John is sure he's never seen anyone exit a car as fast as Sherlock does when they arrive at the flat. He's quite certain the car hadn't stopped before the consulting detective wrenched the door open and propelled himself onto the pavement. Stuck with the bill, John dithers around in his wallet for a moment before he finds a £ 50 note that definitely hadn't been there this morning. He pays the cabbie the fee with a soft smile on his face, one he's sure the cabbie is interpreting in the entirely wrong way.
John simply can't bring himself to care.
When he finally arrives in the flat properly, John finds Sherlock supine on the couch, hands pressed together, tips of his long fingers just touching his chin. John removes his jacket and forcefully keeps his eyes away from the long, lean lines of his flatmate and the crown of dark curls spraying untidy across the pale forehead. He certainly doesn't notice one deep breath is enough to pop all the buttons on Sherlock's shirt.
Tea. He needs tea.
Finally having motivation to move somewhere helps. It's not until he's rummaging through the cabinets looking for mugs that he realizes this place feels like home. His hands still around what he thinks is a jar of fingernail clippings.
Home.
What an odd sensation. His army bedsit isn't what he'd call home unless forced, and his tent in Afghanistan was a far cry from anything resembling what the word home brought to mind. Even before that, living with Harry and his parents - surely that house had felt like home. Certainly it wouldn't now, though. He'd been a nomad ever since the night he and Harry had been thrown out - Harry for loving Clara, John for being on his sister's side. And yet he's spent a total of what, maybe 20 minutes in the flat? He's not even seen the bedrooms. Something, though, has taken root in his soul and is telling him this is where he needs to be. He shakes his head, smiling. Christ that sounds trite, even in his head.
It does not, however, make it any less true.
"Shall I reach something for you, doctor?"
John is certain his heart is not supposed to stop beating like that. He's also quite sure knees are supposed to hold their owner upright, not turn to jelly when a tall, handsome detective reaches up to grab a mug. If he turns his head just slightly to the left, he'll have a face full of silk shirt and pale chest and while this is something he does, in fact, want very much, it seems a touch forward when he is positive the attention would be unwanted.
Sherlock peels himself away from John's back, triumphantly hoisting two mugs in one large hand. One is blue and white with stripes, the other is patterned with umbrellas. When Sherlock sees John staring at the patterned one, he grins for a moment.
"Knicked it from Mycroft when he was being annoying. It's his favourite. He still has no idea what happened to it." John chuckles at the wicked glint in Sherlock's light eyes. He potters around, searching for a kettle (on top of the fridge), tea bags (in a bread bin), sugar (under the sink), and two spoons (in the silverware drawer, and John is surprised that he's surprised). Sherlock retires to the sofa, bored with mundane domesticity, but shouts ideas about the case and abuse about people at the Yard, someone named Anderson in particular. Mostly John listens without comment, trying to make himself at home. He'll feel better once he's moved in his few belongings. Speaking of, he still needs to see that bedroom...
"John, are you listening?" Sherlock snaps as John lowers himself into the chair across from the sofa. He freezes, considers lying, and then decides against it, as Sherlock would know anyway.
"No, sorry, I was busy. Drink your tea." John sinks back into the cushion, cup and saucer in one hand, settling his cane in the other, and relishing the look on Sherlock's face. It's a mixture of confusion, irritation, and shrewd interest. He does, however, take a small sip and John counts this as a victory. Sherlock had eaten little that night when they went to Angelo's - Christ was that only last night? - and it's clear that was a regular occurrence. Somehow, though, he doesn't exhibit the signs of the malnourished. John cocks his head to one side, studying Sherlock with a doctor's eye. Terribly thin, but no swollen abdomen. Reaction time seems normal - well, faster than normal, but malnutrition causes slower reaction times. The skin doesn't look abnormally dry, though he'd have to have a closer look to be sure. And wouldn't that be -
John shakes himself mentally. If he's going to live and work with Sherlock Holmes, his schoolboy crush would need to take a permanent backseat. Rising from his reverie, he glances at Sherlock's mug - empty. John permits himself a small grin as he finishes his own tea and waits for the genius to rise again.
It's not until John wakes from a doze that he realizes it's almost 2am. He recounts where his time has gone - they'd met here at the flat 7 in the evening, then Lestrade had arrived soon after. Crime scene, Bart's, back to the flat... blimey. He's not as young as he used to be. Sherlock has disappeared from the sofa, presumably to his room - his furnished room.
Bollocks.
