Author's note: So, this was supposed to be up on Wednesday, but life made sure I was unable to do it then and stuck away from home till midnight yesterday so I couldn't get it up before today.

Enjoy!

Chapter 7: Drowning in thirst as morning kills night

When John presses him against the wall just below the stairs, Sherlock has to do his best to keep himself under control. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to try and control his vegetative nervous system, but somehow he manages to breathe deeply, keeping his heart from racing away , and thinking of the most mundane, boring thing he can think of (in this case it's the way Mycroft tends to tie his shoelaces several times until the loops on each shoe are symmetrical) in order to block out John – his scent, his presence so close in Sherlock's personal space, and yet, barely touching, a tender ring of skin and bone wrapped around his wrist. He manages, somehow, focusing hard and keeping his gaze distant, his breathing steady. It would be the easiest thing in the world to give John what he wants – Sherlock responsive and in good spirits and wanting and, and, and... It would be ridiculously simple, since it's what Sherlock wants, too. And there lays the problem.

Every instinct Sherlock possesses, every urge for self-preservation, tells him to keep quiet and carry on. It would be so simple. So easy. Say nothing and enjoy the feast that would be John and he, shoulder-by-shoulder again, seemingly uncomplicated and finally restored to their full glory. And Sherlock wants it. He wants it the way all desperate things want – achingly, viscerally, from some deep, invisible core woven out of glass fibres of yearning, shiny and tempting but potentially sharp if cracked – possible shards of razor-sharp glass netting around his insides. A damning hypothetical. A perilous possibility. It's torture of Tantalus, this poorly-lit hallway. Sherlock's personal lake with a fruit tree, John's arms like branches just out of reach, his breath like the undrinkable water of the lake of possibility-out-of-reach, pooling at Sherlock's feet. A single option presents itself to Sherlock f he wishes to not repeat mistakes of the past – and Sherlock Holmes doesn't repeat mistakes. So, he must stand thirsty in a lake and hungry under a branch of ripe sweetness and bare the temptation, because nothing can be touched before he tells John, not before John knows. John is completely off limits until all's been brought into light. No loops to be left out of, no half-truths and lies by omission– it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'brutal honesty', Sherlock ponders, because this time he is the one suffering its brutality. It's agony, each breath John takes or gives in this space of not-enough-but-too-much turning the unsaid words inside Sherlock into a corrosive solution that eats at him from within, but luckily for Sherlock, John backs away soon enough, letting some air flow between them like concrete, a wall coming up.

Taking the opportunity, Sherlock walks up, leaving John behind. He flops onto the sofa and closes his eyes, ready to run all possible options of the case in his head. But before he manages, he hears John walking up to the flat and the sound is such a constant beat that he cannot ignore it. He feels it up his spine, shaking the thoughts inside his skull. Step-step-step...John-John-John. It's the lapping of rippled water against the shores of Sherlock's thirst. It's the squeaking of heavy-burdened branches of what-if-s above Sherlock's wanting, hungry heart.

Before falling into the abyss of information, the rapids of the case, Sherlock' Holmes deletes all of Greek mythology.

The next day John wakes to a silent flat and a loud mind. Feeling not at all rested, he flexes his right arm so that his head lays in the palm of it, placing his left on his sternum. The mattress is lumpy but comfortingly familiar under him. Morning light is smeared like egg yolk over the ceiling, yellow smudges on white, shockingly vivid. Like yellow blood-spatter – evidence of night's violent demise.

John listens for sounds of life in the flat, reluctant to face the day just yet...or perhaps it's not the day he finds hard to face. Perhaps it's the look on Sherlock's face in the harsh daylight, and the fear of it containing no softness of the night before. John doesn't understand what could have caused such a change. Admittedly, Sherlock was never the poster boy for emotional stability and constancy, but John finds himself rather pissed off by the whole situation and it feels good, the anger, the irritation. It all feels better than the hopeless confusion, because John Watson knows anger. He can wear it like a second skin, comfortable at times in its durability and impenetrableness. And in the midst of all this, John finds it as comfortable as a set of well-worn pyjamas.

Because this is hard and John finds it difficult – all of this, every word, every complexity that demands lowering of shields. The hilarity of the situation isn't lost on John, that he can have sex with the man – the ultimate lowering of shields – and find the whole ordeal surprisingly unthreatening to his emotional integrity, but cannot bring himself to talk about things that mattered without wrapping himself in security blankets of annoyance and anger in order to be able to spit them out. But here's the thing – last night they were on equal ground, both exposed, bared down to the basics of themselves, undiluted essences and seemingly simple needs that were more, so much more that examining them beyond their apparent simplicity just wasn't an option. Oh, it was frightening, in that delicious way all the best things are, in that way that John realised was the base line of his existence. It was them. And there's the catch – it was them, together, equally likely to make idiots out of themselves (well, Sherlock would argue about those statistics), handing each other daggers with tips pressed to their chests and believing, trusting that the other one wouldn't drive deep into the soft, yielding flesh of their mutual truths. They were each other's contingencies regarding vulnerability, so, while it was one of the most intense things John's ever done, it was not nearly as frightening as this. Because that was them, but this – this is just John. Alone, with his ridiculous emotions and humanness, about to flay himself open and expose the soft, never-healing bits to Sherlock – logical, rational Sherlock. Sherlock who hasn't spoken a word to John in over 24 hours. Sherlock who seems so unfairly cool and collected and not at all torn. Sherlock, whom John has given all the tools needed for his destruction.

