This story happened in March 2012, right after The Hounds of Baskerville. The dates are consistent with The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson at .uk.
SHERLOCK
Dartmoor. The bleak and beautiful Dartmoor. Hello again.
Sherlock went back to London with John on Thursday afternoon. Before they took leave, Sherlock had a conversation with Gary, the owner of the hotel, about the dog they raised, telling him not to put it down. He pretended to John that he didn't understand the sentiment in it, but in fact, he did understand this time. Putting a dog down, how familiar. He didn't want his childhood memory to devour him right now, so he cut this train of thought off and focused on the case he just solved. He had catalogued and filed away every detail by the time they arrived at Baker Street. It would have taken shorter if John was not complaining about his experiment on him all the way and keeping distracting him from thinking. Of course, usually he filtered anything spoken or even done to him while he was thinking, but he knew John was really pissed off this time and he didn't want to do all that "breaking the ice" thing again so shortly.
They were at their front door. Sherlock reached his hand into his pocket for the key, then he froze. No, impossible. He narrowed his eyes. Living room, bedroom, kitchen, cab… His mind quickly replayed every scene that early afternoon from Henry's arrival to their leaving for Paddington Station. It could not be.
He searched all his pockets hopelessly, but it was not there.
"What? You didn't take the key?" John asked, putting the luggage down.
Sherlock clenched his fist in his pocket and took out the key to 221B. He opened the door with a slightly trembling hand, looking lost, and grunted, "I did take it."
John didn't know what was going on in his funny old head but paid no attention. Anyway, he could not figure it out even if he did, so why bother?
Sherlock found himself in his chair with a mug in hand when he finished replaying everything happened in Dartmoor and Baskerville and brought back his attention to the real life. He looked around and noticed John was having a bath, but he didn't remember how he walked up the stairs or where he had put his coat, or how he ended up with a cuppa in his chair.
He had to go back. He had to find it. At least he must try.
With a sigh, he put down the mug and walked towards his room, checking the train schedule in his mind, when he heard a chime from his phone.
It was Lestrade, and Sherlock ended up in the Scotland Yard that evening.
The next morning, he blew up a liver in the kitchen and threw three dishes on the floor to vent his agitation before he set out and took the first train from London to Devon.
He looked everywhere he set foot on when he was last there and followed his exact routes. Nothing. He checked Henry's house and searched his room at The Cross Keys. Nothing. He could not recall the route he took back to Henry's after he "saw" the demon hound and he could not go into Baskerville once again. But he literally looked everywhere else, and it was nowhere. He cursed himself.
His heart was pounding at his chest, and the coldness of the moor seemed to have found its way right into his core. He felt like someone was clenching his fingers around his neck because he couldn't breathe. He felt pain, and panic.
Sherlock caught the last train back to London. He could not explain what he was feeling and why he was feeling this way, but he knew one thing for certain: he had lost it. He had lost the key, the key given by John.
JOHN
Pang, pang. Pang.
Three loud shots woke John up for the second time in the morning. "Dammit!" John cursed, then regretted. It was not going to be a good day if the very first word he muttered in the morning was as such. But it had been three days.
Last morning, he was woken up by the sound of violin at six. Sherlock was not playing properly, just making unpleasant and intermittent noises.
The morning before that, it was a huge blast from the kitchen, followed by the crash of dishes being dropped.
Enough is enough. John decided, opened his eyes and reached for his phone.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Morning Lestrade, it's me, John."
"Hello John. Just give me a second." John heard some metallic clinks from the background and a thud indicating that Lestrade had put the phone down on a table or something. He shouted to someone else, "Just put it there, I will have a look. Oh Anderson, not now!" Clearly Scotland Yard was nothing but busy, if not chaotic, on a Monday morning. John waited patiently, having pity on Lestrade.
"Sorry John, what's up?" He sounded a little bit worked up when he picked up the phone again some ten seconds later.
"No sorry, if you're busy, I can call..."
"No worries." Lestrade interrupted, "Just wrapping up that Hound case with Devon's local force. You know, Sherlock never cares what a mess he leaves behind once the case is solved."
"Yeah, right." John knew that Lestrade wouldn't miss the bitter smile in his voice, just as he could visualise Lestrade's shrug, "Actually it's about that case. Er, when you pulled him in on Thursday, was he normal? I mean, not normal normal. Well, did he look like himself?"
Lestrade thought for a while, "He said we took a ghastly 22 more minutes than he expected to interrogate Henry and that he saw no nadir of our inefficiency. So I'm gonna go with 'yes'. Although his impatience did seem more obvious than ever. Why are you asking?"
