blame but myself for this; I will not take this out on those around me.
It was a struggle, trying to draw that fire back into himself; it left frigid, icy cold in its path, which only made John feel sicker. He wasn't like the other people, the people who lashed out at Sherlock for being himself. He had known what he was risking, handing Sherlock so much control. He could not, would not, be angry at the detective for something that wasn't his fault.
Unfortunately, that was precisely the moment Anderson decided to open his big mouth.
"Christ, Holmes, you've pissed off your little girlfriend. Figures; it's about time he dumped you."
Both John and Sherlock froze, turning to face the sneering man in an eerily synchronized motion.
"But then, you had to know it'd happen sooner or later. Freaks like you don't have friends," Anderson spat.
It was two steps from John to Anderson, and he crossed it in a flash as the blaze of rage escaped his tight control, eating through him in a flash and focusing itself in his swinging fist.
When he next blinked, Anderson was sprawled out on the ground, blood gushing from his nose and his eyes staring up at John in shock.
Chest heaving, eyes glinting at the prone man coldly, John growled. "Shut. Up."
Then there was a hand at his elbow, tugging him away from the scene in quite a hurry as Lestrade shouted after them. The rushing had left his ears, replaced by an irritating ringing, and his knuckles throbbed, but it was better than the foul feeling of unstoppable violence building inside.
He felt empty now, as though everything he had inside had rushed out when he'd...God, he'd punched Anderson. He'd assaulted a member of law enforcement. He could be arrested. He could go to prison.
A giggle burst from his throat, followed by another, and another, until he was clutching his stomach and practically screaming with hysterical laughter. Through his tears, he could see a pair of black Converse sneakers shuffling awkwardly, and it only made him laugh harder. What was wrong with him?
"Sherlock," he wheezed, trying to stifle his laughter, and succeeding for the most part, save for the occasional snort of mirth, "what have you done to me?"
As he caught his breath, he glanced up to see Sherlock looking at him, truly looking at him, his expression just as unreadable as it had been for the past two weeks, save for a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth. John could almost see the thoughts flickering in Sherlock's gaze, shuttering in rapid succession like an exquisite strobe light.
Then he really smiled, and said "good shot," in such a soft, almost disbelieving voice that for a moment John wasn't sure he'd said it.
Suddenly, all the empty spaces in John were filled with warmth and relief and Sherlock, and the charred wound in his chest knit back together, and his heart began to beat again.
All he could say was, "It's good to see you again."
They didn't talk in the cab on the way home, but it wasn't empty silence. John nursed his bruised hand while he pretended Sherlock wasn't studying him in the reflection of the window. The atmosphere was comfortable, normal, and John hadn't realized just how tense he'd been for the last fortnight until it all started melting away.
About halfway through the ride back, Sherlock reached over and took John's tender hand in both of his. Long, pale fingers pressed against John's knuckles lightly, testing the bruises gently, as John stared at the curly head bent over in concentration. His heart was fluttering, and his mouth went dry when Sherlock's fingertips brushed his palm. He hoped fervently that his feelings didn't show on his face when Sherlock's eyes met his again, softer and warmer than he ever remembered them being.
"Shall I kiss it better?"
Blinking, John cleared his throat. "Er...what?"
"My mother always asked that. I confess, I'm certain that pressing one's lips to a wound is neither sanitary nor particularly anesthetic, but the gesture is supposedly effective amongst the general population."
"Ah." John tried to smile. "No, I think paracetamol and tea will suffice, but I appreciate the sentiment."
"Hm," his flatmate hummed, brushing a thumb over John's knuckles once more before retreating back to his side of the cab.
John spent the rest of the ride attempting to slow his heart rate and quash any nurse!Sherlock fantasies that tried to make themselves known.
Over the next couple days, Sherlock made a point of curling up on the couch with John to watch whatever program John chose, near enough that their knees sometimes touched, and the back of Sherlock's hand would occasionally brush John's thigh. He would sit next to John at the table when they ate together, elbows knocking as they stole morsels from each others' plates. Sometimes, when John was dusting or putting away dishes, Sherlock would make excuses to pass just too close, bump into him, press him up against a counter or wall for only a moment, but a glorious moment in John's mind.
Perhaps he was doing it to make up for the two weeks of silence. Perhaps he was simply experimenting. The first thought made John smile, while the second made him feel queasy. There was a third thought, though, that made his stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.
Maybe, he thought secretly, not even daring to whisper it to Mort, maybe he likes touching me.
