wassoalone (wassoalone) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2013-07-30 22:38:00 |
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It was nice living with Joan for a short time, although it was no wonder she moved with her Holmes once he showed up. John would’ve done the same thing, and in his case he argued for a very short time before Sherlock simply moved there. It seemed no matter what universe they were from, they preferred each other’s company to anyone else. There was bickering during the camping trip, where they found no dragons and no real answers to anything they were seeking. John was glad to get back to the flat; they hadn’t gone far, but he’d never been the woodsy type. He liked living in London and having things conveniently nearby. Once they got back he unpacked what few things they brought and tidied up the place. They had no Mrs. Hudson here to do it for them, and John realized how much she truly did around their place now. He restocked food and cleaned and it reminded him a great deal of her. How would she react to Sherlock being alive? Probably with a slap of her own and some tears. John didn’t have more than a set or two of clothing since arriving, there was no chance to get more, but he’d have to change that soon. He already started the tea and settled down on the couch until it went off, taking a look at the nearby paper. “Sherlock, if I hear anything explode in there, I will be very put out.” He wasn’t always aware of his friend’s experiments, but they were typically disgusting or dangerous. “I’ll have to go down to the hospital soon and get a job there. They apparently do need doctors. Especially with how many more people are here now. Molly could work there too.” It didn’t seem there were a lot of deaths here, if at all, but she could at least put in a request and see what they needed. Given name first, directly followed by a mention of experiments. Both had been stated prior to the consumption of the almighty tea. It's All Fine. (In this, the seemingly innocuous statement had since transformed to capital letters against his better judgment, thus significantly increasing their importance. Sherlock was on a downward slope toward sentimentality and he hadn't yet devised a plan against it.) All of this ultimately meant John wasn't angry with him right now—at least not further along the usual threshold of mild exasperation and bemused fondness. Ideal variables, then. Sherlock may not be the type to alter his usual state of behavior, but working around John's moods had yielded a better success rate. He wondered what John smelled like when he was completely content, muscles relaxed and heartbeat steady. What. Sherlock shook that thought off, a little disoriented by it. "Seven hells," was what he said more to himself than anyone, gritting his teeth through the words. Maybe John heard it, maybe he didn't, but the true sentiment was hardly worth vocalizing. There was no way he'd allow him to work at that hospital. It was an old argument they would have many times over it seemed. He tugged his goggles down and started the process again, doubled over in his newly re-acquired room delicately assembling explosives. Since Joan's swift departure, Sherlock had become accustomed to sleeping on the couch for four hours at a time (barring the one instance John had forced him into using his bed by some misplaced chivalry). It only made sense to strip the mattress off the framework entirely this morning, using the board beneath as a large work table. Nice. Very nice. He hadn't informed John yet, which begged the question of whether or not he would drink his tea first or check in on Sherlock's goings on. It was a toss up, really. John heard the muttered curse, but he didn’t hear it clearly, so his head picked up curiously in that direction. Hm. So far they managed to fall back into their pattern of living together, and while John had his moments when he grew angry and bitter again, it was easier to let go now. He took to watching Sherlock closely, as if he’d disappear whenever he looked away. That was why instead of going about his way he poked his nose where it didn’t belong more often than not. This was why after he picked the kettle off the stove, he set it to the side for now and went looking for Sherlock. He knocked on the door out of some misplaced politeness, and he followed it up with rudeness by opening the door without permission. Sherlock wouldn’t care. “What are you doing in here?” John frowned when he saw the mattress put to the side, and that the frame was being used as a table. It wasn’t a surprise. Honestly this was a much better thing to find on the other side of Sherlock’s door than some of the other things he’d walked in on. Autopsies, for example. John was a doctor and had a strong stomach, but there were some things he didn’t like happening in his living space. For example, whatever Sherlock was doing now. John sighed and