So, John puts on his armour of fury, because fury is safe. It is like a hard shell, a justification and a sword that can protect against the sharp blades of Sherlock's dismissals. John ramps up a storm inside himself, safe in the eye of it, letting the tumult envelope him. Because this is hard and difficult and frightening and possibly painful and very much a battle and an armour is an appropriate choice of attire.

And, also, because John Watson is an idiot.

Of course he is. Sherlock's told him so in as many words, often. Repeatedly. But John's memory is a fickle thing, which is why he needs to be reminded of it and why he so easily forgot other things about last night, besides the surges of hormones and ecstasy. Like the way Sherlock said his name. Like the way Sherlock looked. Looked at John, and whatever it was that he found beyond the concept of John. John is an idiot who forgets things like acceptance. Like love. Plain, obvious love.

Only, he doesn't. Not really.

Such things are hard to forget. But they aren't hard to overshadow, especially when put against things such as doubt and confusion. So, it is perhaps not all that surprising that John should pay them a bit less heed than he ought to. Which doesn't mean he isn't an idiot. He is, only, he is an idiot with trust issues who just happens to be inseparable from a certain madman with a terrible record of being constant, or open or emotionally well-rounded. Sherlock isn't a balm for John's mental and emotional wounds – he's a bloody bottle of peroxide. And yet, for some reason, they are a done deal.

They were majorly, royally messed up. Both of them. Barking mad. Like two Frankensteins that created their Creature which is half of each of them, their irreversible entanglement in each other.

But, as it just happens, their particular kinds of messed up seem to be rather compatible. Except when it's not...which is, for example, the past 24 or so hours. John decides it won't get to 48 hours – not if he has a say in any of it.

Not bothering to change out of his sleepwear, he trudges down the stairs to find Sherlock engrossed in what looks like a case file. The manila folder rests open, like wings of a dead bird pinned for dissection on Sherlock's folded legs.

"Sherlock." John's voice is all determination and fierce decisiveness, partly genuine and partly a mask to hide the raw uncertainty that gaps open like a bone-deep cut just below the thin sheath of John's temper.

John is all exposed flesh and Sherlock is peroxide and yet, in that moment, at the end of those 24 or so hours, Sherlock once again proves to be exactly the right thing, as he stops John from uttering another word by handing him the brown, coffee-stained case file. Sherlock hands John the file, and starts talking, and saves John - because this is hard and difficult and frightening and possibly painful and very much a battle, only John seems to be both the aggressor and the victim, so Sherlock helps him out of it by relieving him of having to say a word.

"What's this?" John asks, thrown off balance by this unexpected interruption in what was supposed to be his grand speech on communication and honesty and what-not-s. "A case?"

"Yes." Sherlock answers, "I've persuaded Mycroft to give it to me."

Torn between an odd sense that it's not just a case and the need to get on with his planed confrontation, John fiddles with the file. Sherlock just stands before him, all strange eyes and unnaturally still posture, with an indefinable sort of energy evaporating around him like fumes. After a few moments of tense silence, John decides to put off his little speech in favour of skimming through the file. As soon as he opens it, his eyebrows bunch up in confusion.

"Sherlock..." he starts, raising his gaze from the page. Sherlock just looks at him, uncharacteristically patient and silent.

"This is your case." John waits for the eye-roll and the 'Obvious', but they never come.

"Mycroft is letting you work on your own case?"

"Yes. He is aware of the fact that I am the only one capable enough to locate Small and his drug-ring. In fact, that's what I've spent the night doing and I think I narrowed it down enough to pin-point a location." Delivered in a litany that is just a tad short of Sherlock's usual enthusiastic rambling, Sherlock's words ring somewhat hollowly off the walls, bouncing to hit John in the chest. Suddenly, the alienation of the past day seems logical – a preparation of sorts. John lowers his head, ready to hear the words he so dreads – that Sherlock must go, but John must stay, some nonsense about protection and safety an - words he will protest fiercely.

"And you want to go after them, naturally?"

"Naturally. Don't you?" John's eyes snap back at Sherlock, his heart doing a fast gallop. Relief floods him like a surge of tepid water, because apparently, Sherlock's vow of silence has been just the usual mid-case absent-mindedness. Suddenly, he is giddy with the promise of good old days with a new twist.

As a grin cracks on his lips, John asks, "When do we leave?"

Sherlock can hear John's steps coming down the stairs and sees the way his shoulders are set as he enters the lounge. 'Anger', Sherlock deduces, 'but something more, too'. He knows he's in for a tiff if he lets John catch steam and that would be most inconvenient, so before John manages to speak, Sherlock pushes the case file in his hands.

