Chapter 4
From that morning on it just felt normal for them to sleep together – well, not normal; every time it was exquisite to curl up together, exchange a goodnight kiss (or more than one) and to wake up in each other's arms in the morning. The criminal world still was extremely calm, though, and a few days later Sherlock was busy expelling his boredom with an experiment, when John came in with the shopping. He almost dropped everything as the incredibly nasty smell struck him. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing?"
Sherlock emerged from the kitchen. "Butyric acid," he explained. "I was doing an experiment, and accidentally spilled it on the floor. The smell should be gone in a week or so." He wrinkled his nose. It did smell rather like someone had been sick. "Better keep the windows open till then."
"A week? Sherlock, you ... you are mad. We're supposed to live here, remember? Why don't you ever think before you do something? It's bloody freezing outdoors, we can't leave the windows open for a week," John bristled.
Sherlock looked hurt. "It's not like I planned to spill it," he snapped back.
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He walked to the window and opened it, anger still bubbling in him. "Perhaps I should go live somewhere else for a week."
"Perhaps you should!" Sherlock stormed to his room, slamming the door behind him.
John just stood in the kitchen, staring at Sherlock's bedroom door. He was angry and he had never really considered living somewhere else, of course, but he had never expected such a fierce reaction from Sherlock on him mentioning it. Feeling beaten, he sat down in a chair, but wrinkled his nose at the smell.
Sherlock threw himself on the bed, sulking. John was being unreasonable. It had been an accident. And the smell would go away. Eventually.
After a while, John decided to go out for a walk. The stink was really unbearable and he didn't even want to think of eating dinner in the flat. For a moment he wondered whether he should ask Sherlock to join him so he would actually eat, but he was still angry and decided against it. He shut the door a little too hard behind him, so Sherlock would hear he was out.
At the sound of the door Sherlock froze. Had he actually done it? Had John left? He bolted out of his room. As his eyes took in the empty rooms, his insides turned into ice.
John felt lonely as he walked into a small restaurant for a quick bite. He sat down and ordered something cheap to eat, not caring much about it, and turned around as he heard new customers walk in. "Oy, John! Fancy you sitting here. Where's Sherlock?" Mike Stamford asked.
Sherlock tried focusing on his experiment, but the smell was too distracting. Soon he was pacing the flat. Where could John have gone? To a friend's house? He didn't have a girlfriend at the moment. Did he?
Even when John's meal was already finished, Mike and his wife kept talking and talking and didn't listen to his protests when they bought him another drink. He had a good time, but he was starting to feel guilty about keeping Sherlock in the dark - telling himself not to, because the other man probably wouldn't even have noticed that he was gone.
He wasn't sure how long he had been pacing the darkening rooms. In the end Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed his coat and scarf and headed out into the streets, not really sure where he was going.
Eventually John could excuse himself and quickly walked back home. His jacket was a bit too thin for the cold and he felt frozen when he arrived in the empty flat. "Sherlock?" He sighed when he realized that the detective wasn't there, and started coughing immediately afterwards because the acid was of course still hanging in the air.
Sherlock ended up in a park he knew well from his interactions with his homeless network. He found a secluded corner by a playground, where no-one had settled down for the night yet, and sat down, pulling his coat around him. His hands were freezing, so he thrust them deep into his pockets. That was when he realized he had left his phone at home.
John put on the kettle - tea would warm him up a bit - and tried calling Sherlock, but he heard his flatmate's phone buzz in the next room and realized that it wasn't any use. "Great," he muttered to himself. He put his tea cup down in the sink and decided to take a shower.
Sherlock's body was getting pretty cold. He could easily have ignored it by entering his mind palace, but right now he welcomed the discomfort. He needed something to keep his mind off... other things.
John sighed. He had taken a long shower and put on his pyjamas, but Sherlock still wasn't anywhere to see. He put on the telly and grabbed his phone to send Molly and Lestrade the same message. 'Is Sherlock with you?'