rubbed a hand against his eyes. “Sherlock, the bed was there for you to sleep in, and do I want to know what you’re making?” He had no goggles on, so hopefully his flatmate wouldn’t explode anything while he was nearby. Or they’d have a great deal to explain to the neighbors. The hypothesis proved accurate. Sherlock didn't so much as blink when John entered, having ignored the knock to begin with. Instead, he gestured at him with a flick of his wrist, indicating the box of rubber gloves atop the dresser with a plastic finger. "Put those on, then come here." He didn't lift his head to see whether or not John was listening to him, mostly because he didn't exactly require his help. Inconvenient. But was it really? The thought nagged at him like an itch. Why would he prolong John's lingering about and incessant questions unless absolutely necessary? Sherlock hesitated, fingers barely grazing the knob of the Bunsen burner. Maybe this query took precedence over the explosives. "You don't," he answered the last question, delayed and short, but an answer all the same. Pity his voice didn't sound half as sharp as he'd meant it to, rather more like mild amusement than anything else. John was softening him. He should probably keep an eye on him lest this whole flatmate affair was some elaborate mission to break his resolve. A suspicion like that wasn't half as ludicrous as Sherlock wanted to think it might be. Not with a brother like Mycroft and Irene's deceptions, both old and new. He released a noisy breath through his nose and pressed two fingers to his brow, working the knot out. This place was whittling him down and he didn't like it. John looked at the gloves and considered. He considered whether to go nope and go back to his tea and paper. Instead he took the gloves and put them on. It’d been awhile since he had to use any of these, but he’d have to get used to it for when he became a full doctor again. “Am I going to need goggles? I don’t want anything blowing up in my face.” He was understandably cautious. Sherlock’s experiments weren’t always safe and controlled. He sometimes wondered how the detective survived at all. He walked over to where Sherlock was and warily gave a look at what he was doing. John got distracted a moment later by giving his friend a look over and a worried expression crossed his face. “Sherlock, maybe you should take a break. You look worn out, you’ve barely slept and eaten.” Yes, John paid attention. He catalogued what Sherlock did, and that was perfectly normal all right? Someone had to. He understood now what Mycroft meant about worrying constantly. No matter what Sherlock thought about his brother, he believed that sentiment. He shook his head and tugged lightly on Sherlock’s sleeve. They didn’t touch much, so he was careful to keep a respectable boundary there. But sometimes he crossed it to try and reach out to Sherlock. “Come on. I’ve got tea and food. We can watch some terrible telly and you can come back to this in a bit.” "Later." It was the only warning John would receive before Sherlock snatched his arm and yanked him down, all in one swift motion. He was fully aware that his former army doctor flatmate could subdue him if necessary, given the imbalance in strength and training between them. So, his only advantage lay in the element of surprise, which meant getting John to his knees next to the bed along with Sherlock could only be done this way. With that same hand, Sherlock dragged down John's arm and pressed his flatmate's hand against the Bunsen burner knob. "They're only household chemicals, John. I haven't perfected the recipe yet. Just keep your hand there and turn down the temperature when I tell you to." This was—strangely relaxing, when he cataloged the way his body responded to John's close proximity. Most notably, his breathing pattern had slowed down. Familiarity, perhaps? He wasn't ignorant of the fact that he preferred what he knew (this included crime scenes, even if he didn't instantly know the cause of them). Sherlock noted he hadn't moved his hand yet, which was probably unacceptable. Or something. He took it away only because he needed to prepare more solution, not looking at him just yet. "Downton Abbey isn't bad telly, either. It's merely circumstantial." John started to argue the point, but Sherlock grabbed him and did have the element of surprise. He went down easily, onto his knees next to Sherlock, and muttered a curse under his breath. It wouldn’t be difficult to move away if he wanted to, but instead he gave in. He usually ended up giving in. “You could’ve asked,” he grumbled. It was habit of his to complain even though he knew very well Sherlock would never ask. The principle of the matter required complaining. He obeyed Sherlock and put his hand on the knob. “I know how to use one of these, I’m a doctor.” He left the lab long ago to go into medicine, but he still did take many of the science courses required