I warned you this chapter would be long. Chapter beta'd by gbheart :)
Chapter 8 - Dopamine
Sherlock did not do physical intimacy. He did sex, and the preparation that led up to sex, but that excluded many things. Sherlock did kissing minimally; it was too affectionate and seemed to be the basis of a continued, intimate relationship. Sherlock did not do fellatio in any capacity, meaning on another man or having it done on himself, nor cunnilingus. He knew how to finger both a woman and a man to prepare them for sex. He could do so with either intense pleasure in mind, or just to stretch and make sure that they were ready. He had reasons for all the minimal extra touching, mainly based on his own ideals on the subject, but barely anyone appeared to understand them. Their lack of understanding hardly mattered; he had limits and things he didn't do, like everyone did.
Coincidentally, hugging was one of those things he never did.
Hugging was something he observed quite often, seeing as he was often at the scene of something lamentable. People hugged as a method of comfort. First there was often shock, then tears, and finally hugging. Sometimes it was just a reassuring touch on the shoulder, possibly a chaste kiss on the forehead, but the most common form of comfort was hugging. He supposed that was the same principle with shock blankets, when they weren't being used to maintain body heat or being wrapped around someone with serious wounds. They were meant to symbolise that same warm comfort or, at least, that was how he understood the principle of it. He did not see the appeal of a horrifically orange blanket being draped over his shoulders. If anything, it was humiliating. Surely that wasn't a feeling that having arms wrapped around you was meant to inspire.
Sherlock didn't do physical intimacy. He couldn't picture him and Mycroft hugging. Their relationship was too impersonal. There was some sort of caring between them, one sorely tried by his drug addiction, but they never sought to express that physically. He and Mrs Hudson touched occasionally, something born out of his respect for her strength, when he'd helped sentence her husband to death. He felt comfortable with her, knowing that she cared for him without any outside influence.
He hadn't imagined John hugging him. He'd been too focused on John sexually to realise that it was a possibility.
It was surprising, mainly because he hadn't predicted the action. The shakiness of his last moment was still plaguing him, still clutching firmly at his resolve. It was taking a little longer to put himself back together this time. John's presence was less unwelcome now, knowing that he wasn't there just out of Mycroft's demands, but it didn't erase the fact that he looked upon these breaks in his stony composure with immense disdain. That John was viewing this too was humiliating, much like the shock blanket.
His want for John's hands to hide his own shaking ones was intense. It made John more understanding of the situation – made him, in Sherlock's eyes, less judgemental. When John took away his hands, he dreaded the upcoming demands, the dull conversation that would arise from yesterday. John placing his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him in wasn't even on the list of things he'd been expecting. The knowledge that there was no Mycroft involved in this allowed him to accept the contact far quicker than he might've done otherwise.
This touch made the shock blankets even more outrageous. There was no comparison to be made between tatty fabric and the warmth of an actual being. The blanket was too impersonal, too unbelievably false, to be anything like the weight of John's arms across his back. The blanket was casually thrown onto anyone's shoulders; John was doing this for him.
It stayed his shivers – made them creep away, like frost faced with a summer's touch. Why was this so spectacularly… good? This had to do with the dopamine in the brain: the same chemical released during sex or when interacting with somebody you had affection for. The same chemical that cocaine boosted, and the one that helped create need for the drug. It was far from the rush cocaine gave, but it was more constant, and more accessible.
John didn't perceive him as a Psychopath or Sociopath. How did John view him? He doubted John had a low opinion of him, one that reduced him to being a mere junkie, but neither did John approve of the drugs. Not many people approved of recreational drugs, but he was grateful that John wasn't judging him as harshly.
John ran his fingers across Sherlock's back, and the touch sent a curious sensation through him – a weak want for more than what he was being given.
"You did brilliantly on that case today." John whispered, and Sherlock felt uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The thought of fucking John was unpleasant, at this moment. He just wanted more of this touch: the gentleness of John's fingers running over his spine, the weight and realness of John's body, and the light tickles of air that came from John every few seconds.
He moved forward a little, lacing his fingers behind John's back and moving close enough for his lips to almost touch John's neck, whispering his thanks like a prayer. He felt warm, appreciated and wanted. Not wanted sexually but for his companionship. He wasn't spectacularly good at this friendship thing, but this was very nice. This would be one of the reasons John didn't label him as a Sociopath. He shouldn't want this sort of comfort – shouldn't feel so overwhelmed with the perfection of it – but, somehow, he did.