"Well, he's been extremely irritated and annoying, and… odd for the last few days. It's beyond intolerable." John sighed, "I have a feeling that it has something to do with that case."
"Relax John. He's Sherlock. Maybe he's just bored." said Lestrade.
"I knew you'd say that. But you see, I've seen him bored for hundreds of times, and I don't think that's all. Yes he's been hyperactive, rude and arrogant as he always is, and he damages things, actually a lot of things." John thought about the bloody wall that would come into view shortly, "But, he doesn't ask for cigarettes. He doesn't pace about the whole flat. He doesn't ask me to check newspapers every hour. He always condemn the idleness and stupidity of the criminals when he's bored. But he does none of that this time. He's just… well, he looks very agitated." John left out "you should try living with him when he's agitated".
"Uhm, that's weird. Why do you think it's related to the case? Do you think he's still feeling the fear?"
"I thought so at first but it doesn't seem like that. You know that he doesn't eat during a case. But between cases his diet would be quite regular. The case was solved three days ago but he still eats the minimum. That's a sign of him thinking." John paused, "There must be something in the case that has kept him thinking over the last three days, something different from all the mysteries he has solved so far."
John dressed and came down to the kitchen, put the kettle on, grabbed the newspaper and seated himself in his chair, not looking at Sherlock who was lying on his back on the sofa, not greeting him. He wanted to show his anger but he knew Sherlock wouldn't notice. Lestrade promised he would call him if he recalled anything that might be relevant, but John didn't hope much. Maybe after living with this creature for fourteen months, which had granted John some unwanted respect from many people, Sherlock's lack of confidence in police was more or less acquired by him. He could not help casting a glance on the slender figure draping over the sofa, trying hard not to notice the three new holes on the wall or Mrs. Hudson's predictable reaction afterwards.
It was frustratingly true that however angry John was at Sherlock, he would almost always forgive him immediately when he saw him. It would took longer if Sherlock did something much worse than just being his usual annoying self, but that didn't happen very often. John was really mad when Sherlock broke into Soolin's flat and kept him outside, again. He even did that loud little speech on the street which, by the way, led himself to that damned tramway. But when Sherlock walked out of the flat stating his deductions with that croaky voice, John forgot all about it at once and even started concerning whether he had caught a cold. His surprise when Shan quoted his speech later on was not fake. And now, from the moment John set his eyes on Sherlock, even the least traces of his anger and accusation were gone. Truly, Sherlock was his bane.
The peaceful man on the sofa was wearing his blue dressing gown, eyes closed, fingers steepled, much like he was the night after the day they met, when John stepped into the flat after being summoned. Sherlock was quiet and still now, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. John wondered whether he was sleeping or just indulging himself in his mysterious mind palace once again. Statistically, it was the latter.
John had a mixed feeling about the thinking Sherlock. A thinking Sherlock could be either scarily silent or unbelievably nagging. John loved and hated both. In front of him on the sofa was the silent Sherlock, who was aware of nobody but himself, nothing but his own impenetrable brain. In this case, John could risk scrutinizing his flatmate, friend and secret love, holding back none of his desire and admiration. He could lock his eyes on that prominent cheekbone, that slender neck and that pale, alluring skin for as long as he wanted. His eyes were blazing, but they couldn't possibly melt that icicle.
John knew that although his gorgeous flatmate was now sheathed in the calm and peaceful serenity, a storm would soon ensue. John could smell danger simmering, and he had spent enough time bouncing around Sherlock to know that he got off on it.
"John!" Sherlock called his name abruptly as his eyes popped open.
The husky voice went through John like electricity. It was very likely that this was Sherlock's first attempt to speak out loud for at least 12 hours.
"Why do you always do that?" John asked, full of affection. Then he remembered he needed to be angry.
Sherlock tipped his head and stared at John, waiting for him to explain himself.
John swallowed, "Why do you always utter my name when you... descend?" John smirked at his own choice of word.
Sherlock frowned in confusion, "What do you mean, descend?"
"You know, like when you go back to reality from your mind palace." John suggested. When he allowed himself, he was actually secretly pleased with these moments. When Sherlock was still deep in unconsciousness after being put down by Irene Adler, John concluded from his babbling that he was dreaming about her. Yet when he woke up, "John" was the first word he blurted. Also, there had been many times when Sherlock involuntarily called Molly his name when she was assisting him, and even more times when Sherlock suddenly began talking after hours of silence with calling John's name, John be there or not. Relishing these moments were John's unspoken guilty pleasure.
"Let's go out." Sherlock rose to his feet nimbly, apparently dismissive of John's comment.
