sherlock holmes đ (unsolved) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2013-08-07 23:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | john watson (bbc), sherlock holmes (bbc) |
WHO: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson.
WHERE: Tower Two, Room #209.
WHEN: August 1st, very early morning.
WHAT: Sherlock gets drunk, goes to dinner with Moriarty Irene, and ends up in Johnâs bed. Not necessarily in that order.
RATING: PG for language.
STATUS: Complete.
Two and a half glasses of Pinot Grigio and a plate of Moules Frites later, Sherlock somehow made it from the restaurant to the foot of John's bed without being blown up. Naturally, this was a considerable achievement when one asked an esteemed psychopath to dinner. Even if there were limbs in the bed and he couldn't get comfortable. (Detatched limbs? He decided to think on that later.) "Move," he told the leg next to him, pushing firmly until the limb yielded. Where did a leg get off telling him where not to sleep? He leaned back on his elbows, briefly taking in the unfamiliar sparseness of a room devoid of experiments. Strange. Maybe this was a new addition to the mind palace. He wrinkled his nose and decided his mind was severely lacking in the design department lately. Sherlock collapsed back onto the mattress and abandoned the pursuit of removing his dinner jacket. "You can stay on if you promise to play Cluedo," he reasoned with the article of clothing, tugging gently on his wrist caught halfway out of a sleeve. Flailing his free arm resulted in coming into contact with a pillow and an ear, so he tossed said pillow across the room. It sailed out the window. "I play the notes as they are written," he murmured heavily, yawning in the next breath. "But it is God who makes the music." John slept soundly, and heâd never admit to the fact he stayed up rather late waiting for Sherlock. He came into his room when he got back to try and make peace between them, still confused about why they were snapping at each other in the first place, and he was no where to be found. Yes, sometimes Sherlock up and disappeared, but he hadnât since they got there. John anxiously tried to keep tabs on him, and now he was gone. He finally decided he didnât care, so there, and went to bed. That only led him staring up at the ceiling for at least a half hour, deciding whether to go out and look for him or not. In the end sleep overtook him so the decision was made. Until he was jarred by the feeling of someone on his bed, and he came half awake. He was a little sluggish in the mornings, and that was after a good sleep. âWhat? Sherlock?â His leg moved when it was pushed, and he was starting to think this was some very strange dream. It made the most sense after all, because Sherlock was on his bed and talking about Cluedo. John was about to laugh and go back to sleep, except a wrist struck out and hit his ear. âOw!â His pillow was then rudely taken from him, leaving his head to bump against the mattress, and now he was officially awake. And the reality was Sherlock was on his bed talking about music and his mind could not compute this information. âSherlock!â John had never seen his behavior like this before. Well maybe once before, when Irene drugged him, but he didnât think Sherlock would willingly be drugged again. Would he? He mentioned Vicodin. No, how would he get his hands on it? John was concerned, which was higher on the list than uncomfortable luckily. âAre you all right? Youâre acting strangely. Did you go into the wrong room?â "Bach," he corrected. Stop. Reverse. The room was pleasantly warm and John didn't have bombs strapped to his jacket. That had to count for something. "Dinner." In the morning, he would withstand a dull throbbing and more personal alcohol content information than was really necessary, but for now, he closed his eyes. At least he wasn't entirely drunk. His guess neared 0.10% BAC with some measure of whoozy satisfaction. Sherlock paused, reaching out to make certain John was actually there. His hand connected with the warmth of his flatmate's side, and he prodded him a bit, gently, as if to reassure himself. Then he dropped his arm back over his eyes. Better. "My bed is a lab, John. Obvious." He yawned again, perfectly unaffected by this whole display of incoordination. "Go back to sleep." âDinner?â This made absolutely no sense to him, and his mind wasnât exactly catching on quickly. Johnâs expression was probably comical in its combination of baffled confusion and alarm. âSherlock are you ⌠are you drunk?â It seemed such an alien concept he could barely believe it, since he normally had to force his friend to eat and sleep. Drinking never seemed like an option, he didnât drown his sorrows. When he patted John on the side he was very aware of the situation at hand, and he tried to think over whether or not he was all right with it. It wasnât exactly the first time he slept nearby a friend, they did that in the war regularly to save on space and gather warmth on cold nights. He could make it not-weird if he wanted to, or let it be weird, and he decided to go with the latter option. âYou stay here, Iâll go to the couch.