"You haven't slept, have you?"
It was novel to actually be able to feel John's voice, the sound right there next to him. The question itself was pointless; they both knew that he hadn't. Sleep was desecrated by his thoughts: the endless turning cogs that constantly cycled back to cocaine, to the rush that he craved. He wanted cocaine to the point that it became a need, overriding everything else of importance. Everything was so dull under his normal scrutiny. Cocaine brought out the vividness, making the world around him better, to a point where he could tolerate everything.
Cocaine had distracted him from the tedium of the world, and now he needed a distraction from the brightness of cocaine. It was a curious cycle.
How could he explain any of this? It was too complex. Words could not capture how fulfilling cocaine was, nor how addicting and maddening the substance was. That was the failure of language; it just didn't hold the right depth, in some areas. You could not describe a colour to the colour-blind. Blue was blue. Blue was also aqua, turquoise, azure, cyan, teal, and cerulean. There was baby blue, light blue, sky blue, and navy blue. How could one summarise the complexity of blue? How could one summarise the complexity of any colour? Could you describe the taste of meat to a vegetarian? There's nothing there to do so.
He could still feel the threads of emotion, tying him down and telling him that the light prick of a needle will stop this all. Make it better. He ignored it, closing his eyes to the world and focusing on John.
John had either been at the pub or at his sister's, judging by the smell of alcohol on him. The absence of cigarette smoke, and the fact that Mycroft told him John was sleeping elsewhere last night, pointed towards sister. There was feminine perfume on John too, combating the scent of John's own deodorant that had slowly faded over the day and through the night. There was no scent of sex, so he ruled out one-night stand completely. Sister it was. Beneath the chemical concoction of alluring scents was John's actual smell. Clean, musky, and something else that Sherlock just couldn't put into words. Words seemed to be failing him quite alarmingly often.
"Hey," John murmured, nudging his shoulder up a little. "Still with me?"
Such a question would usually warrant a harsh response, but now he was too tired, instead opting for a simple 'yes'. John realised and resumed the light moves of his fingers.
"Is this okay?" His voice was a whisper against Sherlock's ear, the weight of John's head on his shoulder almost uncomfortable but not quite.
It was very okay. He could even ignore the way the pattern of John's cream coloured jumper etched itself into his skin, a lone reminder of this feeling. Hugging was new to him, and he found himself wanting to understand it further now. By now, if he were high, he would be reaching the mid-point. Soon everything would begin to slow again, and then he would crash. Crash back into reality. The hugging had a constant pleasure to it, warmer than any medical syringe he could get his hands on. He was beginning to see the appeal of this, certainly enough to stay.
This was what he considered to be the weakness of humanity: connections with other people. He stiffened a little. "No touching patients, isn't that one of those rule things?" Not his best line of inquiry – much too general. John would have to touch his patients to examine them.
He couldn't see John, but he knew the man was smiling, even though the question had been terrible at best.
"I thought you, of all people, would be a rule breaker."
He smirked, "perhaps."
Did rule-breaking include anything sexual? He had John right here, closer than ever before. Should he end his ploy to have John move first? That would take time. He didn't have time. He needed something to distract him, sooner rather than later. He would even partake in the softer side of the relations, if it meant they were somewhat like what they were doing now. The only question would be emotional attachment. Compared to his previous bravado, the idea that he could just sleep with John and then throw him away, he didn't feel very confident in holding back, and he didn't trust himself to not fall prey to the chemistry of legitimate emotional attachment.
Either way, he was too late. John was already shrugging him off, moving away slowly whilst bracing Sherlock. It was cold without John, a small feeling of bliss shattering without him there anymore. John pulled him up to his feet. "You really should get some sleep. A few hours, at least."
"I'm not tired," he said, frowning.
John gave him a knowing look, one that clearly said 'I don't believe you'. He scowled, and John dutifully ignored him, prodding him towards the bedroom with conviction. He was tired, beneath layers of tightly coiled nerves that kept his body in a lethargic state without the solution of sleep. He could lie in bed for the next three hours and still feel this wired. The insomnia was unpredictable – a maverick state his body took up without fail. He doubted he could sleep and didn't particularly feel like facing the frustration that came with having his fears reasserted. He could feign sleep to some degree, but that would be boring.