"What, now? Where?"
Sherlock gave John a you-will-know-when-we-get-there look and did not answer. He ruffled his hair and went into his room to change, mumbling all the way. John shrugged and made himself a cuppa, waiting for his flatmate. Apparently there was nothing more he could do.
SHERLOCK
The weather was rather pleasant, but Sherlock was in no mood to rejoice. He called a cab. He didn't have a destination in mind but he had a feeling that something would turn up. "Paddington Old Cemetery." Sherlock randomly assigned a destination and John didn't bother to ask.
About three months ago, John gave him three presents in a row.
On Christmas Eve he received a present from John, which he did not open until the next day, thanks to The Woman. He deduced it was a belt after examining the box for three seconds though.
On January 6th, his birthday, John gave him another gift. It was a limited edition of a violin CD, with a theme of comfort and relaxation. Clearly, John was worried about the effects, if any, brought by The Woman on him. Sherlock had to admit that there was something different about Irene Adler which distinguished her from all the other people he met. He was uncertain how to name or describe the feelings he had when he thought she was dead and, when he saw her alive again. A touch of emotion, he had to admit. He refrained himself from prying into his own mind, mainly out of the concern that Mycroft would see it and make unwelcome comments. His eloquence would not avail against Mycroft's own deductions. Anyway he solved the case.
But that was not the end of it. He wanted to control his emotions and feelings but wasn't doing very well. Looking back now, Irene Adler really was the initiator of all the sentiments, but that was not to say that all his feelings were about her. It was just… He started to feel. Although he could not identify all of them, there were feelings about John, John's gift, the demon hound, even the big dog Gary and Billy raised. And now he hadn't got rid of any of them.
He couldn't leave Irene alone. The reason he gave himself back to that time was that she was moderately clever, and had more utility alive than dead. To be honest he wasn't very convinced himself. He traced her and saved her in Karachi, two weeks after her camera-phone was confiscated.
When he got back to London on January 31st from Pakistan in the evening, John was having fish and chips in the living room, watching telly.
"A fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road set up shop two weeks ago and I helped put up some shelves. The owner gives me extra portions. You should try it."
John blinked, "Hello to you too."
Sherlock took off his coat, wondering why John looked angry, "Did you make tea?"
"Yes, in the kitchen." John stopped eating and switched off the television, "Where have you been?"
"Working." Sherlock answered succinctly, heading for the kitchen.
"Working? Of course." John's voice was cold.
Sherlock turned around and observed John and found him observing back. Following John's eyes, he just remembered how messy and smelly he was after three days prowling around the terrorist cell, doing endless field work and combating all those criminals and rats. Maybe John was mistaken. "I didn't go back to drug den, if that's what you are thinking." He said, making plan for a shower, "No need to worry. I'm doing fine..."
"No need to worry?" John snapped as he rolled his eyes and stood up, pulling in a deep breath, "Can't you just give me a bloody notice? You just disappeared for three days without giving me even a single word! Why didn't you pick up your bloody phone? Or reply to my texts?" John exhaled and paused to gather his thoughts, his fists clenching, "Who the fuck knows what could have happened to you?"
"Why are you making such a fuss? John, I..."
"For God's sake, Sherlock." John waved his hands and advanced on Sherlock, looking up into his eyes, "Do you have any idea how much danger you can invite?" He looked down and quickly raised his eyes again, "One word, Sherlock. One word, that's all I would have needed! One word to let me know you were okay." John slammed down his fist onto the kitchen table.
Sherlock didn't expect such hysterical reactions from John. He had been away for days without notice before, but John was not half furious when he came back. There must be something else.
"What have you been doing these three days?" Sherlock asked tentatively.
"Nothing." John had calmed down a bit now and seemed to have regretted what he just said. He was always good at calming down. "Nothing that would interest you." John added, "Were you listening to me, Sherlock? Don't do this again."
Interesting, Sherlock thought. John was not expecting an apology, instead, he just wanted me to promise that such events would not happen again. He was regretting his overreaction. Yes he definitely was. Sherlock noticed the slight falter in his eyes and the unease in his body. What was that other thing in his eyes? Sherlock could not tell. John must have concealed something. He noticed a movement in John's knees and a tremor in his fist. John wanted to step back but was worrying about giving away his not standing firm. He must have some other things on mind to account for his irritation.
"What was it?" Sherlock asked, looking into John's eye and analyzing his every minute reaction, searching for evidence.
"What was what?" John frowned. He had absolutely no idea why Sherlock asked that.