to get there. “What recipe exactly are you doing?” John looked around to see if he could get a clue from the ingredients. He did notice Sherlock’s hand staying a bit too long, but it was taken away by the time he thought of saying something. He snorted at Sherlock’s comment about Downton Abbey. “It’s fluff at most, made to entertain people who don’t know any better.” John was not a fan, but it probably had more to do with class politics. He was well trained and educated by hard work and sacrifice. He was not from a high class family or had money to draw on. So a show about British servants and nobility? That wasn’t far back in their history, and it still informed the classes now. So he was grumpy about it. “Can’t believe we have to wait another year for Game of Thrones to come back.” Sherlock paused, gaze flicking over John's face to assess his degree of irritation. "I wouldn't have asked you to help unless you possessed some degree of lab knowledge." You're angry still went unspoken, but the way Sherlock shifted away from him, however slightly, probably said enough. It had been a little like stepping on eggshells around his flatmate, with good reason despite the newness of having to actually be cognizant of that sort of thing now. Strange. There were moments where he could push the lingering memories of those weeks without John down, out of sight, but they only materialized again as a bitter reminder. He'd lost as much as he'd gained, but he'd do it all again if it meant the same outcome. To lose John was— Delete delete delete. "Tell me what it looks like I'm making." Sherlock was far less irritated than he should have been, he decided. The world was unfathomably cruel and unnecessarily sentimental. He continued readying his household cocktail of reactionary substances and waited for John to draw the conclusion like a line in the sand. "Why? You've seen enough of Mycroft's pomp and circumstance to find the elite entertaining." He didn't mention his mother, whom he thought rather resembled a fearsome combination of the Dowager Countess and wild lioness both. Unlike John's stouthearted upbringing, Sherlock had enjoyed all the luxuries afforded to the upper crust of Britain's blue blood descendants. He gave the arm just next to his a gentle shake, keeping his hand there a moment. "Lower." John was still angry, and he didn’t have a time table about when that would change. Most of the time he was able to ignore it and go about his business. He’d been angry at Sherlock before and eventually it burnt off, but those were usually arguments or petty differences. They rolled off his back because he was good natured and didn’t hold grudges. Most of the time. But this hurt him in a way he’d never felt before, it made him vulnerable, and he knew that Sherlock saw him that vulnerable. It was embarrassing for him to feel that exposed, and beyond that they were a TV series. Everyone saw him that exposed. It was going to take time to heal, but he didn’t expect his friend to understand that. So he’d let his anger simmer. “It looks like you’re making something I specifically asked you not to make,” John replied reproachfully. It was a weak reproach, he didn’t mind that much. “Why exactly do we need to be have explosives? We’re not blowing up anything.” Or at least he dearly hoped they wouldn’t be, because he didn’t want to have to explain anything like that to the Sheriff. “I find your brother many things, entertaining is just one of them. Arrogant and snobbish too.” John and Mycroft had a very interesting back and forth. An understanding between them. He wondered if Mycroft knew the truth, and the answer was … probably. Not much got past him. Sherlock was a snob too, his version of it. John didn’t mind, but he overlooked a lot of things due to his affection for the detective. He looked at him now, when he jostled his hand, and smiled for some reason. “If we get this done, will you come have tea?” It was a damn good thing Sherlock didn't know about the show named after him. This little hellhole of a hamlet wouldn't survive the reaction. "Minor explosives, John. We need them for a potential decoy." He shifted the gunpowder and flammable dry ice he'd been collecting into the mental Don't Tell John box next to Irene's fur coat. It really was getting crowded up there. John was smiling at him and he didn't know how to process that. They were so few and far between—the real kind, the genuine expressions inspired by some unexpected good deed or a sharp word flung at someone who deserved as much. Sherlock felt like everything had frozen up a little in him, his hand tightening very slightly on John's arm for it. "... Tea. Fine." What the hell was wrong with him? He forced his hand off, uncurling each finger one at a time. He remembered, vaguely, feeling like this years ago. Always the stuttered start and stop, the push and pull of something without name, but distinctly familiar. University. Concert