"How do you usually get to sleep, when your insomnia has flared up this badly?" John asked, giving up on getting him into the bed any further, for the moment. "There must be something."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the kindles of annoyance making him snap at John. "I get high in any manner possible, dispel as much energy as I can, and, when I crash, I sleep."
John's look of determination faltered, some type of sadness overtaking him instead. "Bit not good," said John, weakly.
Oh, what do I care! For him, sleep was difficult to achieve. He didn't care if, for everyone else, it was as simple as popping a few pills and feeling drowsy the next day; that was just something they could take advantage of. He had to go up before he could come down. This was what none of them would ever understand.
Sherlock clasped his hands roughly together, the tremors adding more to his vitriolic annoyance. How weak his body was to constantly beg for sleep and then to viciously tremble, when it wasn't satisfied. The hugging wasn't helpful at all. It was diluted and faded completely, without John there to sustain it. He wasn't going to ask for more of the touch, even though it had helped calm his demands for cocaine. He'd known all along that the only solution to all of this was more of the drug. He could find his dealers, Jeff and Jamie, so easily. He had money, they had cocaine, and it would be the nearest thing to perfection this earth could provide him now. His best chance would be to slip out at night, when everyone else was asleep. If he took the more shady routes, and cloaked himself with his homeless network, then he should be able to avoid Mycroft's detection, for a day or two.
He was getting ahead of himself. First, he needed to make sure he had some type of syringe to inject the cocaine. He never shared needles, no matter how trustworthy the other addicts appeared. He wouldn't snort the drug either; that would damage his sense of smell. Smell was always unusually needed, during a case. Syringe first. Maybe one of his own had escaped Mycroft's notice? Highly unlikely. Mycroft would make sure Sherlock had nothing that would remind him of his drug usage. Mrs Hudson wouldn't, Mycroft knew she was too trusting and would have had anything of the sort removed. Would John have something? He should have a medical kit of some sort – an overdose kit, for sure.
He needed to plan this carefully. First, John would have to leave the house. Sherlock would scour his room and hopefully find something to administer the drug with. He would have to feign innocence throughout the day, leaving at night faster than Mycroft could set his thugs on him. Could he get a message out to one of his homeless to expect him? Would Mycroft have bribed any of them? If Mycroft had money for them, more money than Sherlock could offer, then he'd be betrayed in an instant. They were so lax about taking bribes, both a blessing and a curse. He needed this. Why was he being withheld from the one thing he needed?
There was a sharp pinch on his inner forearm that ripped him away from his plans. John had taken him to his room, pushing him down onto the bed, before pinching him.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
The sharp sting of pain was a burst of awareness to his addled senses. Again. He'd fallen into his want for cocaine again. It was too big, too all consuming, to actively avoid. He was so driven towards it. He couldn't describe what being on cocaine was like, but he could remember it. He couldn't wipe away the memory of how the drug made things better. Without it, he was a wreck. His head pounded, his hands shook, and normal sleep was unachievable. He was already becoming more prone to his frustrations, and lashing out angrily seemed the more attractive alternative. It wasn't just his body that was weakened through withdrawal but his mind, too. He kept forgetting to differentiate between the withdrawal edging him towards wanting more and reality pulling him back. Like this, he knew that using again was the worse option, but that logic could be wiped away, without any warning.
He needed something, anything, to keep him from slipping back into that again.
Withdrawal was always a flash of painful weeks, everything blurring together in ways that meant that, when he was lucid once more, he couldn't quite tell what had occurred. This need always hit him like a tonne of bricks, the severity of it previously buried. Sherlock didn't take part in false comfort, but this was something he knew he suppressed for good reason. This need for cocaine violated him completely. All logic fled and was replaced by something so carnal, that he forgot himself at times. He couldn't stand it. Withdrawal broke him, chipping away at his mind until he was desperate. Nothing drove him towards desperation like this did. He should have stuck with heroin, with the vomiting that was real, not false phantom needs that turned his whole view upside-down.
One addictive habit after the other – a cycle of constant highs to keep him sane. It was pitiful, really.
Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to rid himself from everything that had just bottled up again.