Sherlock was shaken from his self-inflicted misery by the sound of voices. Two men, just beyond the bushes. He caught a few words and gasped. A deal. Sherlock swallowed convulsively, his hand instinctively checking his pockets for money.
Both answers had been negative, and John started to get worried. Of course, it was Sherlock; it wasn't the first time that he had rushed out at night for some experiment that required moonlight or whatever it was that went on in his mind, but it also meant that he could do stupid, dangerous things. For a moment John thought of going to look for him, but then Sherlock could really be anywhere, even another country if he had been contacted for a case abroad. Although John hoped that he would at least have sent him a text then. He thought of one other solution, but he was far too proud to contact Mycroft and settled on gnawing his lip.
Sherlock had the money in his hand, when he thought better of it. He turned and ran, out of the park, into the empty streets. When he stopped running, he realized he was almost home. But he couldn't go home. Not to the empty, cold, stinking flat, that had no John in it. He'd just walk by though. Just have a look.
With a sigh, John turned off the television. There was nothing on that could catch his attention and it was probably better if he just went to sleep and Sherlock would show up, eventually. He took a last deep breath of fresh air before he closed the windows and pulled the curtains in front of them.
Sherlock's heart fell when he saw the dark windows. He hadn't really expected John to have returned, but still... He walked on, but then his mind, unusually slow, caught up. The windows were closed! He was certain he had left them open. Of course, Mrs. Hudson might have closed them, but he doubted she would have entered the flat in its current smelly state. So... It must be John. Was he still there? Hardly daring to hope, Sherlock found his key and let himself in.
John decided that he could as well sleep in Sherlock's bed if the other man wasn't there. After all he had slept there during the last few nights and Sherlock probably wouldn't mind, even if he did show up tonight - unless he would still be angry, but at least they would talk then. He lay down, pulled the covers up and sighed, missing Sherlock's warm body in the bed.
The flat was dark, and the horrible smell was thick in the air. But he could still sense it. That undefinable feeling of John. He must have gotten home not too long after Sherlock left. Had he been worried? Or was he still angry? Surely he had waited for Sherlock to get home, but he must have given up. Gone to bed. That was okay. Just knowing he was here was enough. For now. Sherlock collapsed in his chair, letting relief wash over him, and soon he drifted off to sleep.
John tossed and turned for a while, and he hadn't heard Sherlock come in. After a few hours he gave up and got up for a glass of water. He walked to the kitchen and only when he came back, did he notice the dark figure in Sherlock's chair. "Sherlock?" he said, quietly moving closer.
John's voice intruded on Sherlock's dream, which turned from grey and anxious to warm and comfortable. "John" he murmured in his sleep and smiled.
"Sherlock, wake up." John lightly shook the other man's shoulder.
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. When he registered who was in front of him, his arms shot out, pulling John in to a bone-crunching hug.
"Wow, Sherlock, are you trying to strangle me or is this a hug? Anyway, you're far too cold! You should have gone to bed, you idiot. Or have a hot shower. Where were you, anyway?"
Sherlock shrugged, not letting go. "I was lost." He answered.
"Lost? You know the whole map of London by heart!"
Sherlock smiled to himself. "I wasn't really thinking about where I was going."
John gave him a stern look, but then changed his mind. "Come on, we can talk in bed. You're a walking ice cube."
"Hmmmm." Sherlock slowly unfurled from the chair and let himself be lead into the bedroom. Once there, he just flopped down on the bed and curled up in a ball of contentment.
John snuggled against him, trying to warm as much of the other man as he could, hissing at the contact with the cold limbs. "You really are an idiot, you know."
"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, already more than half asleep. "I love you too." He started snoring.
John pulled up his eyebrows in surprise. "Alright," he mumbled in the dark, not sure whether Sherlock had been sarcastic or not. He decided to put it out of his head until morning and a few minutes later he was also sound asleep.
(Writing this with The Lady of Purpletown has, as always, been a pleasure)