"What was it that you could have done if I weren't away?" Sherlock made it short, leaving out all the "show-off".
John was taken aback. "How…?" he paused, "Never mind. Just promise you won't do it again."
"Tell me, John." Sherlock insisted, leaning forward. From past experience, he was aware of two things about John being angry. One, most of the time it was because of him. Two, it wouldn't last long if Sherlock was within 15 yard, shorter if they were closer.
John shook his head and sighed. He broke off Sherlock's gaze and went back towards his chair. Sherlock gave him time.
"Nothing of importance, Sherlock." John kept his back turned to him when he spoke, which to Sherlock was very telling, "Just… I've got you a present."
"A present?" Sherlock undoubtedly didn't see that coming. It was fascinating how John could always surprise him.
"Yes." John said in low voice, turned around and grinned bitterly at him, trying to make the impression that it was no big deal. He went to the mantelpiece and picked up a box, "Here."
It was a deliberately chosen gift, treated with great care and attention. Black wrapping paper, scarlet lace, size of a book, and heavy. This size, yet this weight. Must be something made of iron or steel. Approximately thirty items appeared in Sherlock's mind within one second, but he denied all of them. What could it be? He could not guess. Why? He could not figure out. It seemed that John would surprise him again.
"For what?" Sherlock was hesitant to ask. He had a feeling that he had forgotten some big day.
"Well, nothing. Just... wanted to say thank you, for..." John's voice trailed off as he bit his bottom lip.
"For…?" Sherlock was desperate to know the answer.
John cleared his throat and looked down at his nails, seemingly making a big decision, then he raised his head and met Sherlock's confused eyes, "For changing my life a year.. and two days ago." He smiled in relief. Obviously it was not easy for him to say the words.
A year and two days ago? That was January 29th, 2011. What happened on… "Oh!" Sherlock mumbled when realisation dawned on him. That was the day he first met John. An overwhelming deluge of questions and blurry feelings washed over him, before a swirl of emotions filled every single pore of him subsequently, and he could not do any thinking. His brain short-circuited and he didn't know what to do, or to say. The world's only consulting detective was startled into temporary immobility.
John's voice interrupted, "Open it."
"Oh yes, right." Sherlock grinned awkwardly and unwrapped his present, trying hard to revitalize his brain.
A grey box. No brand, no label, no anything. Something second-hand or custom-made then. Money on the latter. Sherlock opened the box with anxiety.
A pair of handcuffs, and a key.
Well done, John. Sherlock gave a fourth tick in twenty minutes on the how-JW-surprises-me mental scoreboard.
"Belt then handcuffs? Are you suggesting that I become interested in whatever Irene..."
"You know that's not my intention." John sounded amused. Of course Sherlock knew, he was just biding his time to do the deduction and, hopefully, ease the tension between them, though he could already add another proof to his theory that John's anger was in a circular form, starting from him and ending with him.
Focus, Holmes. Sherlock knew that John was not explaining because he considered any explanation excessive. John was waiting for him to deduce what it was himself. It was not a challenge, simply an act of habit and trust.
The craftsmanship was not contemporary, probably a century ago, but the handcuffs themselves were clearly recently made, so they must have been made in this way on purpose, a replica, most likely. The shape of the handcuffs was peculiar, no chain in between. It was rigid solid bar handcuffs, which was rarely used in practice. Although Sherlock carried handcuffs almost everywhere, a chain one would be more proper as a gift if John's intention was for Sherlock to crack down crimes. There must be some history behind this pair. Sherlock noticed the engraved word "Hart" on the bar. Presumably it was the surname of the locksmith. And when and where did John acquire it? He found John's stub of train ticket from London to Birmingham a week earlier. He had no relatives known to Sherlock there and John said he went there to see a friend when Sherlock asked. It would be plausible to assume that he acquired it from Birmingham.
Handcuffs, 1900s, Hart, Birmingham.
"Harry Houdini." Sherlock said the name out loud the moment it came to his brain.
John blinked and smiled, "Exactly."
"Harry 'Handcuff' Houdini, illusionist and stunt performer, noted for his sensational escape acts. In early 1900s, the London Daily Mirror newspaper challenged Houdini to escape from special handcuffs that it claimed had taken a locksmith, named Hart, from Birmingham five years to make. Houdini accepted the challenge during a matinée performance at London's Hippodrome theater. " Sherlock simply churned out everything he just extracted from his mind palace, "This was a replica."
"Yes." John marveled at Sherlock's extensive memory and unfailing deduction, "My friend in Birmingham introduced me to a descendant of Hart. You always have a thing about handcuffs and you just broke one a month ago, so I thought..."