John was right to not believe him, when he said that he wasn't tired. He wanted to curl up beneath the covers and simply hide. The violin was too delicate for him to play now, his hands still quaking without any signs of stopping. His microscope was too fiddly, plus he had nothing to experiment with. Everything took up a new level of difficulty, when he wasn't in control of himself. Sleep would wipe it all away, at least for a few hours. It would be fitful at best, sporadic moments of wakefulness destroying any chance of a full cycle of sleep, but it would be better than his charlatan reality.
He moved backwards, and John immediately caught onto the fact that he wanted to sleep, bringing back the blankets and covering him with them.
"I don't need to be coddled," Sherlock said. "Remember, not my mother."
John gave him an exasperated smile, not bothering to hide the fact that he was tucking Sherlock in. "Nor handler or therapist."
He could hear John moving around the room and pulling a chair over. He watched, as John grabbed the old book he'd been correcting previously and sat down, opening it to the first page and beginning to read aloud. John added a few of his own corrections, where he noticed the mistakes, occasionally backtracking to fix something, but just working through the text in a low whisper, in general. Again, he had to focus solely on John's voice. John didn't read in deadpan; he added his own tone to the words, breathing life into the faded ink. It made it easier to concentrate on John, to figure out without opening his eyes what expression the man was pulling.
John went through three chapters, before Sherlock realised he was missing words, his mind finally dipping in and out of consciousness. By the final paragraph of the chapter, he was blissfully unaware to any of his surroundings, sleep having overcome him.
Sherlock managed a solid four hours of sleep, much to both John's pleasure and dismay. He'd been expecting the detective to wake earlier but was glad to be proved wrong. He sat by Sherlock's bed and gently smoothed his hair back, hoping the action would lull him back to sleep, rather than bring him faster out of it.
Sherlock's breathing pattern dipped deeper, the welcome respite of sleep taking him again. Sherlock didn't seem like the type of insomniac who often caught a break because, an hour and a half later, he was blearily awake. The red-rimmed eyes weren't very surprising, especially with the way Sherlock rubbed at them and muttered foully under his breath. John didn't blame him; he'd be frustrated, too. He sat down in his chair, pushing Sherlock back into a reclining position. It'd be easier for Sherlock to slip back into sleep, if he didn't get up and let the hopelessness of his insomnia take over.
"Just try for a couple more hours, okay?" John whispered, smoothing the creases of Sherlock's brow with his fingers.
Sherlock had broken cleanly through his sleep cycle, and it made him groggy, head moving up and down slowly as he tried to nod. He looked a little drugged, fumbling through uncoordinated movements, with a thick 'okay' leaving him. His hair was an utter mess, tousled in a way that was far from artful. He could tell Sherlock was only becoming more aware of his surroundings. He started recounting a few lectures he'd had to sit through, hoping the words would be enough to keep Sherlock's mind on him over anything else, but boring enough to keep him from losing that tired edge.
He could see the detective's half-lidded eyes peeking over the blanket, lazily blinking as John went into detail on how hand washing prevented the spread of infection. He was pleased, rather than insulted, when Sherlock began to ignore him, curling in on himself further and closing his eyes.
Sherlock wasn't actually asleep – he could see it in the way he changed his position, every few minutes – but he felt grateful that the man was still trying to rest.
There was no clear look of sadness on Sherlock's face, but he knew the detective was displeased with what was going on. They needed to get out, to somehow forget about the drugs and everything that came with them.
Once John left the room, Sherlock checked the alarm, which read 1p.m. There was still a fog surrounding his mind, one that would remain through his withdrawal, but he felt remarkably better. He doubted he'd be able to maintain this feeling but decided that he'd at least take advantage of it.
Sherlock swung his feet over the edge of the bed, hissing slightly as his body protested against the cold floor. He snatched his dressing gown and draped it over himself, slowly walking into the kitchen and investigating. His movements were shy and a little timid. He distinctly remembered John taking care of him, soft words and touches ensuring that he didn't wake to a harsher reality. He wasn't often unsure of himself, bold confidence being how he operated, but this wasn't something he ever did. John should be angry and confused over when he quoted Donovan's words, questioning him about why the words had to be spoken. Instead, John was watching him carefully from the armchair, poised to get up if he needed anything.
He suspected that he should thank John for his efforts, but he didn't do such things. He hardly ever thanked, and he didn't often ask for permission, the two being almost entirely foreign to him.
"Tea?" He asked, his words still thick with sleep.
