So just let me complain that I had written half of this chapter and then went to save and FF crapped out so I had to write it again.
Never Fear, I think I might have made it a little bit better, but nevertheless this is why it's taking a bit to update.
Anywhoo, Reviews are lovely, flattery is better.
Good new: This chapter is uber, uber long.
Bad News: I'm leaving until Sunday the 4th. So it'll be awhile, but once I come back, the updates will be fluid.
Peace&Love
"Bored." John nearly drops his mug. He knows he should be use to this by now, he knows that Sherlock likes to announce how bored his is, yet whenever the thoughts intrude John can't help but be surprised. The doctor has lost count of how many mugs have lost their lives to Sherlock's outbursts.
"Bored!" John sighs, he ignores the detective and keeps eating his toast, reading the paper in the little space that isn't filled with experiments or the detective's microscope, at the crowded kitchen table. He hears rustling of Sherlock's dressing gown against the couch, where the temporarily invalided man is 'resting'. John snorts, Sherlock doesn't do 'resting'. He does dangerous chases throughout London, he does numerous insults to Anderson and Donovan, he does flippant deductions to strangers. He doesn't do resting, the genius doesn't sit at home, bed ridden his arm in a sling and his injured shoulder immobilsed to the best of John's ability. Try making a violinist stare at his violin all day without twisting his injury in discomfort in order to play said violin in his boredom.
Thank god Lestrade is bringing over cold cases for the detective to work on while he heals.
Believe it or not, they just got home from the hospital three days ago, and this is the first time that Sherlock has announced his boredom. John honestly thought it would have been sooner. Instead, the detective actually sleep the first day back, or more like passed out from exhaustion. Although the detective will never admit it, getting shot in the shoulder actually tired the man, more so than John ever thought possible. John didn't say a word, he let the younger man sleep, and John was happy to sleep right next to him, for his own selfish, comforting needs. John spent that day with his arms wrapped tightly, protectively around the detective, watching the colors and the images, both positive and negative ones, fill the genius's sleeping brain. John even tried controlling some of his dreams, when the detective started to see too much red, John would intervene and bring up happy memories with purples and blues and yellows.
For the most part it worked, Sherlock didn't have any nightmares and when he woke up from his almost day long slumber, he appeared to be extremely well rested, more well rested than John had ever seen him.
"Bored," John finishes the last of his breakfast and deposits his plate in the sink. Taking extra care in washes the plate to make sure it is sparkly clean.
"Are you ignoring me John?" The doctor resist the urge to snigger at the petulant tone of the detective. Instead, as he refills his tea, he decides to open up the connection between them and push warming thoughts and feelings to 'entertain' the detective, a technique he mastered yesterday.
On the second day, John wanted to prolong the inevitable and declared the detective could experiment with the doctor's telepathy as long as the two didn't leave the house. Sherlock, gleefully and almost devilishly agreed. The spent most of the day working on enhancing John's ability to influence emotions and feelings into another person, first through tactile methods and then solely through mental connections.
John easily mastered the tactile techniques and could make Sherlock feel safe and warm and calm and happy and euphoric. Then John could make Sherlock feel, very reluctantly on John's part, angry and sad and grief-stricken (so much that the detective had tears coming down his face in which John quickly brought back the euphoria) and frustration.
The doctor spent most of the day in shock in the new aspects of his ability.
Sending the feelings without touching was a little harder for John. At first, he had to really focus on Sherlock, inhale the lilac and taste the honey until it consumed him. Then he was able to transfer safety and happiness. Sherlock admitted they were weak compared to the tactile method, but with practice they could become stronger.
The detective made John enhance the feelings vibrancy by testing it out on the passerbys of Baker Street from the window. John was reluctant but one look at Sherlock's smile and the genius's arm in a sling, John gave in wholeheartedly.
He latched onto a women walking down the street, clad in a fake fur coat and sleek black high heels, her walking was fast and jagged. John opened up the connection and closed his eyes to situate himself into her mind. She was thinking about a new editorial for work and how her deadline was soon, John ignore her ramblings and instead tried to find her senses. He didn't smell the roses right away, he had to dip in and out of her thoughts and look underneath the surface to find the smell. Once he found the scent, he picked up on her coffee taste easily. All in all, her senses were nice and appealing even. John lets the senses flow through him and immediately planted a calming feeling, he opened his eyes and found the woman had slowed down significantly and a smile had shone on her lips.
