Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Moffat, Gatiss, the Cucumber, the Hobbit or anyone else.
"I love you." What a stupidity. And that out of his own mouth, almost unbelievable. Hadn't he always told himself that emotions would bring him his downfall? This was the best example for it, caring was not, under no circumstances, an advantage.
And love was by far the most vicious of these disadvantages, so why had fate decided to pull that exact string on him? He knew he had never been blessed by nature, just looking on his own face proved that fact right. But to be this ruthless? God really must hate him.
Sherlock opened his eyes only a slit, analyzing the room's every corner and grain of dust. It looked as if John had been in and out of the room a few times, but there wasn't even one particle of the man in sight, thank goodness. Sherlock really wasn't up for another confrontation.
Numb was the feeling that described his condition the best. But not only in psychological form, his physical condition was even worse. Every muscle and sinew was neither aching nor feeling any good. It was just a dark, big hole of emptiness, which replaced Sherlock.
A deep frown lay on his features and was only smoothed out when Sherlock decided to grab his violin.
Finally! A sound emerged from Sherlock's room.
John had been waiting for a reaction, a movement, anything for 5 days straight, but even shouting at the poor man that Mycroft had ran out of cake again didn't work, which usually snapped Sherlock out of his trance-like state.
It wasn't an abnormality for Sherlock not to move or speak for a certain amount of time, but such a long stretch only appeared on seldom occasions.
John had been pretty worked up about their little disagreement, but was still clinging onto his point of view as if his life depended upon it.
John was still not and will never be homosexual. Even if the person of interest was the cunning Sherlock Holmes, whose cheekbones could cut open glass and whose hair was made to be worshipped and... Fuck.
He had lost track of his thoughts once again. Time to reorganize.
He wished he was Sherlock right now, with his fancy mind palace and an eternity of space to be filled with data. A big red delete button wouldn't be too bad either.
But, well he wasn't... which admittedly had its pleasant sides as well. For a fact, he had never had to stand Mycroft for his entire childhood, John would've gone mad. Besides, John had never been bullied in his life which he was very thankful for.
He couldn't do much than feel sorry for Sherlock on that aspect. And as much as John had heard, Sherlock's family wasn't one big ball of cuddles and niceties either, more so the opposite.
No wonder Sherlock had become who he was. Not that John could complain.
And there didn't seem to be an end to the bullying, Anderson and Sally still stated their opinion of Sherlock every time they met, which hurt Sherlock more than he let through. Every idiot could see that.
And on top of that John had done nothing anything to make Sherlock feel better; he had even called Sherlock strange, just what his scarred soul had needed. God, what an idiot he was.
A miserable song could be heard from Sherlock's room.
John wondered if Sherlock's improved productivity was for the better or the worse, because Sherlock on one hand had finally started moving and had actually done the one thing that could be called Sherlock's hobby. (If analyzing severed heads or performing odd experiments didn't count, which honestly did not. At least not to John. )
But on the other hand the piece Sherlock played right now was absolutely heart-breaking and shattered John into a thousand little pieces. If this really was a display of Sherlock's emotions then Sherlock was pretty much fucked.
It was beautiful yes, but there was a particular sorrow to it which almost made it unbearable to listen. Almost.
Sherlock stopped playing all of the sudden, throwing his bow onto his bed in one impulsive movement. This didn't work! At ALL!
He ruffled his hair maniacally; his eyes ripped open almost as wide as Frodo's.
His mind was one big battlefield and it was not yet sure which side won, or who and how many sides there even were present. Everything just attacked him: his past, the present and his non-existent joyful future.
Each thought of John turned into something negative, which usually led to butterflies in his stomach, or whatever these idiotic, sentiment-driven morons that call themselves the human race may insist on naming it.
All this anger he held back and all the love he couldn't disguise, it was too much to handle. His mind was clouded with John-ness, images of his laughter or the kind wrinkles around the edges of his eyes.
And all it left him with was him being on edge himself and inwardly cold, blank with nothing left except John.
He couldn't think straight, even simple deductions were a difficulty, which paralyzed him immensely. Not even the sound of footsteps sparked anything inside of him. Normally Sherlock could deduce almost everything by footsteps; who they were, how their day had been, what their purpose was and so on and so forth.
And now? Nothing!
He had to do something, anything in his power to stop this madness. It was becoming unhealthy, which didn't matter to him as long as the only subject was his body. But his mind was his soft spot; he couldn't tolerate any indifference in there.
Maybe he should consult John; he was a medical man at least. This may not be his area of expertise, but John always had advice on every aspect of life, whatever it may be. John had at all times been his compass in morality, he'd surely know something to make this all end.
And yeah he'd have to talk about feelings and all that scum, blah, blah. But it would all be for the better, there was the possibility at least.
And Sherlock couldn't blame John for calling him strange; it was what he was and had always been. John did nothing but mouth what probably everyone on the force, his family and probably the world thought of him. It was only the reality.
A new flood of energy reached the detective, who wanted nothing more than to see his doctor again. If he couldn't have him, then he could at least look at him.
Surprisingly enough Sherlock soon stalked to John in a hurry, red eyes all alert.
John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock had spent any second of the last days sleeping, the state of him told the contrary quite vehemently. The same did the deep violet rings under his eyes.
Sherlock stuttered somewhat confusedly, uncertain and mumbling, but before long took courage.
"John- we need to talk! It's important, please?"
"Bring it on, genius."
Author's note: Yes, I am a nerd of anything relating to LOTR, the Hobbit and really anything Tolkien. I just wanted to have at least one little Frodo's eyes reference. Just look at them, they're huge!
And Hooray, I am healed again! Thanks for the nice reviews, please keep them going! I feed on them like Moffat feasts on tears!
R&R if you liked it and if you didn't like it, do it as well and tell me what I can improve. Thank you very much!
Love to you all, -creamtea-with-a-madman :)