"You could do it yourself."
John was already halfway to the kitchen. "I could, but you're obviously looking for something to do."
It was calming to see John opening different cupboards, padding around in socks to collect the needed items, while the kettle boiled. John was already accustomed with where the cups and tea were, his movements fluent and more surefooted than Sherlock was feeling. There was no tension radiating from John, when by all means there should be. He waited for John to broach the topic, defensive remarks already being formed in his mind, when John turned around, mouth open.
"One sugar or two?"
He was caught off guard. Surely they were meant to discuss it in some capacity?
"One with milk, please." He threw the nicety on the end, hoping John would catch on to the fact that he was grateful enough to do so.
John smiled, and Sherlock found that he regretted it. It would be easier if John were angry. He could deal with John shouting, deal with it in a way that would get it out of both their systems and make sure the topic stayed hidden. He didn't know how to deal with John skating over all of it, focusing on the present, rather than dwelling on anything else. The topic would rise unbidden, at one point, catching him completely unawares and frustrating him. He found himself wanting to speak of it now but unwilling to break the thread of silence.
His tea was placed before him, thin coils of steam rising from the surface and spiralling away, when he blew at it. Maybe it would be wiser to ignore the topic for now? His knowledge on communicating with someone like this was lacking anyway, too many intricacies controlling the flow of words.
"Go take a shower," John said, cupping his own mug, "we're going out tonight."
Out? That made absolutely no sense. The whole purpose of him having John as a doctor was that he wouldn't have to leave for anything trivial, like group meetings, though, if that were what John was trying to get him to go to, then he would have said so. Mycroft never let him leave during withdrawal, with the temptation of the outside world and all its sinful substances being the main reason why. As soon as he left the confines of the flat, he would be one step closer to distractions that did more harm than good, in the long run. He wanted to leave, to deconstruct every single meaningless entity that passed him, but what if he lost control again? He knew every street in London – every single way to find his way directly to his dealers.
He needed to get out of here, but the thought of even the opportunity of more drugs was terrifyingly tempting.
"Mycroft?" He queried. His brother had to have a say in this.
"Has already been told and will have a car for us. Unless you prefer to walk, but then I think he'll just have us followed." John shrugged.
How did John manage to convince Mycroft to let him out? He always stayed home, during the first stage of withdrawal. The second stage, post-acute withdrawal syndrome, gave him moments without craving, ones that gave him more freedom and control. His physical symptoms faded away but the emotional intensified. Mycroft knew all of this – knew that, by letting him out, he would want more. Mycroft wouldn't just be offering a car to drive them to and fro; he'd be watching them the entire time and noting anything that caught his interest.
"Where will we be going?"
John made another disinterested move. "Dunno, Mycroft said he'd take us to a restaurant he knew you liked."
He didn't particularly like any restaurant. The ones he visited he did so because they offered him food for free, as a thank you for solving their case. There were some he visited more often than others, mainly due to the distance he'd have to spend travelling, but he hardly did so out of personal preference. He wouldn't feel the need to analyse this all, if Mycroft wasn't choosing the restaurant.
John must have read his apprehension, quickly asking if he wanted something to eat before they left later. He shook his head, and John retreated back to the armchair, this time seating himself on the opposite one. John had been seated so that he would know when Sherlock came out of his room. John had been waiting up for him. Unnecessary and mundane but, ironically enough, nice.
John took a shower after Sherlock, listening to the man retreat to his violin and play compositions he had no knowledge of. Sherlock kept regarding him with a sort of caution, one that made John feel strangely guilty. This friendship must be something Sherlock had no experience in, the caring thing even more so.
He grabbed his laptop from upstairs, shying away from Sherlock's gaze, as he typed his password.
"Your mother's name is Alice Watson?" Sherlock asked, leaning slightly to see the keyboard. John wasn't all that ready to humour his thirst for knowledge, after the man figured out his password from across the room.
He half-shut the lid, levelling Sherlock with his own look. "None of your business."
"There's no need to be tetchy."
Out of the two of them, he was being tetchy? Sherlock may have the excuse of withdrawal on his side, but he snapped just as much as John did.