hall. Kodály's Cello Solo Sonata. He only recalled the first movement, likely because he'd deleted the rest—along with the face that matched the feelings. They were only fingers, now. A half-remembered tune in an empty theatre. Sherlock hadn't spoken for several minutes, staring at the blue flame until he came back to himself, blinking hard. "Turn it off. It needs to sit for six minutes." It must not have been an important memory. Even if it made him feel empty in its stead. John made certain not to mention the show to Sherlock yet. Being internet savvy the way he was, it was one of the very first things he did. Everyone seemed to know of a Watson and Holmes, and it didn’t take much to make the logical jumps from there. He assumed Sherlock was willfully ignorant, and for now that suited them both. He had his own Don’t Tell Sherlock box. “We’re not going to need a decoy, but I’m wasting my breath, because you’re going to do what you want anyway.” He was confused when Sherlock stared and gripped his shoulder, and agreed with him and not in the distant ‘you’re bothering me so I’ll say yes’ way. “Sherlock,” John said, more than a bit concerned now. He was acting strange, and strange was relative when it came to him, so that was saying something. He turned off the burner and then directed his full attention to his friend. “Have you been sniffing fumes? You looked off. You said you didn’t sleep or eat when we had a case, and we don’t have one now. So I expect you to do both, yeah?” He tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes with his for reassurance he was all right. This whole ordeal was a lot, but with Sherlock it was probably worse. His mind burned hotter than most, and being stuck here was bound to set him on edge. “All good?” John asked quietly, worrying in that way he had. Apparently, the doctor had taken over. It was understandable, really—the way he could turn it on and off like a switch. Sherlock felt much the same when he shifted his focus between the two points of gravity in his life, The Work and The Flatmate. It sounded as though John’s tone of voice had softened and he was coaxing, trying to catch his eyes, which would prove a Problem. (Too many important capitals in his head. Revise necessary.) Molly had seen him—seen through him, and that couldn't happen with John, but it had already started. Was everything falling apart or just himself? He exhaled noisily, a low hiss of breath. "Astute of you. I'm fine, John. No more famished and exhausted than usual." When he glanced at him, Sherlock made the conscious effort to relax as many muscles in his face as possible. Better he maintain the appearance of calm for as long as possible, because when this indentured servitude finally broke him (and it would), at least John would remember him as mostly manageable. That had to account for some transgressions. "Promise me something," he said, abruptly, knowing full well John wouldn't keep it. Maybe that was the point of asking, to warn him otherwise. Sherlock watched him with a steady gaze and a slight quirk of his mouth, playing this off as humor when it was anything but. "You'll shoot me if we're here longer than three months." “No more famished and exhausted than usual, right, that’s supposed to make me feel better.” John really didn’t like the look of him. Something was off. While in doctor mode he was far more observant and astute, and it wasn’t that easy to turn it on and off. He was always a doctor, but he did relax in domestic settings. Until Sherlock made his home life relevant to being a doctor and a soldier. “I’d really appreciate it if you could try to eat and sleep tonight. I won’t even complain about Downton Abbey.” He was fussing more than usual, to make up for all the time he didn’t get to fuss before. And that was the reason why John frowned at what Sherlock said, and that deepened into a scowl. “Don’t joke about that, do you hear me? Never joke about that.” If John was supposed to laugh, it was not the best choice of a joke. That knocked right against the simmering anger he had about Sherlock’s ‘death’ and it was an obvious trigger. The muscles in his jaw tightened and his eyes grew sharper, and he stiffly got to his feet. He knew that walking away from things wasn’t the best way of handling life, but it was the best option he had at the moment. “I’m putting the kettle back on the stove, when you’re done in here, you can come out and have some.” "John." Sherlock's hand snapped out, gripping John's arm tighter than before. Good. The Plan was in motion. He could handle anger from John. He could process that kind of rage directed at him, because everyone reacted that way. Sherlock had lived through a lifetime's worth of yelling and insults and scorn to make this tangible, this being the only real emotional response that he could chart with near surgical precision. It was safe here, safe to be Not Good when the things he needed to say were