*I want to thank anyone who has read or continues to read this story. I was very apprehensive about posting it at first, but now I'm over halfway to 3,000 viewers, and have 19 followers! It makes me ecstatic to know that people like this. Also, sorry that there is no rhyme or reason to when I post, I try to do it every three days or so.
John rushed into the kitchen and fell against the counter while breathing heavily. He busied himself with preparing the kettle for some tea.
What the bloody hell was that? John wondered. I could have sworn he was going to kiss me, but he just hung there with those gorgeous eyes practically staring through my soul.
John chuckled at how stupid that sounded, but it was true. John had felt as if those eyes, which missed nothing, had probed him inside and out, searching the inner reachings of his mind while simultaneously cataloging his physical reactions.
At this moment, Sherlock dashed through the living room, scooped up his violin, then locked himself in his room. John felt as if a tornado had just whirled through the room, blowing away John's train of thought.
God how I've missed that man John smiled to himself. The kettle was boiling as the saddest sound John had ever heard leaked out of Sherlock's room and permeated the air with depressing emotion. It sounded like Hell warmed over, and John wondered what could possibly inspire that morbid noise to come from Sherlock's usually gorgeous sounding music. John sat in his favorite chair with his cup of tea. He grabbed the book that he had been unsuccessfully working on.
John couldn't get into his book, as the music coming from behind the locked door was enrapturing. It was bursting with emotion; currently it was full of a deep pain. It reminded John of background music that would play during a breakup scene. It was full of rejection and frustration. It drug up John's memories of when his mother had left all those years ago. He was wallowing in these memories when the music changed. It was light and frothy, much like a cold beer on a warm night with a first date. It filled him with content and easy feeling, the way life in the flat had felt before the fall.
John shuddered, because the music had shifted again, this time with his memories. It was very angsty and decisive. It was laced with a spited finality. This music brought the fall to the forefront of his mind, filling him with the horrible thoughts from right after the fall. A single tear rolled down John's face as these memories were dredged back up. He shook his head to chase away these thoughts.
He's back now, and that is all that matters John firmly asserted to himself. He pushed himself out of the chair, put the book, which he had made absolutely no progress in, aside, and walked back into the kitchen. John put his teacup under the faucet, ran some water into the cup, and swirled it around to wash it out.
Suddenly the music ceased. A little put out, John crept over to Sherlock's door. He pressed his ear to the wood, straining to hear signs of life from within. He didn't hear any noise, which was surprising, as Sherlock was hardly ever sedentary, unless...
He must have gone into his mind palace. Curious, why would he be in there? John wondered, but ultimately left him to work out whatever problem he was having. If he needed John, he could come ask. It was a little after one, so the ex-army doctor decided to treat himself to a lunch out, after which he would go grocery shopping. The food in the flat was tea, which was good, but would not function as any meal. John returned to the flat just before 5, lugging all the groceries up the seventeen stairs to 221B Baker Street. He put the kettle on, eager for some warm tea to warm him up from the blustery weather outside. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, John put up all the groceries. Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen, or heard for that matter. John was concerned, but left him alone.
He'll come out he wants to John reasoned to reassure himself. He prepared his tea and took it with him up to his room to get ready for his shift at the surgery. He was a little excited, as a new doctor had recently been hired, and she was cute. John was pretty sure she had the late shift too. Now that Sherlock was back, John felt like the world was more right, and could actually think about things like going on dates again. He resolved himself to talking to her tonight.
Mary, I'm pretty sure that's her name John thought. He hurried out to the surgery, eager to try this prospect. That night, he was rather distracted. He tried to talk to Mary every chance he got, but they only managed a few fleeting and friendly comments while they were working. John also couldn't stop thinking about the curious actions, or lack thereof, of Sherlock. It was like trying to concentrate on three things at once, and it fatigued John. He got of at midnight, thankfully.
As he was leaving, he noticed Mary out in front of him.
