BANG!
That was the sound that echoed repeatedly all over the room at the Crime Academy shooting range the following afternoon. Sherlock expertly aimed his gun at his target, piercing it with every bullet he fired without missing a single shot. He had initially shot the walls of his flat on Baker Street but Mrs Hudson nearly had a fit seeing her lodgings being desecrated so after a quick round of text messages with Lestrade (who managed to pull some strings) he decided it would be best to relocate to Scotland Yard's police academy. There he could shoot a target as much as he liked without being disturbed. Sherlock was able to feel the gazes of the students on him: some watched him in admiration; others would glare at him out of jealousy. Either way, he paid them no mind.
Sherlock needed to exercise his frustration. Another dream found its way into his mind last night of the same romantic nature with a different setting: this time he and John were at Angelo's restaurant. The dream had started as a replay of last night's dinner up until the point they were leaning over the table and glaring at each other. Suddenly, Sherlock felt his irritation soften and he cupped a hand to the side of John's face. The doctor leaned into it and covered it with his own hand, closing his eyes with an expression of contentment. Sherlock was then possessed by the desire to kiss him and he slowly bent towards him. John met him halfway and pressed his lips against his, sending an electric chill down the consulting detective's spine. The kiss was chaste but powerful, and nothing Sherlock had ever thought a kiss could be.
He wanted to hit his head against the wall as he fired his gun away. The worst part of the dream was that he had not only enjoyed that kiss but he had also felt it. He was going mad, he was sure of it. What horrible deed did he commit – the list was long but that was not the point – to deserve such punishment? A life sentence to prison and hard labor would be more welcoming than this.
Sherlock sighed and looked at his gun without seeing it, holding it with both hands. Two dreams in two nights and both were regarding a type of relationship he didn't want with John. At least, he didn't think he wanted it. It wasn't that the dreams were unpleasant; they were unfamiliar, for lack of a better term. He hated to admit it, but it was sort of nice to have someone want him, even if it only happened in his dreams. But it wasn't reality, and reality was life was full of criminal activity that needed to be dealt with. The consulting detective had no time to indulge in trivial things like fantasy, no matter how much a part of him wanted to.
Resigned, Sherlock aimed his gun at his target. He was about to pull the trigger when he heard a voice behind him.
"Glad that I managed to pull some strings to get you in here?"
Startled, Sherlock misfired and his bullet flew past his own target and into the neighboring one. He stared at his gaffe with a slightly open mouth as his neighbor glared at him reproachfully. Sherlock returned the glare with all his might and the student quickly looked away and resumed his practice. The consulting detective then turned around and found Lestrade watching him in amusement.
"Very impressive. Was that planned at all?" Lestrade said jokingly, almost yelling over the sound of guns firing.
"Shut up," Sherlock replied.
"Did you even sense me coming?"
"I was severely concentrated on the task at hand. As much as it is tempting at times, I do not want to pass a bullet through anyone's head."
"Come now, Sherlock, you're an expert shooter. Admit it, I managed to scare you!"
"You didn't, Lestrade. Let me know when you've descended from cloud nine."
"What's the matter with you? You're snippier than usual."
"An excellent observation, Detective Inspector."
Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade and shot his target a few more times. He heard the detective inspector sigh heavily behind him.
"You know, John's the one who put me up to this."
The consulting detective nearly dropped his gun at the sound of his friend's name and faced Lestrade again. "W-What?" Sherlock stammered, uncertain if his ears were deceiving him.
"We're not supposed to let outsiders in here but John called me last night and asked to make it possible for you to have a place here today due to some spot of personal trouble you seem to be in. Is it true that you at shoot your own walls as a way to relieve your frustrations?" Lestrade said.
"Again, shut up," Sherlock snapped harshly. "I should have known I got in here too easily: your 'talk' with the academy's director barely lasted ten minutes!"
"What can I say? We gotta plan ahead where you're concern," Lestrade said proudly.
Sherlock eyed him warily. "What?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Aren't you going to try to pry into what's supposedly bothering me? John tried to do that to me all day yesterday," Sherlock told him. "You two are on the same team, apparently. What are you, his personal private detective?"
"John's genuinely concerned about you and since he promised not to badger you anymore he wanted me to help you a little. Besides, now that I know you attack innocent walls in your spare time I would much rather have you here."
"The walls have it coming. And you are not helping!"
"Really? It seems that I have given a place for reflection."
"I do that everywhere!"
"Come on, Sherlock! I've been watching you from the shadows since you got here. Yes, you think all the time but not in the manner you were earlier: you looked like you were pondering over something that is far beyond your knowledge."
"And what if I was? What's it to you?"