Whatever his reasons, John was pleased with this new, tactile side of Sherlock, and he hoped it stuck around.
Several days after the tragic meeting of his fist and Anderson's nose, Lestrade called both Sherlock and John down to New Scotland Yard, and he sounded more stressed than usual.
"He's not gonna let this go, Dr. Watson. You'd better come down."
Amid frantic finger-tapping and panicked thoughts about soap-dropping, Sherlock reached out and placed a gloved hand at the back of John's neck, digging his fingers in slightly and kneading the tension away.
"Nothing is going to happen, John. I won't let them send you to prison. Who would I find to write such glowing reports of my 'going-ons'?"
John laughed in a slightly breathy manner, too much of his brain focused on the way Sherlock was stroking just under his ear to truly appreciate the joke. It wasn't until they were well inside the Yard, at the door to Lestrade's office, that John sent Sherlock a grin. "'Going-ons', really? Don't you know your grammar, Sherlock?"
Whatever the detective was going to say was drowned out by Anderson's angry, somewhat stuffy-sounding rant.
"-and completely unacceptable! He assaulted a law enforcement officer! I demand that he be brought up on charges!"
"Don't be a fool, Anderson. Not," Sherlock drawled as he swept into the room, coat fluttering behind him like a superhero's cape, "that you can really help it."
My hero, John thought, fighting down a giggle.
As though he'd read John's mind, Sherlock glanced back at him, eyes twinkling mischievously.
Anderson was standing beside the D.I.'s desk, arms crossed, much of his face obscured by the splint over his nose. Not, John felt privately, that this was a bad thing. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight of it.
Lestrade broke through Anderson's sputtering to ask the pair to sit. He sighed as they did so, shuffling a few official-looking papers distractedly before speaking. "I know you know why I called you, Dr. Watson. Anderson would like to press charges for assault, due to an alleged incident where you punched him in the nose in an unprovoked, violent manner on the night of August third-"
"Alleged!"
Lestrade raised one eyebrow. "Well, we do generally find people innocent until proven guilty, Anderson. And you have yet to produce any eyewitnesses-"
"You were there," the man spat, face going red as he slammed his fist on Lestrade's desk. To his credit, the D.I. neither flinched nor leaned back, simply raising his eyebrow further until Anderson backed up again.
"And, as I've told you repeatedly, I didn't see the incident. Therefore, I'm not an eyewitness."
Practically hissing in anger, Anderson bristled. "Morgan and DeWitt!"
"Photographing evidence."
"Jameson!"
"Talking to the victim's brother-in-law-"
"He's the culprit," Sherlock butted in, his eyes focused on Lestrade. There was a tell-tale crinkling of his brow that told John that he was confused.
John was anything but. He was watching Lestrade, overwhelmed with gratitude. The man was lying, had to be. And it was more than that, because there had to have been fifteen, perhaps twenty people at the crime scene, and as Anderson listed them, Lestrade confirmed that all of them had been doing anything but watching John break the insufferable forensics expert's nose. It wasn't the sort of loyalty he'd been expecting, but it was warming, nonetheless.
"Donavan! Sally was there, she was right behind me!"
A cold knot formed in the pit of John's stomach. Sally Donavan. She would never lie for John, not when he so pointedly disagreed with her on everything to do with Sherlock. Surely, surely...
"She was flagging footprints at the time. Anderson, I've already questioned everyone who was there, I did it as soon as you filed the complaint. You know that, I documented it all, you've read it all. There were no witnesses, Anderson."
"This is outrageous!"
"Perhaps," Sherlock said coolly, not even dignifying Anderson with a withering glare, "this would be a good time to remind everyone that without any credible witnesses, any trial will surely end with all charges being dismissed."
Lestrade shrugged, tapping his pen absentmindedly. "I explained all of this to Anderson, but he's insistent that we go ahead with the charges."
Sherlock's face twisted into a scowl, only for a second, but it was enough to make Anderson put a chair between them.
John cleared his throat. "I would like to take this opportunity to protest my innocence."
Three pairs of eyes fixed on him, identically incredulous expressions on their faces. If he needed any evidence that Lestrade knew perfectly well that he'd assaulted Anderson, that would have been it. Both he and Sherlock knew perfectly that John Watson was a terrible liar. Anderson seemed to know it as well, because he was starting to look triumphant.
Best to nip that in the bud.
"Go ahead, then, doctor," Lestrade said, tossing his pen down, no doubt thinking that John was about to throw away all the work he'd done to get him out of this.