Preparing himself for a night on the couch, John looks around the flat and is surprised to see his own luggage by the stairs to the second bedroom. Curious, he ascends the stairs to find a small but tidy room at the top. His clothes have been unpacked, as well as his laptop and other accoutrements. He wonders where his gun ended up, but is too tired to do any searching. Pulling off his clothes, he falls into bed and a dreamless sleep - the first since returning from Afghanistan.
It's only a few hours later that John wakes with a start and sees a dark shadow at the foot of his bed. Disoriented, he yelps, scrabbling for his gun even though he hasn't the faintest inkling as to where it might be in his new room.
"I solved it."
Sherlock's deep voice penetrates the fog around John's brain and he stills, remembering where he is. Also that he's sleeping only in his pants.
"Solved..."
"Yes, John. The man who was in the fire? Easy, really, once Molly let me see the body."
"When did you - "
"She texted me around midnight and told me she was ready. I left immediately."
"Without me."
"You'd only have fallen asleep at Bart's. I assume you were more comfortable here in your own bed."
John can't deny that. He'd spent his share of nights in classrooms and on call rooms at Bart's and isn't keen to do it again.
"So it's done? The woman is safe?" John throws back the covers and goes to his chest of drawers for new clothes. With his back turned, he doesn't see the lingering, heated gaze Sherlock levels at his near-naked body. Quicksilver eyes travel up muscled calves to a slim waist and well-defined shoulders. Sherlock's blood runs hot watching the play of muscles in John's arms as he dons a t-shirt and jeans. Then he remembers the question John asked, and his face falls. He'd forgotten to call. The body had been so fascinating, the crime so elegant...
"Sherlock? You did make sure she's safe, didn't you?" John's voice is hard, a note of something Sherlock hasn't heard there before running as an undercurrent.
"I was about to. I wanted you to be present when it occurs." Sherlock lies too easily. He couldn't bear to see the look on John's face that he's seen on so many others - disappointment. It's never bothered him before, what people think. There have been so many other times when he's done or said something that seems natural to him but is clearly not socially acceptable. Lestrade has made that face more times than Sherlock can count, but it's never been a problem. With John, though, it feels different.
"I'm present now, Sherlock! Call him and make sure she's okay!" John yells, and Sherlock flinches out of his reverie.
"I'll get Lestrade in on a three-way call. I'm doing it!" Sherlock protests as John advances, desperate not to be in close proximity until he understands more fully what his body is feeling. He notices, however, that the fire in John's eyes is not just anger - it's a primal heat that Sherlock's brain understands as attraction.
Intriguing.
"It's solved." Sherlock grates into the phone when Lestrade picks up. "Calling him now."
Sherlock puts the call on speaker so John can hear without standing pressed up next to him. Then he paces the living room, waiting for someone to answer. John stands behind his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
Three rings.
Four.
Five.
"About out of time, aren't you, Sherlock?" The woman's voice crackles through the connection. Sherlock breathes a silent sigh of relief while John scrubs a hand down his face, tension leaving his shoulders in minute increments. His lips, however, remain pursed. Sherlock could spend the entire day looking at John's lips, studying them, experimenting when how they move within different emotions, moods -
"It's solved." Sherlock runs through the finer details at a pace with which John can't keep up. Of course, he doesn't try very hard. His chest tightens and his breath comes in odd pants - the makings of a panic attack. Tuning out Sherlock's lightning-fast deductions, he calls up from the dredges of his memory some breathing exercises from what seems like another lifetime when he took some yoga classes. He concentrates on filling his lungs and breathing to the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. Slowly, the band of tension around John's chest loosens and his heart stops pounding. When Sherlock stops speaking, there's a deafening silence on the other end of the line until finally:
"I'm at Grosvenor Square and I think I'm wearing bombs ..." the woman bursts into tears and Lestrade reassures her that he and his team will be there within minutes. The policeman ends the call abruptly, but Sherlock and John stay on the line until they hear the sirens in the background. Once they're sure Lestrade has her, Sherlock disconnects the call.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock doesn't make eye contact when he asks the question, but John can tell by the tension in his shoulders that Sherlock was worried for him. "You looked - "
"I'm fine, yeah. Thanks. Nothing a cup of tea won't fix." John says with false cheeriness. Sherlock is not convinced, but only narrows his eyes and says nothing.
John, preoccupied with the phone call and the near-panic attack, doesn't notice his cane is still upstairs in his bedroom, forgotten.