"Hey, Mary!" He yelled and jogged to catch up with her. When he got there he just looked at her and smiled for a second.
"Hey, John," she replied and smiled in turn "did you need something?"
John stood there completely dumbfounded for a moment, as he had no idea what to say.
"I- I-uh... just thought..er- just thought I'd-ah...thought I'd welcome you to the new job!" John finally managed. Mary laughed as he bumbled his way through the sentence.
"Thanks, John. Your cute ya know." Mary said smiling flirtatiously at him. John felt his cheeks redden.
"Thanks-I mean... ah-you're welcome..." John mumbled with embarrassment, "here's my number, text me whenever. I'll see ya tomorrow night?"
"Sure." Mary said with a smile. John gave her a smile back, then called a cab to take him back to the apartment. Exhaustion flooded through him, but he smiled thinking about his prospects with Mary, his problems with Sherlock all but forgotten. He trudged up the steps to the flat, and once inside, he made it as far as the couch, where he collapsed upon it, pulled of his shoes, and promptly fell asleep.
He woke up earlier than normal, and a more stiff than normal. As he sat up and stretched, he noticed a note that had been situated on his chest. It was addressed to him in a loopy, familiar scrawl. His thoughts turned to Sherlock, and he noticed that the flat was quiet.
Very unlike Sherlock to still be asleep, I hope he is OK and not sick. John was concerned for his friend, as he had spent all of yesterday in his room. John left the note on the coffee table, and went to start the kettle, hoping that some morning tea would coax Sherlock out. He also popped some toast in, as it was highly unlikely that Sherlock had eaten anytime recently. He went back to the couch to await the tea and toast. He realized as he was folding up the blanket that he covered up with, that he hadn't had any dream last night. At all. No nightmares, which had seemed to haunt every night since he went to Afghanistan. It was just a period of unconsciousness. He had some nights like that only after he moved in with Sherlock, but never since the fall. It left him feeling well was tea kettle started whistling, so John got up to go prepare the tea and the toast he knew would be popping up soon. As he stood up, he noticed the note he had left minutes ago.
I'm getting so forgetful John worried I wonder what it's about. Sherlock must have come out last night after I was asleep. John moved to the kitchen with the note to take the kettle off. He grabbed two teacups, two teabags, and prepared the tea, then unfolded the note. John dropped to his butt on the floor in surprise. The quick movement caused a bolt of pain up his leg, but he ignored it and leaned back against the cabinets. The note read:
John,
Do you like me? []Yes []No
Love, Sherlock
Love Sherlock? John was very confused and more than a little surprised. But he also felt a little warm fluttery sensation in his chest. I'm not gay! John thought. It sounded more like an excuse than a fact, and made for a weak argument against himself. He reread the note, as if trying to find some deeper hidden meaning between the lines.
Love, Sherlock
Love? I never thought Sherlock could feel such a complex emotion, least of all for me. I'm just boring John Watson, and he's bloody magnificent Sherlock Holmes! John thought some more and realized that he liked the fact that he could make Sherlock feel. That he was the one person who could love Sherlock. It sent little shivers down his spine.
BUT I'M NOT GAY! Some part of his mind rebelled against the good feelings he was getting from potentially entering a homosexual relationship. He knew this part was deeply rooted in the effect coming out would have on his relationship with his father. The look of sheer detestment on his face caused a deep apprehension in John. He never wanted to be on the receiving end of that look.
So John debated back and forth with himself, the two sides battling for the war. On one hand, he had Sherlock, genius and full of adventure. But the other side took the form of Mary. There was the thrill of the chase, and a general acceptance in society. The battle was waged hard, each side sustaining some major hits, but one side was clearly winning from the beginning. As he made his choice, John wondered if there ever had been a choice. H carefully recorded his decision for Sherlock, and slipped the paper under Sherlock's door. If the detective was indeed asleep, John wanted to leave him that way, since he slept so seldom at other times. He then went and buttered the cooled toast and sipped his cool tea. John waited.