hard enough. It was the sadness he couldn't wade through and, ironically, the sadness that he struggled with almost constantly. He gritted his teeth. "Think for a minute. Think. You know what this place will do to me. It's fine now, it's manageable—but in another month? Two? I'll be destroying myself, John. I'll have no distractions, no decent cases. My brain will rot and I'll try to destroy you too. I don't—" A pause. Steadying breath. He didn't let go, couldn't. But he knew he had to eventually. "I don't want that." Did Sherlock want to die? Not particularly. But the thought of where this road led, the destination at the end of it all—well. He hadn’t given up, but he certainly wasn’t facing this with any excess delusions. “I’m not asking you to shoot me. Not directly. But you’ll want to.” “No, you listen to me, and you listen closely Sherlock Holmes.” John was angry, he was furious, he was moving past burning fiery fury to cold and iced over. It didn’t often happen, but this wasn’t an ordinary circumstance. He switched their hands, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and easily breaking the grip, in one swift movement clasping hold of his arm instead. He was a soldier and a damn fine one at that, despite seeming relatively nondescript most of the time. Sometimes the best kind of soldier was one who no one noticed, and that served him in the field. But Sherlock noticed. And his calm in the face of pressure was a real skill. “I will never want you dead, maimed, or in any way injured. And you aren’t to do it yourself, do you hear me? You are not allowed to die on me again.” He spoke quietly and intently, never raising his voice, because he didn’t need to. His words didn’t need to be yelled. John released his arm and fully stood up, looking down at him. “Whenever you think about how crazy you are, and how much better it would be to destroy yourself, you remember what I’m saying right now. I won’t let it happen. Whenever you’re having trouble, you come to me, and I’ll figure out something. I’ll find you a case or give you a puzzle or distract you.” The tension in him was tight enough to hurt, and he relaxed as the anger left him, leaving only a strong force of will and devastating sadness. “If you leave me again I won’t survive it, do you understand?” Sherlock sat, very still, while John spoke. This was likely the longest he'd ever resisted speaking—the grip on his own arm helped retain that focus some, shifting the Importance further into Imperative territory. His eyes started to sting but he ignored it, resisting the instinct to blink for fear of missing something. Anything. Because like this, John was magnetic. John was a thousand different things and none at all, carefully contained, devastatingly sincere. Nothing made sense when he stared at John until his vision swam and he was forced to blink. It always felt like his world was coming apart, like everything was unraveling and only John could thread it back together, one painfully slow stitch at a time. For eight and a half blissful, transcendent seconds, Sherlock thought of nothing but his own heartbeat. It was faster, now. Elevated above normal levels. When he finally stood, it wasn't to offer anything more than he could give. Sherlock drew John in against his chest with his free arm wound around his shoulders, hanging on tightly. This wasn't an embrace, it was closer to gratitude. Fear, beneath that. An aching, poisonous fear that spread through him whenever he inched closer to the edge. If John ever left—no. No, with a capital. Maybe he was shaking a little, and maybe he felt like a child again, clinging to Mycroft's leg as if that might keep him in one place. He buried his nose in against John’s head and inhaled, slow, steady. There were no words because he hadn’t any. Only this. John didn’t consider himself magnetic or anything that special. Most of the time people looked right past him, and he was all right with that. He could bark out an order when he needed to, and they did respond to that. Women reacted well to his interest. He wasn’t completely boring and ordinary, but he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes at the same time. Brilliant and inspiring and addictive. That’s how it felt being with him sometimes; addictive. The adrenaline and the puzzles and the drama. Feeling special and unique because he was a part of something special and unique. He returned the embrace when Sherlock pulled him in, wrapping his arms around and letting Sherlock lean on him. He was taller but slimmer too, and John worried too thin, probably one of the reasons he kept insisting on food. For such an intimidating figure, he could seem so fragile. “It’s all right,” he said aimlessly. He didn’t know if it gave any actual comfort, but it was that type of thing people said when things were intense. With the dramatic gestures made, John was starting to feel a little awkward again, but he decided to