John beamed with happiness. Something about having the ability to control someone else's happiness make John blissful and feel useful, deep down it also scared him, the power he held over people's minds scared the doctor more than he is willing to admit.
He pushed more thoughts of calm into the woman as he back out slowly. Her pace stayed languid all the way down Baker Street, the calm still insider her. John wondered idly how long she would feel his influence.
The doctor turned to look at Sherlock and smiled, the detective beamed back, his eyes crinkling with...pride...happiness. John didn't know, he instead wrapped his arms around the detective, letting his own happiness and euphoria fill the sitting room.
For the rest of the afternoon, John stared out the window of 221B Baker Street, influencing people's moods.
He did this for multiple reasons,
1. This is for experiment purposes, John will not have another opportunity to do this to people unless for emergencies, so he wanted to 'practice' as much as he could.
2. It makes the doctor happy to see someone who looks so sad walking down the street to looking extremely happy and practically skipping. It makes John proud that he can turn people's emotions around. (Then again, John couldn't help but wonder if influencing other peoples' feelings was just like giving false hope, feelings that don't exist. "Does that really matter? They get to feel happy, they don't know it's you who is doing it. They just feel happy. That's enough." Sherlock had stated when John voiced his concerns. The detective could be sentimental when he wanted to).
3. No extreme side effects came up which means it is relatively safe to do this type of telepathy
4. Sherlock once never claimed he was bored, as he watched John's smile grow wider and wider each time he made someone else happy.
By the end of the experiment/afternoon, John's face was practically smashed up against the glass like a child at a candy store. Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh and pulled John to the sofa where the spent the night watching crap telly and snuggling. John occasionally sending blissful feelings into Sherlock, the detective didn't mind because the thoughts were already there, Sherlock was already happy.
So as Sherlock lays on the couch, expressing his boredom to John's mentality. John takes he newly found gift aspect and uses it for the greater good. He pushes thoughts of calm and serenity into the detective, causing the petulant man-child to calm down, relax and heal.
"That's not fair." Sherlock yells to the doctor. John just laughs and walks into the sitting room, bringing his new mug of tea with him. He plops down onto the chair and grabs his laptop. He hasn't updated his blog since before the intruder and it is in need of some new posts.
"Bored."
John continues to ignore the man and the pair sit in silence for awhile. Sherlock deciding to go silent much to the relief of John.
Sherlock decides to break that silence an hour later.
"John, how did you...how did you kill that man?" Sherlock stammers uncertainly. John doesn't react to the question, he just continues typing, continues what he is doing, mostly because there is nothing to react to. Lestrade had asked the same question, albeit differently. It was the reason he left the hospital, Donovan noticed the man had no wounds on him and immediately suspected weirdness from the two men who live at Baker Street, even though they were the ones who were attacked.
Lestrade came back sometime during Sherlock's stay at the hospital and got both their statements, particularly how the man died. John told Lestrade the truth, that he didn't know. One minute the man was fighting and struggling, pinning John down and pointing a gun at Sherlock and the next, he was down, dead next to him. John suggested aneurism or heartattack. Lestrade believed the doctor's story, and why shouldn't he? It would be more farfetched to explain that John is a telepath who somehow managed to dig into another man's mind and kill him.
"John."
"I don't know, Sherlock." John replies honestly, he should feel remorse for killing that man, he should feel fear at how he did it, he should feel apprehension at how strong his gift is and how potentially dangerous he could be. Instead he feel relief, relief that Sherlock is alive, relief that both of them are still able to fight another day.
"Did you do it with your mind?" Sherlock asks timidly, John stops typing and whirls his head to look at the detective. The younger man is shifting in discomfort, John can't quite place what the detective is feeling, then suddenly John gets a thought.
"You are scared of me." John says, his tone a little sad and wary. The doctor turns his head back to the blurring keyboard in front of him. He knew this day would come, the day when Sherlock Holmes figures out how much of a freak and dangerous John Watson is. John wallows in self-pity for a few minutes, his eyes unfocused in thought and his emotions running wild.
"No." Sherlock states confidently.
"What?" John asks stupidly, looking at the detective once again.