"But the key isn't a replica." Sherlock interrupted. He didn't pay attention to the key until now. The key about three inch long lying quietly in the corner of the box was delicate and exquisite, made of fine silver, carefully coated, gleaming and reflecting in the living room light. It emanated royalty, nobleness and somehow, coldness. "Is this a crown?" Sherlock pointed at the bow.
"Yes, a queen crown, from chess." replied John, "I spotted it in Hart's workshop. I don't know why but the first time I saw it, I thought of you. So I ordered a custom-made Mirror Handcuffs with a key like this. I know they didn't really match, but actually what I wanted to give you is this key. It's the handcuffs that come with the key, not the other way around."
Sherlock picked the key up and scrutinized it. Normally he was not fond of useless accessories or trinkets, but this one was different in a way he could not explain. "John, I… I don't know what to say."
"Well, say thank you if you like it." John offered with a nervous smile.
Sherlock never found it easy to say thank you at receiving gifts, but he did like it and he wanted John to know how grateful he was. "Thank you, John." He said, somewhat unnaturally. He stared at John and saw him relax and smile cheerfully, and it was… beautiful? Sherlock was amazed that this word popped up in his mind. He opened his mouth, but failed to say anything.
He suddenly felt a strong urge to do something for John, to thank him for choosing such a brilliant gift, for valuing his role in his life, for remembering this day, for… everything, everything this short but steady man had ever done for him since one year and two days ago. But he didn't know what to do, what he should do or can do.
"I promise." He said abruptly, feeling surprised himself.
John frowned in confusion, "What?"
"I promise I won't do that again." said Sherlock, putting the lid back onto the grey box, "I won't disappear for days without notice again."
John grinned.
And now, he had lost it. He took the silver key with him when he set out for Devon, indeed he had been taking the key with him everywhere since he got it, and he lost it. Somewhere in Baskerville, or somewhere in Dartmoor. He hated his fear that night. If it were not for the demon hound to keep messing with his brain, he couldn't have lost it, or at least he couldn't have failed to recall where he had left it. But it was already too late. Sherlock clenched his jaw at the thought.
JOHN
The cab was on Abbey Road when they saw two police cars parking at the corner. "Stop." Sherlock instructed immediately. John had no idea why they were going to Paddington Old Cemetery, but he was sure that Sherlock stopped the cab because he saw the police cars. Sherlock had been agitated for days and John still couldn't figure out why. They had been silent all the way. Maybe an interesting case would do him good.
Five minutes later, they learned that a Turner masterpiece had been stolen from Auction House London. Sherlock tried to get into the crime scene but was blocked outside. He insulted the poor sergeant in charge and phoned Lestrade but received no answer. John was not surprised. Judging by the state of Scotland Yard this morning when he phoned, Lestrade must have been swamped by workload at present. John doubted that Sherlock could reach the Detective Inspector before the end of the day.
But he was wrong.
Five hours later, Lestrade walked out of the detention center with the great Sherlock Holmes following.
"I managed to square things with the desk sergeant." Lestrade said, in a tone teeming with exhaustion, "Now tell me what has got into you." The query was clearly to Sherlock.
Sherlock shrugged and tilted an innocent eyebrow heavenward, "Nothing. Just people are all so stupid."
"Stupid? I find nothing more stupid than insulting two attorneys in presence of a police officer, burglarizing two flats in a row, recklessly attacking an angry mob and ending up in custody in just, one, afternoon!" Lestrade shouted to Sherlock relentlessly, ignoring the appalled desk sergeant. John sensed a flavor of stress venting here. He knew that Sherlock would more likely to retort than to respond, so he tried to apologize for him before he had a chance to utilize his waspish tongue, "Sorry Lestrade, I'll make sure..."
"And you!" Lestrade growled at John, "Why didn't you stop him? Where were you when he was doing all those crazy things? I thought you could be his handler, not his accomplice!"
"I'm not his bloody handler!" John howled, losing patience. He had had a very rough afternoon chasing after Sherlock everywhere, shouting to him, grabbing him, doing whatever he could to rid them of trouble, and Lestrade's condemn was something he could live without, "For God's sake, I..."
"It's not John's fault." Sherlock said sharply, grabbing John's arm and pulling him backwards, "He did nothing wrong. It's all my fault. I'm sorry, Graham." He loosened his grip and padded on Lestrade's left shoulder, and turned to John, "Let's go home." Then he headed towards the gate without looking back, knowing John would follow him.
Both men were startled. Did Sherlock Holmes just say sorry in a genuine way? No sarcasm, no insults?