"Nothing. It's none of my business unless you choose to include me, which you can if you want to. I'm going to leave you before you decide to bite my head off. Make sure you put everything away when you're done."
"Yes, Mother Hen," Sherlock muttered irritably at Lestrade's retreating form. Who did he think he was, cooperating with John like that? Why were they so determined to find out what was wrong with him? He didn't even know what was affecting him! They should just leave him alone and let him work it out for himself; that was how he always managed to find the solution to his problems.
Sherlock shot two more bullets before taking his leave. Lestrade ruined his fun with that irritating (not to mention dull) conversation. Maybe he should just return to Baker Street and work on some experiments; making the flat explode might be the relief he needed.
The consulting detective walked into 221B and was greeted by clanging noises coming from Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Thinking that this was a bad day for crooks to be robbing his landlady Sherlock made his way to kitchen only to find Mrs Hudson watching a man who had his head deeply buried underneath the sink. Tools were strewn all over, leaving the consulting detective to deduce that the kitchen plumbing had backed up again.
"Trouble with the pipes, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock said amusedly, leaning against the threshold.
"The bloody thing got all clogged up again!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, looking disheartened. "John here thinks I should get a whole new set of pipes."
"You really should, Mrs Hudson," came John's voice from underneath the sink.
"John? Is that really you under there?" Sherlock asked incredulously as he approached them and bent over to see if he could get a view of his friend's face.
"Well, it's certainly not Anderson, is it?"
"Very funny. Since when do you know how to work the plumbing?"
"For a while now. I didn't want Mrs Hudson spending thousands of pounds on a contractor every few weeks so I decided to learn a thing or two in order to be able to help her. Although I think this time the plumbing has finally gone to a place where it's beyond anyone's help."
"Let me take a look."
Sherlock got on all fours and crawled underneath the sink as John shifted to the side in order to make room for him. It was little wonder why the pipes were malfunctioning: they were old and falling apart. The consulting detective was surprised they managed to last this long.
"We'll need to call a plumber and get him to replace the whole system," Sherlock declared, as John nodded his agreement. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Your sink needs to be revamped, I'm afraid," he added loudly.
"I thought as much," he heard Mrs Hudson say glumly. "I'll go call a handyman."
"When did you ever find the time to learn about pipes and drainage systems?" Sherlock asked as the landlady left the kitchen.
"Well, I've got to find something to do with my time while you're off on a criminal scavenger hunt and you leave me by myself in our flat," John replied, tightening a bolt.
"A criminal scavenger hunt. I've never heard anyone put it quite that way before," Sherlock said, chuckling softly.
"You can laugh but that's what it is. We hunt down criminals that are hidden from plain view."
"That severely undermines the career of every Scotland Yarder."
"Oh, they don't need me for that; they already have you."
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at that remark and John followed suit. The mirth was short-lived, however, when Sherlock abruptly realized how close his face was to John's as they lay there in the cramped space. The doctor seemed to notice that fact, too, when he stopped laughing and widened his eyes a little. After looking at each other in the eye for a moment John slowly began to lean forward, seemingly unconsciously, and Sherlock mimicked him, his body acting on its own accord like it was the most natural thing in the world in that moment.
"I've called the plumber but he won't be coming in until tomorrow. Mind I use your kitchen to cook dinner tonight, boys?"
Sherlock hastily pulled away and John gave a violent start that resulted in him hitting his head against the inside of the countertop. A string of colorful profanity left the doctor's mouth as both he and the consulting detective pulled themselves out from underneath the sink, and found a shocked Mrs Hudson staring at them.
"John! No such language under my roof, if you please!" she cried.
"Good to know that you have your priorities sorted out, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said clinically. He looked over at John, who was rubbing the top of his head. "Nothing cracked open, I hope?"
"I don't think so," John replied, looking at his hand. "There's no blood so that's a good sign. Sorry, Mrs Hudson."
"It's quite all right, dear. Let me fetch you some ice for that poor head of yours," Mrs Hudson said with a consoling smile.
She turned her back on them and went digging into the freezer. Sherlock met John's eye and the latter turned crimson before hastily looking away. The consulting detective felt awkward and even more unsure of himself than he had ever felt in his life. Things had been nothing but bizarre for the last two days and his attempts to return to normalcy were failing him; even John couldn't look him in the eye. There had to be a logical explanation for what was happening but Sherlock was finding that his deductive reasoning wasn't working as it should.
"Here you are, dear," Mrs Hudson said kindly, giving John a small bag of ice. "That should help with the pain."
"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John said gratefully, placing the bag on his head and wincing at its cold touch.