Clearing his throat, John shrugged. "Well, all I can really say is that, on the night of August the third, I did not, in any way imaginable, attack Anderson in an unprovoked manner."
There was a brief silence.
"No," Sherlock said suddenly, smiling his Pan-Am smile, reserved specially for instances where he was getting under the skin of terribly dull people. "Of course you didn't, John. No doctor with your principles would ever attack someone for no reason."
Anderson scowled, opening his mouth before realization dawned. He snapped his mouth shut, brow furrowing as he tried to work out some way to get John in trouble without admitting to intentionally provoking him.
Get out of that, you smarmy bastard, John thought.
Another long silence ensued, before Anderson threw his hands up. "Fine! Fine! If you want to just pretend that you haven't got two violent psychopaths running around unchecked, apparently with the full support of the law, that's fine! But don't think this is over," he snarled, slamming the door behind him as he left.
Lestrade smiled fully, his shoulders relaxing. "Well, that was fun."
After a brief lecture on what would happen should John attack someone in the future - not that he ever would, of course, but just in case - Lestrade waved them off, picking up the phone to obtain a warrant for the brother-in-law. As they made their way from the station, they bumped into Sally Donavan, who spat a half-hearted "freak" at Sherlock and nodded briefly at John.
Once they were ensconced in the cab, John let out a relieved breath, bumping shoulders with Sherlock. "Thanks for the backup."
"What are partners for?"
Smiling hard enough to hurt, John laughed. They spent most of the cab ride in comfortable silence, occasionally broken by John giggling over Anderson's splint, or Sherlock deducting that Sally's defense of John was because she genuinely liked him - the fact that Anderson's wife had come home again recently had just been the clincher.
They were just hanging up their coats when Sarah called.
Guilt gnawed at John as he chatted lightly with his girlfriend. She was worried, having tried to call him several times over the past few days, and more than a little put out. Since the last time he'd neglected to take her calls was during a certain international non-incident, he didn't blame her.
"No, sorry, I was in the middle of an...issue."
"Would I be reaching if I assumed it had something to do with your flatmate?"
John winced, aware of Sherlock raising an eyebrow at him from between stacks of evidence boxes. "Er, no. Not reaching, I mean. Yes, that's...yes."
She sighed, creating that odd static that made John wince. "You know it'll always be like this with him, don't you? You need to start putting your foot down."
"Yes. I mean, no, it wasn't his fault." Here Sherlock's brows drew together in a petulant scowl. He knew exactly what Sarah was saying, and John felt a bit like a piece of rope in the middle of a tug-of-war. "I...there was an incident at a crime scene, see, that was entirely my fault, and I've just been getting things sorted."
He chose not to mention that the incident had been days ago.
"Are you okay," she asked, switching from exasperated to concerned in the blink of an eye.
"Yes, fine."
As the conversation progressed, John couldn't help but get distracted by the way Sherlock was stretching out along the couch, flipping through a folder of postmortem notes. He had shucked his jacket off as soon as they'd got in, and the sleeves of his deep blue shirt had been rolled up, buttons undone at the throat. He looked so comfortable, his eyes half-shut as he glanced over the pages, and John was suddenly overcome with the urge to stretch out on top of him, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, listening to his heart beat.
"John? Are you still there?"
"Er, what? Yes. Sorry, it's been a long day," he said with a half-hearted chuckle.
"Right." Another sigh, and John cringed. Couldn't she have just texted him? "I'll call you tomorrow then."
"Sounds good."
"Love you," she said lightly, as she always did, citing her dislike for the word 'goodbye'.
"Love you, too," he responded automatically.
The sound of a folder hitting the floor with a pointed smack cut across the dial tone in his ear, and he glanced over to watch Sherlock curl up onto his side, back to John, a photo of a dismembered corpse in hand.
The image stuck with him as he lay in bed that night, tossing and turning and entirely unable to turn his brain off. Was this what it was like for Sherlock all the time? A million thoughts, hardly any of them making sense? Images, sounds, sensations, all crowding in and trying to make themselves known? There was something about them, these disjointed pictures, this static-filled audio, that would make perfect sense if he could just put it together the right way around.
Groaning, John hurled himself onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Why should he care if Sherlock didn't like Sarah? Well, yes, it made John feel a bit giddy, the thought that Sherlock might be jealous, but that was one of the more ridiculous thoughts John had entertained lately.
There was no point in agonizing over it, though, so John sighed heavily and crawled out of bed. A glass of water and he would be right as rain.