"No, I'm not scared of you. In fact, there are exactly, three hundred and forty three things I would list as being scarier than you." Sherlock remarks, his arms crossed. John looks at him incredulously. Not sure, whether or not to yell at him for his stupidity at keeping a dangerous element in his flat or to ask him about the things that scare him more.
"I'm dangerous now. I've killed a man with my brain." John speaks, his voice in a sad whisper, but not enough to realise the complete ridiculousness of his statement.
"Well he wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock repeats in an imitation of John's voice, his face lit in a smile. John relaxes right away and smiles back.
"Please, I don't sound like that." John says putting his laptop down and moving to the sofa, he sits next to Sherlock and leans into him. Sherlock just smiles back, his body de-stressing from the conversation.
"I've got a whole list of experiments we can try." Sherlock states after a minuter or two.
"Considering that we were just talking about my brain and the ability to kill someone, excuse me if I refuse your experiments." John states, standing up in a mock appalled tone.
"But John..." Sherlock whines, his thoughts pushed out in a huff.
Heavy steps thunder up the stairs of Baker Street a couple of hours later.
"Lestrade." They both say in unison. John looks at Sherlock who smiles back at him.
John jumps up and walks to the kitchen.
"It's open." Sherlock calls disinterestedly. Lestrade burst through the door in a huff.
"In a hurry?" Sherlock remarks looking at the disheveled appearance of the DI.
"Tea?" John calls from the kitchen.
"No. no. I've got to get to a crime scene." Lestrade says waving his hands.
"No." John calls as he walks out of the kitchen and towards Sherlock, the detective huffs and the previous expression of curiosity and glee leave the younger man's face.
"John." The genius whines. John just stares sternly back.
"No, Sherlock, no active duty." John scolds. "You are healing."
Sherlock flails back onto the cushions of the sofa, wary of his injured shoulder, he scoffs and turns he head away from the two men.
"I'm just here to drop these off." Lestrade says placing a substantial pile onto the coffee table, albeit rather awkwardly. The DI has truthfully seen the detective worse so he gets over the discomfort quickly.
"You should have texted I would have picked them up." Sherlock says, his tone perking up and unusually polite, John sees right through it.
"No you wouldn't have, you would have gone and hoped for a crime scene." John states, crossing his arms but turning towards the DI. "Thank you Inspector, is there anything I can get you." John says politely.
Both men ignore the huffing genius, sulking and pouting like a three year old on the sofa.
"No no thank you, I best be going." Lestrade says and leaves with a hand wave.
"I swear.." John thinks out loud before turning to Sherlock. The detective had already grabbed the first file and is speeding through it, taking in all the information.
"Sister-in-law." Sherlock's thoughts push. John just shakes his head as Sherlock grabs the next file.
"You promise me that you'll stay here." John says, walking through the sitting room and into the kitchen with a disheveled apprehension, his body is tense with nervousness.
"I promise to stay under your ridiculous house arrest while you do the frivolous shopping." Sherlock's thought hold a twinge of irritation and annoyance.
"It's not frivolous, you need to eat, I need to eat. It's a necessity especially with your medication." John replies, his tone slightly annoyed. The doctor pokes his head out of the kitchen at the detective sitting on the sofa, staring idly at the ceiling.
John is still apprehensive to leave the genius on his own. He has already checked and rechecked the windows of both bedrooms to make sure they are locked. Not to mention that Baker Street has an additional bolt on it's door. John realises his paranoia but it's a small price to pay.
Mostly, John doesn't leave Sherlock in the flat alone, not because he's scared (maybe he's a little worried) but mostly because the detective is bored and John knows what that means, and he knows how the walls can't take it.
However, with cases for Sherlock that should keep him preoccupied (and the walls safe) for a least another couple of hours.
John wraps his scarf around his neck and pulls his coat tight. He stands in the middle of the sitting room briefly pondering his separation anxiety.
"John, Just go." Sherlock's thoughts whine. "I'll be fine."
"Okay Okay. I'll be listening to you, you know." John states, giving the detective one last look over and descends the stairs and out into the brisk London air.
Tesco is practically empty when John enters the shop. He quickly gathers the necessities and pays, the trip only taking twenty minutes so far.
He exits the shop and starts his walk back to the flat. He tucks his head against the cold as he listens in on Sherlock.
Of course the detective is keeping silent, more out of habit than anything. That doesn't stop the doctor from feeling the warm and comfort of lilacs and honey. John lets the familiar senses warm him.