"Now that's settled," Sherlock said agitatedly, causing Mrs Hudson and John to look at him, "I'll just go up to the flat. Come upstairs whenever you feel ready, John."
"Sherlock, I –" John began to say but Sherlock waved his protest aside.
"Concentrate on that bump on your head, John," Sherlock said, giving his friend a wavering smile. "I'll see you later."
Before either John or Mrs Hudson could say more, Sherlock left the kitchen and raced upstairs. He entered the flat and threw his long coat away from him, not caring where it landed. He sank on the couch and took his head in his hands, the full reality of that small moment underneath the kitchen sink. They were about to kiss, and Sherlock had wanted it. What was happening to him? Last week, he would have said he believed the idea kissing someone to be incredibly idiotic; now he found himself unwillingly reconsidering his position. All because of that first dream… That dream be damned! Sherlock thought furiously. In reality, it was the dream that was damning him. It did not take a genius to realize that the dream was winning every single battle, but the consulting detective was determined to win the war.
Sherlock woke to a hot and stuffy room that night. A light sheen of sweat covered his body and he discovered that he had thrown off his blankets at some point in his slumber. Wondering why the heat was at maximum – the night was cool but it wasn't that cold – Sherlock groggily made his way out of his room and into the sitting room, where he found John standing by an open window with a steaming cup of tea without a shirt on. The consulting detective paused in his tracks and tried his hardest to not admire his friend's well built upper body that was illuminated by the light of the moon. The task was proving to be quite difficult.
John glanced sideways and fully turned towards the consulting detective upon sight of him. Sherlock straightened his spine and approached the doctor, trying to appear as annoyed as he could be.
"Can you please explain to me why it's so bloody hot in here?" Sherlock said.
"Mrs Hudson was freezing downstairs so she fired up the heating system. I think she forgot that heat goes up," John replied, sipping his tea.
"Did you try to change the thermostat's setting? She's killing us up here!"
"I did, but you know we're not allowed to touch it since you used it to figure out how odors become intensified by heat. The whole building was unfit to live in for weeks."
"It was for the sake of science. Why do you lot always have trouble understanding the importance of scientific discoveries?"
"I understand it perfectly, Sherlock, but most people don't appreciate having their living space become a violation of Health and Safety."
"Speak for yourself. I find it's more fun to break the rules."
"Says the man who defends the law."
"The law and boarding conditions are two separate things. Do pay attention, John."
The doctor shook his head and looked out the window. Sherlock did the same, and admired the scenery. London, as much as it was a very busy city, it was the picture of tranquility in the late hours of the night. Not a single soul was out wandering the streets and all public places had closed for the night. It was one of the rare times Sherlock appreciated peace and quiet for all its worth.
The consulting detective felt his friend's eyes on him, and instantly knew that something was on the doctor's mind.
"For God's sake, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "If you have something to say just come right out and say it!"
"Well, i-it's about what happened down in our landlady's kitchen," John said hesitantly.
Oh, Sherlock thought, feeling his heart rate increase a little at the memory. He should have known John would want to talk about it. Why couldn't he just leave things alone?
"Nothing happened, John. Stop worrying needlessly," Sherlock replied.
"But something was about to happen, and we both know it," John said sheepishly. "I just wanted to make sure that we're okay."
"I don't know if you've noticed, John, but I tend to let people know when I'm not okay with them. Just ask Donovan and Anderson."
John didn't look entirely convinced. "I suppose you're right. But are you sure that –?" he continued uncertainly.
He didn't know how it happened, but Sherlock felt himself grow a little bolder. He approached his friend and delicately placed a hand on his shoulder. The bare skin felt smooth under his touch and Sherlock found himself wanting to slide his hand down John's arm and just feel the muscles underneath. He gave himself a mental slap in the face; inappropriate thoughts were not welcome, not now and not ever.
"I'm quite certain," Sherlock whispered gently. "Does this look like the gesture of an uncomfortable man?"
John visibly relaxed and he smiled at Sherlock. The consulting detective nodded before biding his friend goodnight and returning to his room. He had partially lied to John: he was feeling uncomfortable, but not in the way his friend was insinuating. What made Sherlock uneasy was that even though he still didn't know what was happening to him, he managed to make an important deduction: deep down, he was enjoying these strange feelings. He liked touching John's bare shoulder; he liked when John tried to close the gap between them when they were lying underneath the sink; he liked that kiss John gave him in his dream (both of them, actually) among other things. These feelings weren't bad per se, but Sherlock hated anything that made no sense. These emotions had no origins, for God's sake! They literally appeared from out of nowhere.
Sherlock went back to bed. Maybe there was a monograph on the matter somewhere in this world. Until he could find it, he would have to be very patient.