Hello.
Thank you all that have faved and followed and commented. I love you all. This is a shorter part, more tomorrow if your very very good.
Belong - Part Two
"I'm in my room it's a typical tuesday night, I'm listening to the kinda music she doesn't like and she'll never know your story like I do"
John had gone out. Sarah had called back it seemed, a little more responsive to Johns apologies this time presumably, and John had skipped off happily out of the flat with a
"don't wait up." Sherlock had nodded, seeming to ignore the doctor, seemingly deep in thought. But as the front door slammed, in a hideously jovial fashion, a snarl was emitted from deep within the detectives throat and he was up. He followed Johns path away from the flat from the window and then Sherlock was pacing the floor. His mind was unsettled and distressed. Logic was wearing thin, in fact it had all but vanished. What was it with this Sarah woman? Sherlock knew that he was difficult to live with but he would never try to change John! John was perfect just as he was. This Sarah woman wanted him to be something different. She didn't like that John was Sherlocks friend. Sherlock knew the woman didn't like John going on cases with him. She was always ringing him up, telling him to be careful. Sherlock had figured out that Sarah had a problem with him because he indulged Johns secret need for excitement. John needed the rush the same way the detective did. Sarah wanted John to be steady and calm and... and leave Sherlock behind? There would never be another like John. Sherlock knew he would only ever trust John, feel this way about anyone. Sarah would never understand John the way he needed to be understood. No one but Sherlock (and maybe Mycroft) would ever understand, or begin to comprehend that John craved the excitement of the battle field. Running beside John, pulse up, blood high, Sherlock could practically smell the adrenalin and testosterone the man produced in the moments of chase. He thrived on it. He craved it. But he'd never admit it because John was a kitten otherwise. Probably appalled by his own addiction to danger, to blood, to death... To Sherlock? They were indeed the same. Maybe that was Sarah's problem. She knew that John was addicted. Maybe she was trying to cure him.
"uh" Sherlocks whole body gave a violent shudder as he thought of Sarah touching the doctor. His doctor. His blogger. His John.
HIS.
Breathing becoming erratic. Must calm down. Breathe deeply. Sherlock sat down. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Hands shaking.
Calm.
Sherlock attempted to work out what it was that Sarah had that he didn't. Obviously she was a woman. John claimed he wasn't gay, but the detective had never seen sexuality in those terms. He had never considered it until recently. In his opinion it was mutable. Changeable. Why did it matter at all? Surely it was about the feelings between people, not about what their physical appearance and parts were? In his humble (and slightly arrogant) opinion Sherlock considered his physical appearance to be above Sarah's, and thought his parts would probably fit against Johns far better than hers. He felt so... Frustrated.
In an attempt to calm his ragged nerves the detective swept his violin up and began playing. A sad melody of undistinguished origin. Putting every feeling he had into the soaring tune.
Feelings.
Sherlock has feelings. But he locked them down, locked them up in the furthest part of his mind. They played no useful part in what he did. Why entertain them? Until the day he realized. A key had been turned, had unlocked that dark door, that dark prison in which he had placed his heart. John.
The violin continued its sad calling out into the dark London night. Across the city. Maybe if he played for long enough John would hear the sadness wrapping about Sherlock, curling into the flat and out into the dark places of the city. Maybe then he would come home. And stay forever...