ignore it. They were in the comfort of their own home, they could hug as much as they wanted to. But they did have to break apart eventually, and John did it carefully. Still worried. He was the shorter of the two, and he managed to hover somehow. “If you don’t get to that in the six minute simmer, is it going to blow up? Because that would really defeat the purpose of everything I just said.” Yes now it was John trying to lighten the mood with an off-beat joke. Sherlock pulled a face when John started to extract himself, but he allowed it with a heaved sigh just this side of melodramatic. Why did people always feel the need to follow traditional behavioral cues? It was really inconvenient to The Plan: Addendum. Never let John go. "I never said it would detonate, did I? They're smoke bombs, John." He fought down the smirk threatening to ruin his petulant streak, instead folding his arms across his chest to keep from touching him again. The war wasn't outside. It was here, between them, and Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, trying to decide whether he wanted to surrender. Not that he knew precisely what that meant. "Go. Fix the tea and queue up the next episode. I want to watch Mrs. Bates tear her pitiful excuse for a husband down until there's nothing left but his corpse." This, as usual, was all spoken as if he might be commenting on the weather. It did afford him some measure of satisfaction to see Mr. Bates torn down from his self-made pillar of martyrdom. He was an imbecile, anyway. Nothing like Mary or Thomas. Sherlock's hand moved as if of its own accord to touch John's arm before he left, but his mind caught up before his body could continue the thought. He dropped his hand and half-turned away, regarding the worktable again without really seeing it. “Oh and that’s so much better. Setting off the smoke alarm.” John cleared his throat and tried to break whatever tension there was in him. Considering he was used to the stiff upper lip British approach, and that usually meant very little physical contact and avoiding emotional scenes, he was failing miserably at it. There were times they were absorbed in each other, and he forgot the rest of the world existed. He wasn’t entirely certain what that meant, but it could be unsettling when he snapped out of Sherlock’s spell. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s dislike of Mr. Bates. He equally despised Thomas, so that was another thing they often bickered over. He’d have to think of the next show for them to watch after this one, following through on his promise to keep entertaining him. And try to block the BBC Sherlock title from showing up where he could see it. “Don’t be too long or you’ll have to reheat your own tea.” He felt a similar strange need to reach out again, and that’s why he put his hands in his pockets instead and wandered out of Sherlock’s room. Except Sherlock decided he couldn't give less of a fuck about tradition or behavior or anything else that barred him from doing just as he damn well pleased. "John—" Stepping over the leftover bottles of iodine and half-empty boxes of laundry detergent, he grabbed hold of his flatmate and yanked him in for another, warmer embrace than before. It was decided. If John let him do this, then it was All Fine, which meant he could touch him whenever it suited him. Probably. His hand was behind John's neck, grabbing a fistful of that collar even with Sherlock's free arm bracketing around his shoulders. Propriety be damned. John was warm where the world had long since frozen over (or, more accurately, Sherlock's lean body didn't produce an ounce of heat). When he leaned into him slightly, Sherlock tilted his head to murmur in John's ear, low. The bastard was smirking. "I hope all the Starks die." John was surprised to say the least, and he was taken aback enough he didn’t have time to think before he was being hugged again. “Sherlock,” he protested, but he laughed instead. What was even happening? He’d been thrown about and put into embraces like this before, but usually the friend was drunk. Sherlock was just … Sherlock. He changed on a whim. When they first started living together, they rarely touched or showed outward affection. It wasn’t until Moriarty strapped a bomb to him that things changed for them. They grew closer, and apparently Moriarty’s second attempt on their lives meant it was going to continue. “Is this what we’re doing now?” John was using humor again to try and distance himself from feeling embarrassed, and while he wasn’t trying to escape Sherlock, he wasn’t returning it with equal enthusiasm. It was … strange. Something about it made him confused and that bothered him. He couldn’t remember hugging anyone this long outside of his sister and his girlfriends, and that probably explained it right there. The confusion came to a head when Sherlock murmured in his ear and nope, not good, not good at all. His breath