"What was that?" Lestrade grunted in disbelief, "Bloody hell you were right. He is definitely weird."
"Well, I'd better go." John said, "Don't know what's coming. Although the fact that he still calls you the wrong name is somewhat reassuring."
"Hey John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine." John grinned, "Don't work too hard."
Lestrade beamed in reply.
Fifteen minutes later, they were back to flat. Sherlock was quiet on the cab and John did not dare talk to him. In addition, he was quite sure his words would be lucky enough to make its way to Sherlock's ear and had no chance to make it to his brain.
He offered to examine Sherlock's wounds and Sherlock obeyed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" John broke the silence as he disinfected Sherlock's wound on his left abdomen. He had given up guessing what was going on and decided to ask him directly. Also, he had to divert his attention from the bare pale skin and lean muscle in front of his eyes, the heaving chest so near his hands and even worse, the occasional low-pitched moan escaping from Sherlock's mouth.
"About what?" enquired Sherlock.
"About today, about yesterday, about whatever it is that has kept you so unnerved since we came back from Dartmoor." John kept his eyes fixed on the wound. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him. How could the gaze of an icy man be so hot that he felt like he was burning? He knew it would be more dangerous if he looked into Sherlock's unfathomable eyes, because he wouldn't have a chance to get away if he did.
Sherlock didn't answer. John could feel his muscle tensing. "Why did you defend me today?" He kept asking.
"Because it was unfair. Lestrade shouldn't have blamed you." Sherlock said quietly.
That was so normal a reason, John thought, and normal was not a good word for Sherlock. He had to ask more questions, more subtly. He thought for a moment, searching for everything that might be relevant. How could he broach this with him?
"Er, where were you on Friday? I heard a blast in the morning, but you were gone when I came down." John ventured, "And you came back rather late." John was betting on a familiar "working" when he heard Sherlock say, "John, I don't want to talk about that." Then immediately he seemed to regret what he had said. Even John wouldn't miss that. He knew he was getting to it.
"So, in fact..." John reached for the bandage, "something happened on that day, right?" He raised his eyes to look at Sherlock habitually before he could stop himself. Sod it. His hands stopped.
Sherlock was looking down at him, boring into him, his sapphire eyes clouded by hesitance and uncertainty. John could feel the heat. Somehow, he wanted to dote on the man in front of him, letting him worry no more and be happy ever after. He wanted to free him from whatever anxiety he was feeling, even if it meant he would never realise what these emotions were. John hoped the time could freeze for a while, so that he could cup Sherlock's face, stroke his chins and stare at his eyes boldly, so that there would be no need for him to be careful not to reveal himself. But not now, not in the reality.
"Tell me, Sherlock." He said neutrally.
"Sorry, John." Sherlock stood up and broke off the gaze, "It was nothing. I'm going to take a shower." With that, he went back to his room.
John sat on the sofa for a while, cooling himself down. It just occurred to him that Sherlock said sorry again. Genuinely, twice, in a day. He decided he got to find the answer. John sighed. The result of this conversation was far from satisfactory, but at least now he had something to work on. All he had to do was to find out where Sherlock was on Friday. That couldn't be very difficult.
He started by asking Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Angelo... anyone who might know, except Mycroft, but none of them had the slightest clue. Mycroft would know for sure, but he decided he would only resort to Mycroft if he had nowhere else to go. Sherlock wouldn't be happy if John revealed anything about him to Mycroft, especially now the case at hand was special, at least he thought so. He checked his email account and his phone, as Sherlock used them constantly, but nothing led to his schedule on Friday. He scanned the browser history, still nothing. Think, Watson. Where else could you check?
He tried to recall how Sherlock searched for evidence all the time. By looking. Clearly not John's way out. He could never tell the major events of one man's past 12 hours by a napkin and the number on it. By eliminating. Well, places that Sherlock would go to outnumbered his girlfriends' names thousands to one. By guessing. But Sherlock's could-be destinations were far more than the number of rooms in Irene Adler's house. By leading on. That would be nice if they hadn't had that conversation on the sofa. John could have enticed Sherlock to contradict him. However he didn't dare bring up that topic again now. By asking. But John didn't know any experts on paint, not to mention on Sherlock's itinerary. Actually John believed himself to be the person with most knowledge of Sherlock's itinerary, of course after counting out Mycroft, and Anthea.
Wait. Asking? A light shone on him. The homeless network!
The next morning, John found the girl who helped them find Golem. He was worried that she would refuse to cooperate, but apparently his face, his name and some good money were more than enough. John had a strange feeling when he became aware that he was actually quite famous, because perhaps all the tramps in London could recognize his face and his identity as Sherlock Holmes' "live-in PA".