He watches John process the information, and the grin that spreads across John's face is both a sunrise and the apocalypse, Sherlock feels. So, when John asks 'When do we leave?', Sherlock knows he is running out of reasons to delay the inevitable.

The morning light plays tricks on their faces, mixing sharp shadows and soft planes of light. John looks like a made-up friend, a fantasy composed of both desires and fears. Sherlock wonders if he looks the same.

"Soon. Very soon. There's only a few more things to work through." He replies, his eyes skimming over John with some sort of wistful fondness.

"What sort of things?"

Sherlock's eyes flit to the side for the briefest of moments.

"Bureaucracy."

John's eyebrows all but vanish beneath his hairline as his face morphs into the epitome of incredulity.

"Since when do you care about bureaucracy?"

"Since Mycroft took up being a major pain in the arse every time I chose to skip it."

"So, that's all? Bureaucracy?"

Such delighted amusement graces John's face that Sherlock fears the cracking of soft muscle beneath his ribs (impossible, metaphorical, grossly inaccurate phrasing) will be so loud it will resonate audibly between the wallpaper-covered surfaces of the flat, as he considers the (very likely) option of John's good spirits seeping away with each new word Sherlock utters. John's smile is wide and untainted, a grin of a boy being taken on an adventure, of a refugee being told he can finally return home. Warm and complex, John's eyes are a mixture of child-like thrill and ages-old desire. He looks as alive as the headlights whirling over busy London streets at night and as familiar the reflection of ambient lighting off white ceramic plates at Angelo's.

Happy. John looks happy. Sherlock wishes he could keep him that way. He almost snaps his next word in half in his throat as it constricts with impending destruction, almost kills them like carnivorous bacteria that threaten to devour the solid, fleshy joy that holds John in a soft, puppy-like hug. John is all colours, Aurora Borealis of 221B Baker Street. Polar fire lighting the skies with colours that aren't supposed to burn, but do, cold flames derived from the cool ends of the spectrum. Deep green and blue of Earth's magnetic field that wavers like a flag in slow motion over its highest points, the one's covered in steady, impressive glaciers that witnessed the childhood of the planet and encased its trinkets and toys over ages. John is the Northern ice caps and the light above them and the glory of frozen time and numerous layers of life witnessed and lived, and Sherlock...Sherlock feels like the slow, persistent force set out to destroy it, not because it wants to but because it must. Because it is inevitable – cause and effect. If John is a glacier, Sherlock is pretty sure he is global warming, thawing away the crystalline sculptures of John's rapture, changing its aggregate state from solid elation to liquid disillusionment.

"Actually, there is one more thing."

John has already moved to his desk, sorting a few papers out of the way so he can open the lid of his laptop, so he doesn't catch Sherlock's face.

"Let me guess – packing the experiments again? Sherlock, we've been over this, you can't carry a portable fridge, no matter how time-sensitive your experiments are. You simply can't carry them around. It's difficult to get through airport security as it is, we really don't need..."

Sherlock lets John ramble on for just a bit, grasping at any and all opportunity of delaying the conversation he is about to initiate. Finally, the tension that the current of dark, waterish emotion creates in him pushes air up, up, up and Sherlock is drowning from in the inside, being pulled under by unsaid words like stones in his pockets. Another deep breath (a gasp for air, head still above surface) and then it's time to give in to the water. Perhaps it will be merciful. Either way, it's sink-or-swim time.

"No, John. It's not the packing."

Something (everything) in Sherlock's tone of voice makes John turn back from the desk to look at his...what are they? Partners, John would say. It seems to fit them best. Partners in crime. In solving crimes. Business partners, definitely, but since their business, their work is also very much their lifestyle, their life, well then, John supposes that makes them life partners. Whatever they are, John looks at Sherlock, waiting to hear what point on the agenda needs to be taken care of.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"John, before we leave, I need to inform you about something. Once you have all data, you can make an informed decision about what to do next." Sherlock seems transfixed by the flecks of mud trailing the floor around his feet, seeing as his stare appears to be permanently affixed to them. John hates the feeling that springs to life somewhere between his navel and diaphragm. He hates the suppressed knowledge that that feeling will probably prove a good indicator of whatever is to come.

"Sherlock, stop being bloody cryptic and tell me what's this about."

Heavy, heavy, like Atlas lifting his shoulder under the immense burden of the World, Sherlock lifts his gaze and John catches it before it can slip away again. Moderately bad, very bad and worst scenarios spin around inside his mind as he waits for Sherlock to speak. He expects an admission of another relapse or even a backing-out speech telling him that all this...whatever it is that they're doing (love, that's what they're doing...not that they would call it that. God forbid they just come out with it for once. Nothing's ever simple.). Expectations are strange creatures, very solid, very real and powerful. Which is why it always feels just a bit odd when they vanish like smoke rings in the face of the actual event which fails to meet them, confirm them so that they can take full, flesh-and-bone form of actuality instead of the undefined contours of probability. Because, for all his predictions and expectations, when reality hits in form of a six-word sentence, John never sees it coming.

"We need to talk about Mary." Sherlock says.

Of course they have to talk about Mary. Because it's them. Because they defy expectations, even each other's. And because nothing is ever, ever simple.