was on his neck, and he had an interesting voice, one John really didn’t need to hear that close because of reasons. He definitely tried to escape this time, and probably with more speed than seemed normal. “Arya’s going to team up with Dany. She and Sansa will rule the North.” He laughed nervously. What in the hell is going on? “I’ve got to … the tea is cold.” Sherlock stared at him when John drew back, something in his eyes sharpening slightly. John had a nasty habit of being able to flip the detective switch on and off in his head. Not entirely off, never really gone, but the effect held true regardless. Thankfully his flatmate didn't seem to notice the extent to which his powers reached, though in truth, Sherlock hardly knew himself. One minute he'd been bent over his assembly of explosives and in the next he was gripping him so tightly the world mightn't turn without it. This. Them. He tilted his chin down, studying him with what would probably be an all too familiar expression. "You're not well," was his first deduction, but nowhere near the Catacombs of John that had amassed a third of his mind palace. Sherlock snatched his wrist, taking his pulse with two fingers. High. Strange. Even stranger, "You haven't put on the kettle yet." This was clearly a matter of grave importance if John didn't remember something pertaining to tea. He felt his stomach twist. Taking a step closer with John's wrist still in hand, Sherlock peered into his eyes, searching for any signs of extreme fatigue. Maybe the camping trip had gone bad? It was possible a tick bite was the cause. Apparently, personal space dissolved when Lyme disease was present, and Sherlock wasn't giving an inch. "Strip," he said, voice gone lower than before. “I’m fine, I’m perfectly well,” John argued. “Will you sto---” He smacked Sherlock’s hand away from him. “Personal space, Sherlock, we’ve talked about this.” He really had nothing logical he could talk about at the moment. No explanation that he was willing to give or able to acknowledge. It was an intense few minutes, and intense few weeks/months/year. “I meant that I did warm up the water, but it’s cold now, I’ll have to do that again before doing the rest.” He checked his memory to make certain that was correct, and it was. Good. He hadn’t gone completely mad then. Strip. John backed up and put a warning hand forward to stop Sherlock, drawing his boundary very clearly with his body language. “No. That’s not happening.” He didn’t know what was happening, but it wasn’t that, nope. “You know, I think we’re out of something. I’m going to check and go to the store, get some fresh air, that’s always a good idea.” He opened Sherlock’s door and managed to flee into the hall. He was in the common area space now and started to look for his shoes. A walk was exactly what he’d need. Or maybe a stop at the pub. Even better idea. What time was it? Didn’t matter. "Oh, please. If you end up hospitalized for Lyme disease, you can't phone for a cab after." Sherlock sauntered his way to the door, leaning against the frame and watching John with an entirely insufferable, fully unimpressed look. "Tea can wait. Strip and I'll see if you've any skin infections. You're the doctor, aren't you? I shouldn't be the one to list your symptoms." Of all the most inconvenient things. John was acting entirely out of sorts. It didn't bode well for him to be the rational one between them, thus, he was banking on the fact that they could get right back on track here. At least he knew to respect John's invisible boundary lines this time. Something in his gaze softened just a little, despite the sour curve of his mouth. He was concerned and it showed. "You're not well," he repeated, quieter than before, necessary. It didn't feel right. This wasn't rejection, but it felt distinctly akin to it. Sherlock huffed, glancing away again as if to shake the thought. Moronic. As if he cared whether John drew boundary lines that transcended country borders. "Nevermind. Fetch your 'something' and get that jar of hazelnut spread while you're out." John was stepping into his shoes, but he had the time to roll his eyes at Sherlock. He always had the time for that! “I don’t have Lyme disease, there’s nothing wrong with me.” Mostly. “I am the doctor.” Medically he was positive he was fine. He felt nervous and unsettled, but otherwise healthy. His behavior was strange, so it was not a surprise Sherlock commented on it. He couldn’t think of a way to explain it, especially not to Sherlock who would only ask questions and be curious and make it more troublesome. It felt like a rejection because it was, on some level. A rejection to the constant suggestion and taunting of the people around them. It already happened here at least once with Eames, maybe more than that. The one that stayed with him the most was Irene’s. Look at us both. Sherlock’s message went off before John could say anything in reply to her, and who