The answer emerged within one hour. Impressive.
John got a text from an unknown number at around 11AM: Paddington Station. First train to Devon.
John frowned. Sherlock went back to Dartmoor on Friday? Why? So it was related to his fear? What had he done in Dartmoor? Or was it just related to the case itself? Then why didn't he confess?
John looked up Henry Knight on his phone, and dialed the number.
SHERLOCK
Sherlock knew that John wouldn't let go easily, but he didn't expect him to find out the answer so quickly. Now they were in their chairs and the conversation was inevitable.
Sherlock had imagined John's reaction once he had found the truth. Would he be angry? What would he say? Would he be able to receive any more gifts from John? Most of the time John was predictable, as most people were, but Sherlock was not confident how John would react this time.
John cleared his throat and initiated, "So, you know why we are having this conversation?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Anything you'd like to confess?"
"You already knew."
"Yes, that's why you can confess now."
Sherlock groaned inside. Was John torturing him? Was this a part of the punishment?
"I lost the key." He said in a low voice, avoiding eye contact with John, but John wouldn't let him get away with it.
"Look at me, Sherlock." The captain instructed.
Sherlock obeyed unwillingly. He looked at John. John was calm, as always. He searched for traces of anger or disappointment on John's face, but strangely, he found none. Sherlock was bemused. Was it buried deep? When would it come out? How would it come out?
"And?" John queried.
Sherlock drew in a breath, puckered his lips and then exhaled, "And I felt… I don't know. I took it out on you, on strangers, on whoever I met during the past four days." Sherlock tried hard not to hear himself but his efforts were in vain. Admitting his emotions was already a torment, but hearing his own voice saying these words were insufferable.
"You felt what?" Another hard question. Oh, he was not going to see the end of this. "I don't know, John. I'm not good at feelings." Sherlock said dispiritedly.
"Just say the feelings you can name." John leaned forward in his chair and unfolded his arms.
Sherlock mused, "Fear. Not the same fear." He knew John was clear that he was referring to the hound, so he didn't elaborate, "And frustration. Regret. And...sorry?"
"Sorry?"
"Yes, I feel sorry."
"For losing my gift?"
Sherlock gave it a serious thought and said, "No, not exactly. I wouldn't feel so sorry if the belt was missing, or the CD." Then he realised maybe he shouldn't have said that, "I mean..."
"It's okay. Just speak your mind." John interrupted with a shrug, "So you liked it?"
"Of course I did! I still do though I don't have it any more. How can you not notice that? Why else would I take it with me to Dartmoor and everywhere?"
"Everywhere?" John was surprised, "You took it with you… everywhere?"
Sherlock didn't feel this fact needs any concealing, but his voice betrayed him, "Basically, yes?" He made it almost like a question. He noticed that John's lips curled slightly.
"Well, so, basically, you feel sorry for losing the key because you liked it very much and you couldn't acquire another one because it was custom-made?"
"No." Sherlock replied immediately without knowing why. The reason John offered seemed very close to truth, but why did he say no? Which part of the brain gave his mouth the instruction to say no? He had avoided analyzing his own feelings and emotions so hard for months, but such questions kept gnawing at him all the time. After he lost the key, the assault from these feelings upgraded as if they had been buried underground for so long and was desperate for air. His brain failed to function to the full for the last four days. Now it was time to think about it properly, Sherlock decided.
What if John had given him something else? Would he have been like this if someone else other than John had given him the key? What if it had been Molly's Christmas gift for him? No. Even if it had been John's Christmas gift for him, it would have been different.
"I can't say why." Sherlock said finally, meeting John's eyes, "but it was different because of three elements: the key itself, you and January 29th. All of them are special and unique. You gave me the key to celebrate the anniversary of the day we first met. Any change of these three elements would make this gift..." Sherlock searched for the word, "less special."
Actually, he knew that John was special. He had known it since the day they met. However, he couldn't figure out why the key was also such an important element, other than it must have something to do with its metaphorical meaning.
"I just can't control myself." Sherlock continued, "Sorry about the wall, and the kitchen, and the plates, and yesterday..."
John looked amazed, his eyes locked on Sherlock's, "So… You threw the dishes, went back to Dartmoor, fired at the wall, buried yourself in thoughts on the sofa, provoked the attorneys, fought with the mob and did all those crazy things… just because of this?"
"Basically, yes." Sherlock was unsure whether it was good or bad to confess, but he didn't want to lie to John about it, "Are you angry?"