"Bored." John sighs and decides to send feelings into Sherlock.
"Really John, you are practically brainwashing me with all your mushy love feelings."
John chortles out loud in the middle of the pavement, John never thought he would live to see the day when Sherlock Holmes would use "mushy" and "love" in the same sentence.
John sends more feelings to entertain the genius, even if it makes him smarmy when John gets back to the flat.
"Stop that, I will break the connection."
"Like you could." John snorts to himself and then wonders if Sherlock actually could achieve something so dramatic. "Wouldn't put it past him."
John hears the familiar purr of the engine before he sees the sedan.
"Does Mycroft own a phone?" John thinks to himself.
John pushes Sherlock's thoughts on the back burner while he opens another connection. Unfortunately, due to his dealings with Mycroft, the doctor has been forced to recognise Anthea's senses, not that they are unpleasant, but John hates breaking rules, even if he tends to break them more and more around Sherlock. Call him a hypocrite, but John has saved Sherlock more than once because of bending his own rules a bit, plus the detective always says, "There is always an exception to a rule."
John latches on to the vanilla and oranges that radiate from the PA. More often than not, John needs reassurances when it comes to who he gets into cars with, especially now with Moriarty about.
The whir of a window breaks through John's thoughts. "Get in the car, Dr. Watson." Anthea's voice drifts into the doctor's ears. He debates, irrationally and with a rather goofy determination, about running, he doesn't particularly fancy a chat with the politician, but mostly because he just wanted to go back to the flat.
However, fate would prefer John to be intercepted by an eager politician and his blackberry wielding assistant.
With a heavy sigh, John gets into the black sedan clumsily, placing his shopping bag at his feet.
The car takes off, Anthea sitting opposite him, typing furiously on her mobile as usual.
John stares out the window, knowing better than to try and talk to the woman in front of him, he knows by now that if it isn't her blackberry or Mycroft it isn't important enough to acknowledge let alone converse with. Instead, he just smells lilac and taste honey, knowing full well the detective is silencing himself on purpose. He hopes this visit is a short one, he just can't wait to get home to a petulant genius.
To John, it seems that they are going in circles around London, but John assumes they are on a specific route that discourages followers of any kind.
The white noise of London finds John as they move farther and farther away from Baker Street, even thought the detective and the doctor have been practicing, the range isn't that much, but they have gotten it to two kilometers, an impressive leap from his previous 700 meters.
They sit in silence for twenty minutes, the buildings of London blurring past the windows.
"Damnit Mycroft." John resist a chuckle at Sherlock's bitter tone. Instead, he pulls out his mobile, nonchalantly. Anthea can be just a perceptive as Mycroft sometimes.
Stay put, you are healing. It won't take long. -JW
"It's terribly inconvenient." John withstands the snort that threatens to escape his mouth.
You're telling me, I have milk - JW
The car slows and turns into a gate, the car travels up the paved driveway surrounded by rows of trees and hedges. In front of the car lies an unfamiliar house, it's large and pristine white. John considers it to be more than just a house, more like a manor based on the exquisiteness and sheer mass of the place.
John wonders idly where he could possibly be. The manor is vastly different from the house they were in at the party all those months ago. Is Mycroft pretentious enough to have two houses? One for public view and another private, a second completely untraceable home.
"Yes, yes he is." John thinks to shakes his head, he knew that dramatic and Holmes are synonymous but this is ridiculous.
Mycroft doesn't have two houses does he? - JW
"What? Why would he take you there?" Apparently, Sherlock knows where the doctor is, well, at least someone does. The detective's voice sounds a bit panicky, but John chalks it up to intense sibling rivalry.
The car stops in front of the manor, beautiful white arches cover the main entrance. The structure decorated with articulate ornate columns and designs that add to the house.
John unbuckles and opens the car door stepping out, he leaves his shopping in the back seat, confident that this won't take long.
John walks up to the main door without being told to and the front door opens automatically. John enters, not even bothering to hide his blatant admiration of the Great Hall.
The hall is long and wide, several wooden doors lining the walls, derailing into various rooms and hallways. Chandeliers hang languid from the ceiling, basking the hall in a warm luminescence.
Yeah, this screams Mycroft all over.
I'm just splitting this chapter up for a prolonged read.