knew what he would have said. “Hazelnut spread, I can do that.” He saw it was bothering Sherlock, but since he had no explanation, he left it alone. “Anything else? I think we have milk and tea enough to last us a year.” He smiled weakly. In truth, Sherlock never paid any mind to gossip. What people said about him was completely inconsequential because most of them were wrong and when they weren't, he still wouldn't change despite their instance. He knew on some level it bothered John, but he really couldn't be assed to care whether the public at large thought he was sleeping with his flatmate. (This barred all related Mycroft opinions, of which he insisted carried zero weight even when he spent hours mentally strangling him.) Nothing suffered for it, anyway. At least it deterred an increasing number of potential girlfriends. He toyed with the next idea, tossing it around like a cat with a mildly entertaining ball of yarn. Did he have anything better to do? Not really. It would almost be like an experiment if he tricked himself into thinking this wasn't some grand attempt at domesticity. "Ricotta. Parmesan. Pasta Shells. Parsley. Tomatoes. Chianti, if they’ve a decent bottle." They had enough garlic and eggs for the recipe, besides. Sherlock was still eyeing him warily, as if trying to decide whether John was angry again if he didn't have Lyme disease. A reticent pause followed. "I won't poison you this time." When he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was gay, he said it was all fine, and he meant it. John didn’t expect the constant speculation. It was strange and he got a lot of phone calls from old friends and teasing from his sister, not to mention the many comments left on their blog he had to delete. It was all fine. Completely fine. It did become a problem with his girlfriends, unfortunately, and that might add to the frustration. His eyebrows rose when Sherlock started to list ingredients. To actual food. “You’re going to make pasta? Well I do appreciate the lack of poison.” John forgot his momentary blip of anxiety and gave another of his warm, genuine smiles. Sherlock was agreeing to eat, and that would certainly lift a weight off his shoulders. He grabbed his wallet and decided to push a little, gain what ground he could. “And you’ll consider using that bed frame in the appropriate way?” Food was a good compromise, but food and sleep would be a great victory. Strange how he decided victories were when he coaxed his flatmate into doing things other people normally loved to do. “It’s stuffed shells, John. Not aerospace engineering.” Sherlock half-turned away again, tugging out his phone to hide his smirk. It didn’t necessarily work. He scrolled through app alerts with his thumb and considered this his own victory won, mostly because he tended to process complex relationships like that of a child. Do good, receive praise. Blow up the flat, incur wrath. He could still feel the impression of John's hand lingering on his arm like a brand, which only spoke to the good doctor's strength. Of course. He used to enjoy cooking, however strange that might seem. It was mostly during primary school when cooking proved a more substantial distraction from the agonies of social life than he'd initially projected, which meant he couldn't let it go until he'd taught himself everything necessary to master the craft. Ah, those rainy afternoons committing every Julia Child recording to memory. Even Mycroft had enjoyed his later concoctions, though the Beef Bourguignon Incident of 95’ was still the topic of many a family dinner. Heathens. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't look up again. "Don't press your advantage unless you're moderately certain of success." Like hell he was going to sleep tonight. He could only stomach so many domestic gestures in one week. “You brought up the poison part, not me. Good enough reason to be suspicious.” John was aware Sherlock tended to boil complex situations down into the simplest possible option. It was why they had trouble communicating most of the time. He knew his friend was vastly intelligent and capable of all manner of things, much more than John could imagine, but at the same time he had a strange innocence to him. It was difficult sometimes having complex feelings about a relationship, and knowing the other person saw it closer to black and white. But John was endlessly patient. “I’ll press my advantage wherever I can, I don’t have it very often.” John smiled again and shook his head. “Text me if you think about anything else. Only if it’s food related. Anything about explosives and smoke grenades and what have you will be ignored.” He didn’t mind fleeing so much now. At first it was to escape, but now he had a goal in mind, and he could come back when his mind was clearer. He’d forget all about that strange moment and they’d have a dinner, and he’d see if he could get a compromise on the sleeping. |