Sherlock looked affronted at his expression. "It was a simple observation." He said defensively. "Your typing is fairly slow, and I can see about half of the keyboard. You only type using your index fingers, which eliminates quite a bit of the complexity. The password was obviously going to be something familiar to you, as you are the type to invest in such sentimentality and, with most of the letters, it was fairly easy to figure out. The last name was clear – the first just a little more difficult. I expected something medical, though this isn't all too surprising."
John sighed. Sherlock was just being himself. The password itself scarcely mattered; Sherlock just wanted to know if he'd gotten the name right. He'd still be changing the damned thing, hopefully to something Sherlock couldn't figure out.
"Alice Rose Watson was my grandmother. Nobody ever guessed the password until you."
"Grandmother," Sherlock repeated, turning back to the window a moment later and bringing the violin back to the crook of his neck. He logged in and automatically went to change his password, carefully checking to make sure Sherlock wasn't looking, noting how much of a far cry Sherlock's appearance was from this morning.
Gone were the dishevelled pyjamas and roughly thrown on robe. His suit was immaculate, all crisp lines and precision, and his hair was finally back to its normal curly state. It made him look more mature, aging him in a way that just classy clothes couldn't. He looked serious and professional.
The violin sighed a long note, moving onto another slowly. There was no real melodic value, just random notes oozing out and filling the silence.
He fidgeted, as the next note clashed with the previous, an unneeded reminder of the tension between them. "Are we walking?"
Sherlock dropped his hands, holding the violin and bow loosely by his side. "At some point, yes." He began packing the violin away, fingers dexterous on the clasps of its case. "We should head down."
"Right." John shut his laptop down faster than he'd turned it on, darting over to his coat and following Sherlock down the stairs. The man had already pulled on his own coat, a long flashy thing that flared behind him as he ran down the steps. He could see the way Sherlock's hand tentatively ghosted over the doorknob, grasping it and facing the outside after days of being locked inside.
There was no denying that Sherlock simply froze, his eyes flashing from left to right faster than John could follow. Was this too much? Sometimes Harry had days where she avoided leaving the house, saying it was too arduous to be around so many people who had no idea what it was like to wake up and run to the bathroom to throw-up. It's like they're rubbing their sobriety in my face. I just… don't like it. He didn't think Sherlock felt that way towards John, at least not to that extent, but it might come into play now. He squeezed Sherlock's forearm, directing him towards the car Mycroft had for them.
"Come on, we'll walk later."
Sherlock clearly loved being able to see almost everything about a scene or a person. It gave him power, and it gave him a rush of pleasure very different from sex. Thinking just had a natural sort of precision to it, graceful yet so easy to blunder stupidly. It had taken time to perfect his skills, to divorce himself further from society, so that there was no bias on his part. Thinking was an investment. There was knowledge all around him, something new popping up occasionally that would make his blood sing. Crime was just the most entertaining way to channel his knowledge. He had a broad spectrum of things he knew and understood, things that some people felt he shouldn't know, and he loved it.
Mostly.
Right now he hated it. He didn't want to look out the window of the car, to see that woman on the pavement, and almost instantly know that she'd quit her job as a high school teacher due to a deep-set depression over some issue with her family. He didn't care that she was staying over with her sister, and would be looking for a job again soon, or that she would most likely have a minor meltdown that would finally encourage her to discuss her problems. He wanted one thing and that was focus.
Oh, he knew where these thoughts were going to lead. Cocaine was focus. Every individual thing held merit. Cocaine made the notes from his violin appear with complex emotion, whereas usually he could just see the sheet music, blank and offending. Cocaine made fabric infinitely interesting. The weave, the colour, the smell. All so tactile and real. He could see what was before him and, if he so pleased, just that. There would be no deduction; sometimes he could see what was really there and nothing else. He could look at a woman's picture and think she's marginally aesthetically pleasing, not her brand of make-up is cheap, though applied in a fashion that says she has experience with it. Her clothing is too tight at the bust, and she's wearing a long pendant to bring attention to the size of her breasts. She sexualises her body for attention, as the media has taught her to, ever since she was a child.
Sherlock loved seeing everything, but, right now, he wished for nothing more than being reduced to simplicity. There was an overflow of information and nothing he could do to control it.
John had somehow struck up conversation with the driver, pleasant words without any real meaning floating through the air. He didn't care for the weather either. The weather mattered when rain was washing away footprints cast in the mud, not as they drive on in warmth, hidden away from the elements. John took all the words with a kind nod, his own spilling out in return. It's so banal, such a simple thing all these people around him do.
