John hadn't slept for so long in months. He woke up bare-chested and sticky, a bleary-eyed glance at the clock telling him it was sometime in the early afternoon. He rolled to the edge of his bed and went stumbling towards the shower, coming to the rather awkward realization that he'd messed himself again in his sleep. He chose not to decipher whatever the wet dream was - it was far too early to sort out what he was feeling towards whom.
The shower was a blur, enough to wake him up and get him clean, and then he was out, and dressed, and pausing at his bedroom door. He didn't want to deal with what the living room looked like. He didn't want to deal with Niles, either. He was an insensitive prick sometimes, for as caring and worried as he could be.
Did you love him? John made a face at the back of the door and grabbed his cane. What a stupid question.
Steeling himself, John opened the door and left the bedroom, his eyes on his footsteps and on his cane. All he would have to do was get across the living room and to the stairwell. He found himself wishing he could be chasing a cab, forgetting his limp and springing across London rooftops like a deer.
With Sherlock, a Nilesian voice in his brain murmured. He pushed the green-haired doctor from his mind - he had no desire for him to be there, complicating thoughts and dreams with his irritating way of getting under people's skin.
The living room was empty when John entered it. Everything had been neatly reorganized and stored, Sherlock's books replaced on their shelves, the furniture repositioned. Niles was out - at work, John assumed - and that was all well and good for the doctor. It struck John how little Niles' moving in had changed the common room. It was almost untouched, Niles having kept his books and things confined to his own bedroom as he had previously promised. The only signs he lived there at all were the teacups he occasionally left on the coffee table, the laptop that sat always precariously perched on the arm of the couch, and the presence of eccentric foods in the refrigerator. Niles, John had discovered one night, had a knack for taking strange meats and making them into something lovely.
"It's goat," he'd told him once, when John was in the middle of devouring a steak he'd cooked up for him. "Braised with some peppers and garlic and a few shallots. Can't overpower the flavor, you know - it's the best part."
John's mind had resisted the idea, but the taste and texture were undeniably wonderful.
"Try this, it's deer stew," he'd said one other time.
"Ever tasted blood sausage, John?"
John set his hands on his hips, staring at a small piece of white paper that had been left on the coffee table, next to Niles' empty coffee cup.
Out. DI said he'd pop by to check in - got some good news. Be home later tonight. - Niles
In retrospect, Niles' insensitivities were few and far between. He had an annoying curiosity when it came to John and his opinions with Sherlock, and John admitted that was a soft spot, but in all other aspects he was a tolerable, even pleasant flat mate. It was certainly refreshing to come home to dinner - when the surgeon wasn't pulling an all-nighter - be made tea every so often, be complemented about his medical work. Niles was likeable. Talking to him had been a tich more pleasant than talking to his damn therapist, besides. John had to talk to someone, and for whatever reason his new flat mate was willing to listen to him.
John collected his phone from beside his laptop and settled into a seat at the desk.
Are you coming by today? Niles mentioned you might. -JW
It was some time until Lestrade answered. He must have been busy at the Yard.
Busy. Come by the office? -Lestrade
John sighed. The frequency with which he followed people's orders was alarming. Come by the office, John. Cover that hill, Captain! Hurry up, we're losing him, John! Put on this bomb vest, Johnny boy! John was a little tired of being ordered around, a little tired of being left behind, a little tired of being a follower.
He came to several conclusions as the taxi picked him up and started him towards Scotland Yard. One, he was going to get what he damn well wanted when he wanted it, because he'd had enough and he deserved it, for God's sake. Two, he was going to find Sherlock Holmes and force him back to Baker Street so he could tell him exactly what he thought of him. (John hadn't quite figured out what he'd say yet, but that was immaterial. It was the thought that counted, right?) Three, he needed a good shag. A good, long, hard shag.
Lestrade was quite surprised when John burst into the office, no pleasantries, no apologies, only a steely commanding glare that winded the detective inspector and left him blinking in his chair. John could be military when he wanted to be, and he was not unhappy with the effect his new attitude was having on the people of the Yard.
"I was told you had good news for me," he said curtly, tilting his head downward and locking the inspector's eyes with his own. It was a Sherlock tactic, but John felt no guilt in using it. John clasped his hands behind his back, standing perfectly straight, back stiff, legs shoulder-width apart. He had left his cane at home and was regretting it, but he wasn't about to show it now.
"Ah - yeah, yeah I did. Are you - " Lestrade frowned and shook his head, evidently deciding not to ask. "Nevermind. We caught the killer last night. A few of our boys came by to let you know, but Dr. Cohen said you were off to bed and not to be bothered." When John only nodded in response, he went on. "He'd been abducting them, hacking them up, tossing the parts in the Thames in garbage bags. We found a few bits and pieces of them all, but the lot of its probably washed downstream."
Lestrade slid a photograph across his desk to the doctor. The man in it was in his fifties, graying, messy hair, a sullen face and bad teeth."Look familiar to you at all?"
"No, never seen him before."
Lestrade sighed.
"Probably just another sod who read the blog and knew you worked with a detective once, then," he said, collecting the photo and stuffing it back into his files. "At any rate, you two haven't got to worry about him any longer. Just be careful, will you? Dr. Cohen's good with the traumatized ones, that's why we took her to him in the first place, and we might do it again in the future, but we'd rather not have the lot of you shot at for it."
"We'll be fine. Was that all?"
The DI was taken aback by John's short answers, John could see it in his face. He looked at him for a moment before nodding and going back to the paperwork on his desk. John shifted on his feet impatiently. He had lost interest in the missing persons case once he had seen the SH, and he wanted to get back to his priorities.
"Yeah, I just wanted to let you know. Look, John, you okay? You're acting off."
John shook his head, turning on his heel to leave. Lestrade was a good-natured man and John felt no particular ill will towards him, but his underlings and his department the doctor had no respect for. It was with a cold shoulder that he would pass by Donovan and Anderson, by their chief and the rest of the gawking, naïve rank and file of the Yard. Their treatment and attitude of Sherlock had been abysmal, and John wouldn't waste his time on any of them.
"I'm fine. Goodbye, inspector," he said, giving Lestrade a nod before disappearing from the department.
John didn't feel like going to work that day. He felt like drinking, and like looking for Sherlock, like taking his frustration out in the form of angry sex - in that order. John took a moment to be shocked at himself. Was he admitting he wanted Sherlock Holmes? He couldn't deny that he enjoyed sleeping with women - the on and off nights with his girlfriends during his time as Sherlock's assistant had been fun enough - but the thought of Sherlock in his robe, Sherlock in his suits, Sherlock in nothing - John felt a familiar tangle in his stomach, noticed his trousers becoming uncomfortable, and mentally succumbed. Yes, he wanted Sherlock Holmes. He checked his watch. It was early, too early for some, but John needed a drink. He couldn't have the detective if he couldn't find him, and he damn well wasn't going to start looking without a shot or two of whiskey to help him along.