As he inched down the steps, not wanting to intrude on Sherlock's sulking and end up on the wrong end of a cutting remark, he became aware of a warm light emanating from the kitchen. Grinning to himself, John stamped hard on the urge to giggle. Hadn't he once thought about spying on Sherlock to make sure he was eating something besides John's biscuits? Well, he could hardly pass up an opportunity like this.
Peering around the doorjamb, John first thought that Sherlock was performing some sort of heinous experiment with John's saucepan. It took another moment, and Sherlock mumbling "no, no, it smelled more...more" as he added a piece of semisweet chocolate to his concoction, for the truth to dawn on John.
Sherlock was making hot chocolate.
John spied the milk carton on the counter beside the stove, milk he'd just purchased, and pieces clicked together in his mind. He remembered the night they'd gotten home from the hospital, Sherlock still aching and bandaged, John sporting a knee brace. Sherlock had immediately gone to sleep on the couch, industrial-strength painkillers knocking him out almost before he could lie down. John, unable to sleep properly, had spent a few fitful hours in his armchair, alternating between watching Sherlock sleep and jerking out of half-awake nightmares.
Finally, he'd shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a cup of hot chocolate. It was a recipe his mother had handed down to him, the same recipe she'd used to make it for him when he'd been awakened by nightmares as a child. Just the smell of it warmed him from the inside out, and the surreal feeling of sitting in the brightly-lit kitchen on his mother's lap, warm and happy while the rest of the world was dark and cold was a memory he cherished.
Halfway through his drink, Sherlock had come in, question in his eyes, and John had made him a cup, as well.
"Hot chocolate melts monsters and chases nightmares away. Even the worst little ghoulies are smothered with just a sip."
The words his mother had repeated to him time and again had sounded a bit silly when directed at the lanky genius, but Sherlock had simply finished his hot chocolate, thanked John, and gone back to the couch. Never once had John imagined that it had truly comforted the man.
A frustrated growl drew him back into the present, and he sighed loudly, making Sherlock jerk around, nearly braining him with a saucepan full of boiling chocolate. Once he was certain that he wasn't about to get a face full of the confection, John took the pan and rinsed it out.
"Watch me," he murmured quietly, loathe to break the quiet atmosphere.
As he worked, he was distinctly aware of Sherlock's presence behind him, warm breath tickling his ear as the taller man peered over his shoulder. While they watched the chocolate melting, John felt Sherlock's hands come to rest on his hips, fingers pressing down the way they had when Sherlock had rubbed his neck in the cab earlier.
They stood like that as John stirred his concoction and Sherlock observed keenly, as he always did, bodies not quite touching in a way that was somehow more intimate than if they had been pressed together. When the chocolate was finished, John poured it into two mugs, pushing his back against Sherlock's chest to urge him to back up. There was a tense moment of hesitation before he complied, allowing John to move their treats to the table.
The kitchen was silent, filled with the glow of the stove light and the smell of cocoa, and John leaned against Sherlock, melting away monsters, chasing away nightmares, smothering all the little ghoulies that filled his thoughts and his heart. Sherlock relaxed bit by bit, clutching his mug tightly and staring into its depths. Maybe, John thought, he had ghoulies that needed smothering, too.
They sat for a long time, even after their mugs were empty, filled with a warmth that went beyond sugar and milk, safe in their own little bubble as the rest of the world slept.
It seemed like such a small thing to me at the time, sharing that bit of my childhood with Sherlock. That night, discovering that Sherlock had been trying for months to recreate the feeling of comfort he'd gained from one cup of cocoa, made me feel both touched and melancholy. I wished he'd trusted me more, let his guard down enough to simply ask, but Sherlock Holmes did not ask for help easily, much less comfort. Perhaps I should have known then, practically cuddled up to him in the kitchen, that everything I had thought I wanted was about to crumble around me. Perhaps I should have realized that it had started crumbling the moment I met Sherlock Holmes...
:::
To Be Continued...
:::
A/N - Wow!
I was not expecting this chapter to be so long! =3 It's amazing what can develop. I already have the synopsis for each chapter planned out, but I hadn't predicted that there'd be so much I needed to put in here...
Well, at least we know where all the milk is going. Perhaps now they can manage to make a carton stretch for more than a day or two!
Who else wanted to cheer when John punched Anderson?
*waves pocket watch back and forth in front of readers* You are getting sleeepyyyy...and when you wake up, you will want to revieeewwww...
Songs for this chapter: 'Kitten Is Angry' (Lemon Demon) and 'Hurricane' (Panic! at the Disco).
Peace.
Akiko