He felt like entering the fray with a biting remark, casting the two into silence, but the little animated nods John gave were something he didn't get. John looked at him with admiration, irritation, and, increasingly often, concern. The driver couldn't see John nodding, but John did it anyway. John wasn't really expressing any emotion on his face, or any interest, but he nodded along to ensure that the person he was conversing with knew he was listening.
Or John was just making it seem like he was listening, in case the driver checked their rear-view mirror. Rather pointless, really.
They were obviously being taken to Angelo's restaurant, the map to get there clear in his mind. Roads were intricate, like his mind, and followed predictable patterns. Traffic light, turn right – one way only. Pathways for them to commute on, to follow without question. If there was no road or path, then people were always more hesitant, a little scared to go on a path that hasn't been acknowledged or deemed safe. If there was a concrete path that was travelled safely day in, day out, people would prefer it to a beaten dirt trail. People went in circles, endless patterns that criss-crossed mindlessly, without even noticing. The circle spun round and round; nothing was ever new. People thought originality was what they wore, when even that had been recycled through years of phases and different wants.
He could always read into these things and see what the others were oblivious to.
The car stopped across from the restaurant, and he got out gratefully. He couldn't stand being ignored by John in favour of insipid conversation. He wanted attention, a reason to keep John on his mind, rather than all his overbearing thoughts. It was selfish – he didn't care.
John thanked the driver, running to his side seconds after.
"You're very quiet." John said, catching up to him as he crossed the road.
Does John wish to know about how roads somehow translate to the various circles of humanity's originality?
"Why? What did you expect?"
John made a thoughtful sound. "Rapid-fire information about everything we pass?"
Strange. Most people didn't appreciate it when he revealed information about others.
He opened the restaurant door to John, indicated the man should go first, and followed inside. The waiter at the door, Billy, was there, a brief smile lighting up his face at the sight of Sherlock. He accepted the window table, unwilling to be placed within the mass of murmurs at the back. It was one thing to figure out a person but another to have to listen to them.
At the sight of Angelo, Sherlock immediately realised why Mycroft had directed them to this particular restaurant.
Sherlock never dined with anyone, period. He didn't feel the need to entertain another person whilst going out himself. It meant that Angelo, who appeared to have the same romanticism trait Mike did, always hoped that Sherlock would bring a date. Sherlock didn't do friendship, something he clearly stated to Angelo, and so the man would skip over the fact that John was actually his friend and assume that they were dating. It was a clever ploy on his brother's behalf: a not-so-subtle push to help Sherlock find a way to distract himself.
Angelo boomed his name, and John looked bemusedly between the two of them, watching how Angelo clasped his arm.
"This man got me off a murder charge!" Angelo announced happily, handing them each a menu.
John looked vaguely astonished.
"This is Angelo," Sherlock explained, feeling the urge to wince at the overpowering wave of laughter from the middle table. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade that, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town housebreaking." It didn't seem to help; John still had a look of confusion.
"He cleared my name," offered Angelo pleasantly.
Internally, he sighed. "I cleared it a bit." The fact that he'd helped eclipsed that he'd only decreased the level of punishment Angelo would receive. He waited for the assumption that he and John were dating.
"Anything on the menu for you, Sherlock. Free for you and your date."
John's eyes went from his menu to Sherlock's, a little wide as they silently asked for clarification. If he corrected Angelo then John would think him disinterested, which was partially false. He was… unsure of where he stood, not disinterested. If he accepted Angelo's claims, then John would be angry for not being informed, as most people were when he did something without their permission. He pretended to have not heard the comment, folding his scarf neatly on the seat next to him and opening his menu. Something light and unprocessed would be best, salad being the option that stood out for him. John would probably go for pasta, being the dish he would be more familiar with.
Angelo clapped his hands together. "So, what'll you be having?"
They both spoke at once, and John fidgeted before repeating the word 'pasta'. Of course he'd been right. He ordered a simple garden salad, and Angelo offered them a nod, one that meant he'd processed the order. "I'll get a candle for the table too – more romantic."
Oh, Mycroft was smart to have sent them here.