Sherlock watches John through narrowed eyes. He'd been correct, of course, about the limp being psychosomatic. Right now, however, he's less interested in gloating than he is about what had happened not ten minutes ago. During the phone call, he'd noticed the change in John's breathing, had known a panic attack was imminent, and his first instinct was to drop the phone and help calm his -
His what? Colleague? Flatmate?
Friend?
He shakes himself mentally. He's Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't need friends. The only thing that matters is the work.
At least, that's what he tries to convince himself of as he watches John move easily through the kitchen, comfortable even though it's only his second or third time in it. For a moment, Sherlock let himself wonder what it would be like to be in a relationship, to allow himself to be ruled by emotion instead of reason, to be half of a whole instead of a solitary figure.
Too risky.
No, remaining detached is vastly preferable.
So when John glances up and meets his eyes, he ignores the rush of warmth in his stomach. When John smiles at him, Sherlock fights the absurd urge to smile back. The tea John places at his elbow is ignored, but John doesn't get upset. The older man lowers himself stiffly to the couch, flicks on the telly, and leans back with a sigh. He'll be asleep in less than 25 minutes, by Sherlock's estimation.
He's correct, of course. Sherlock finds the occasional snore far too endearing and unfolds himself from the window ledge. He strides purposefully across the living room towards his bedroom, but glances toward the sleeping man on the couch and stops in his tracks. John looks younger, softer, when he sleeps. Vulnerable. A wayward lock of hair has tumbled across the lined forehead, and Sherlock finds himself brushing it away gently before he can stop himself. John stretches his neck toward the touch, trying to remain in contact, but Sherlock snaps his hand away and flees from the room. He crawls under his sheets, still fully clothed, and closes his eyes, building up his walls again.
Alone is what he has.
Alone protects him.
A phone is ringing incessantly.
It's not his phone; it doesn't make that noise. Nor does Sherlock's.
Shit. Shit shit shit it's The Phone.
He refuses to consider what might happen if it's not answered. Heaving himself off the couch, he scurries around in an attempt to find the device. Sherlock, clearly in a similar mindset, charges out of his room wearing only his trousers from the night before, curls forming a wild crown around his pale face. He fishes the phone out of the pocket of his coat and swipes at the screen to answer the call. John holds his breath, staring at Sherlock. The detective is pale, but looks like he may have slept a few hours.
"Caught you sleeping, did I, Sherlock?"
John tastes bile at the back of his throat. He can't have done... this is too much, even for him.
Pale, sharp eyes meet blue. Wait, Sherlock's seem to say. Wait until it's over. John nods once, jaw clenched.
"Must keep the strength up for our game." Sherlock quips.
"Hope you got plenty of rest, because today you have 12 hours to solve what I've left for you. I don't need to tell you what happens if you're too late, do I?"
"Certainly not."
"Ta ta, then." And the line goes dead.
"Children? He's kidnapping children now?"
"Evidently." Sherlock methodically checks his messages, his email, the news. His voice is carefully blank, unemotional. Sherlock's phone rings just as John opens his mouth to say some decidedly awful things. "Lestrade."
John's fists clench and unclench while he waits for Sherlock to get off the phone and tell him something. The little girl's voice from the phone echoes in his ears and threatens to drown him. Finally, Sherlock ends the call, sets his phone on the arm of the chair, crosses his legs, and steeples his fingers under his chin. And says nothing.
"Well?"
"Thinking."
"Thin-" John splutters, and the dam cracks. He crosses the room in a burst of furious energy and leans down into the detective's long face, hands on the arms of the chair. "This is not a game anymore, Holmes. There is a child at risk. You need to let me help. It's not about cleverness, or glory, or whatever. She needs to be found."
John's harsh breathing is the only sound in the flat. They stare at each other, both surprised at John's outburst. Then John's gaze drops to Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock unconsciously moves toward him.
Sherlock's phone rings again, breaking the spell. John shoves away from the chair, scrubbing a hand over his face as he stalks to his bedroom. He manages to keep from slamming the door like he wants to, but paces furiously through the small space. He's angry at Sherlock, at himself, at whoever rang Sherlock's mobile right at that moment, at the mysterious criminal for getting him into this situation. Muttering to himself about tall, handsome gits, he sits heavily on the bed and looks toward the window.
His cane is leaning up against the sill.
He's been without it the entire day.
Because of the case, he hasn't even thought about it. Because of the adrenaline, the breakneck pace at which they've been going.
Because of Sherlock.
For long moments he sits, staring at the cane, realizing what it means.
"Bollocks."