"Can't you deduce that?"
"My deduction is that you're not, but it doesn't make sense. My brain was not working properly these days because of all the feelings and emotions, so I doubt..."
"Sherlock." John interrupted, actually smiling now, "I'm not."
Relief washer over Sherlock when he heard the word. He didn't move or blink for five seconds, just staring at John. Only then did he realize how anxious he was about John being angry. These feelings must have been hidden so deep that even he himself was fooled. The fear disappeared at the same time. John didn't ask what he was fearing and even if he did, Sherlock couldn't answer. He found himself smiling. He felt redeemed when he saw happiness and content flowing on John's face. Why? Why was he feeling this way? Why wasn't John angry? Why was John happy? Why couldn't he stop smiling?
Sherlock decided that he didn't need to know the answers now, that he didn't need to hurry. Someday he would know. Someday he would understand what he was feeling. Someday. Someday when Moriarty was defeated. Someday when he knew it was time. He didn't need to hurry, because John wasn't going to leave and he would guide him, because they were not going to part, because he had enough time to figure it out, because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was John Watson.
JOHN
They were at Auction House London, where the painting of the Reichenbach Fall was stolen three days ago. Sherlock was looking for clues and John was watching Sherlock, his flatmate, friend and secret love.
Sherlock was energetic and absorbed. He paced about the room and whipped out his magnifier now and then, murmuring words beyond comprehension and gesturing in the air. He was glowing. John loved that. John loved him.
Three months ago, John would not admit it. If Irene Adler never stirred their lives, perhaps John would still be dating woman and never admit to himself that he loved Sherlock. He meant it when he said he was not gay. He was not. He liked women most of the time. He could not deny that he had a crush on his previous commander, Major Sholto, but that was in the army, and it was not love. But Sherlock, he was the exception. If one wanted to describe John Watson's sexuality, one had to say "women plus Sherlock Holmes" to get a full score. Irene Adler succeeded by "look at us both."
It was on that exact day that John finally accepted the long-standing fact that he did love Sherlock. He had denied it for almost a year. Many reasons could account for his denial, among which one was that he saw no possibilities between them, and he didn't want to be smothered by the pain hopes could bring.
But then he saw Sherlock's vulnerability and susceptibility. He saw evidence suggesting that contrary to common belief, Sherlock Holmes had a heart and emotions run deep in him, strong emotions. On Christmas Day, when he saw the lanky and lonesome figure of his flatmate at the window, fiddling, composing, thinking, grieving, he got an uncontrollable urge to protect the man from any harm, physical or mental, any harm at all. He wanted to hug him, kiss him and comfort him. He might really have done it if he didn't have enough control to persuade himself to go out for some air. And then he met Irene Adler, who had the exactly same sexuality.
He knew he could no longer deceive himself. The connection, protectiveness, affection and jealousy he felt could be nothing else. And, equally important to him, he saw his chance. He chose to believe that the hope was after all not infinitely remote. He was convinced that Sherlock could feel, and more than that, could love. Although it must be very very hard, he chose to take his chance.
That was the meaning of the key. It was a present for Sherlock and a decision for John.
No one would be clearer than John that Sherlock was affected by The Woman too. The emotions he had long buried under his cold appearance were lured to emerge. If John ever considered Irene to be his rivalry, Sherlock's confess three days earlier were more than enough to untie the knot. He, John Watson, made Sherlock Holmes' brain yield to his emotions, even though just a little. It was more than most people ever achieved.
John had always been conservative about Sherlock's attitude to and feelings about him, but today, even in a conservative manner, John could say proudly that Sherlock valued and needed him, that he was special to that man. And this was enough for now.
"What are you smirking about?" Sherlock asked John while he was typing on the phone.
"Nothing." John gave him a big smile, "I'm just happy."
Sherlock glanced at John and started talking, "The room was locked when the painting was stolen. The cameras weren't functioning. Someone turned them off or more likely..."
John stared at Sherlock. Someday he would tell him. Someday. Someday when he had the courage. Someday when Sherlock was willing to reveal more of himself. Someday when Sherlock was no longer oblivious to his emotions. Someday. Someday when Moriarty was defeated. It wouldn't be too long. Even if it would, it didn't matter, because he would not leave Sherlock and Sherlock would not find another "John", because he was John Watson and he was Sherlock Holmes, because he had offered him the key to his heart, because he believed they were made for each other, because he loved him, because he couldn't see anything other than death that could do them apart - and no one was going to die.
It's my first attempt to write Johnlock. Please review and say something nice or I'll be scared and frustrated and never write again... Reviews are love!