This was the ideal place to form groundwork on their relations: the easiest way to go from mutual friends to shagging. He wanted John to make the first move, to direct him towards that for his own amusement, but was unsure of what signals to place. John was very different to the people he used to have sex with. They were all happy to submit to him, to have minimal extra touching and simple intercourse. That sort of a relationship with John would crash and burn. He wanted to deconstruct John's every single want through his body language, but there would have to be something more, even he knew that.
This would depend on John's conversation, though he could model that to suit what he wanted.
John wanted his deductions. Now would be a good time to start. He came a little closer to John, purposefully moving his lips closer to John's ears as he spoke. "The pair on the left are engaged, as of three weeks ago. They're planning a trip to somewhere warmer to celebrate. His parents have been deceased for a few years now, but she comes from a large, accepting family." He ducked even closer, and John went very still. "If you're guessing why their hair is so messy, then yes, you're right, they did shag before coming here."
It was glorious to see lust marked across John's face. The starting point was there, if only John just followed the points of conversation.
Angelo made his appearance again, plates balanced in a way that only came with coordination and practise. Billy was behind him, helping carry Angelo's choice of wine and the candle. Alcohol was too unpredictable for him to actively enjoy, but the buzz was pleasant, certainly pleasant enough to indulge tonight. John was eager to eat and took a quick, methodical bite. He sipped at the wine, as John did so, waiting for some sort of conversation to come from him.
"How'd you know about them?" John jerked his head towards the couple, fingers still clenched around cutlery.
If only John could see what he did.
"There are five brochures on their table, all of them with a destination that is set for more tropical weather at this time of year. She, naturally, feels the need to speak loudly, a trait that many people from large families pick up, because they have to fight to be heard. A minute ago, when they were discussing their families, he began to show signs of discomfort, until she reassured him that it was all fine. As for the proposal, I was here when it happened."
John laughed. "That's amazing, but you cheated."
He waved his hand through the air. "Luck and coincidence rolled into one." Sherlock stabbed his fork through the salad, chewing slowly, noting how John watched. "Yes?"
"Do you eat healthy for the benefits, or because it goes through your system easier?"
John mightn't be able to take facts and spin them into someone's story like he could, but that didn't mean his intelligence was to be ignored. He was getting Sherlock far faster than most others did, understanding the salient points which influenced most other things. He staggered his consumption of food after a case, often having to replenish days' worth of food without gorging, but otherwise a meal a day was sufficient. John had realised that he took drugs out of boredom, obviously noted Sherlock's hesitancy in touching, and was beginning to see his relationship with food.
"I never know when I'll need to think, and food only slows me down."
John's forehead creased in worry. "Food also sustains you, keeps you going. It's not good to have an unhealthy attitude towards food. I can see why doctors might misdiagnose you, when it comes to it."
Sherlock scoffed, forcing his fork through more leaves of salad this time, and brought the fork up to his mouth pointedly. So far John was only providing a qualified outside eye. The moment he began to force Sherlock to eat, he would be far less rational in his response. John was a doctor – this issue obviously wouldn't rest. Occasionally, when he wasn't providing too much attention to his surroundings, he would eat without realising. Hopefully John wouldn't notice and take advantage of that, though it would be commendable for the doctor to take action.
"So, what do you do, other than solve cases?"
Sherlock's life mostly revolved around the cases. He played the violin, sulked, and got high. Sometimes he threw some sort of experimentation into the mix, or went out and travelled London to make sure his mental map didn't atrophy. He read and researched any areas required, opting for another's advice every now and then. John knew most of this already. Sherlock mostly distracted himself from outside tedium, or continuously built up his knowledge.
Now there was John: a new, unpredictable hobby. Life might just become a tad boring, if John left.
The thought troubled him. "You've seen most of it already."
He excused himself to the bathroom. He'd already known that he appreciated John, finding the man both interesting and annoying, but for him to think that life without John might be lonely was a leap, one he didn't think he was comfortable in making. John had gone from an unwanted addition to his withdrawal, to being his friend, rapidly. He didn't want John for just the distraction of sex now, but for his company and warmth, too. He felt affection towards John. His guise of being a Sociopath was crumbling, and the thought was simultaneously novel and distinctly uncomfortable.
AN: I've created a tumblr (the url is tapdancingapples, creative, no?) where I'll be posting both Sherlock and anything I use as a reference/inspiration for this fic, so you're welcome to go and check that out C: Thank you for all the continued support for this fic, I just want to hug all of you 3