â "Mild inebriation," he corrected again, too lazy to turn over while he addressed John's concerns. At this point, existing in a horizontal state seemed to help his body find better equilibrium. The room was swaying much less erratically now, much like laying in the bowels of a ship. "I'm experiencing impaired depth perception, reflexes, and motor control." He wondered whether John would like sailing. They should try that. Of course, he didn't realize he'd said as much out loud. Sherlock ultimately felt more tired than drunk, which was likely due to his 72 hour stint without prolonged sleep. In the back of his mind, something about this whole night irked him, but he couldn't place the exact feeling. As if he might have crossed a line somewhere, an unspoken border without a passport. He blinked his eyes open and glanced at John, promptly dismissing one concern for another. "Stop." Wrong. Sherlock had reached out, thought better of it, and settled for lightly resting his knuckles against John's side. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, his words spoken slowly, measured. "Stay, John. Please." âIâm not sure Iâd call this mild,â John replied, amused. He was less worried. Drunk and/or tipsy he knew something about, so the doctor side of him relaxed. Now he was moving on to a sense of humor, because Sherlock Holmes was inebriated. He wish Greg and Mrs. Hudson were there so he could share. Theyâd find it just as humorous no doubt. âExactly how much did you have? Since when do you drink?â It didnât occur to him in the slightest this had anything to do with their minor row earlier on. They snapped at each other from time to time, it was normal. Perhaps it was because Sherlock was having trouble adjusting. That last thought made him soften and it was the only reason he hesitated in leaving the room. Plus Sherlock was begging him to stay, and he rarely said please. If he wasnât often drunk, having someone nearby would be a relief. âPeople are really going to talk,â he mumbled under his breath. John often made note of when they crossed boundaries by saying something to that effect. He lay back down, but scooted enough to the side of the bed to put a reasonable distance between them. âItâll be all right, Iâve done this loads of times.â For nearly three minutes, Sherlock said nothing. The rise and fall of his chest had slowed considerably, breaths deepening, presumably since he'd fallen asleep at some point during their conversation. Except for the part where he suddenly turned over onto his side, taking all the blankets with him. Reasonable distance? Nonexistent. "Pinot Grigio. Two and three quarter glasses.â He sprawled out until he was on his stomach, elbow poking into Johnâs back. Tomorrow he could worry about confessing he had an alcohol tolerance of about zero. âIâve consumed alcohol in social settings before, John. Iâm hardly a novice.â He pressed his nose into the mattress and hiccuped, deciding then and there that the world made very little sense. That was okay. Sherlock did, in fact, feel the tension heâd carried all night begin to unravel with John nearby. It was more than familiarity, it was a reminder that they were still alive. Still together. âYouâve slept with your flatmates before?â He huffed, something like a dry laugh despite burying his face back against the mattress. It felt cooler, there. The smell of aftershave and tea residue clung to the sheets like a lingering phantom, and he hummed low in the back of his throat, resisting the pull of sleep only just. âBlog about it, then.â John laughed softly. âYouâre a light weight. If you have consumed it before, it hasnât been enough.â He was amused by this turn of events. It did make the whole bed sharing a lot easier to know Sherlock was just out of sorts. He remembered being drunk a time or two and wanting anything soft to lie on and someone comforting nearby. âDo I need to get a bucket or bring you to the bathroom?â He had good reason to be somewhat concerned. This was his bed and Sherlock was face down hiccuping. And who would be the one responsible for cleaning it? Certainly not his soon-to-be hungover flatmate. âNo. Wait, thatâs a bit of a lie, but it wasnât lasting.â Heâd roomed in a house. It was co-ed. John made no secret of his womanizing past. People would never think it to look at him. That was what got them arguing in the first place, and he couldnât for the life of him figure out why Sherlock made such ado about it. Maybe because he was leaning on John more and wanted the safety of his full attention. He turned on his side facing Sherlock while still keeping a distance. âIâll blog about the drinking escapades of the brilliant detective. Were you drinking alone?â Sherlock twisted his head to face John, scowling as if the very suggestion was some immeasurable offense. The man had pride, thank you. "Don't you dare get a bucket." It was preposterous to even think about being sick after three glasses of wine and moderately decent mussels. He might never survive the shame of it. At least for another sixty seconds, wherein he started to smirk against his better judgment. Sherlock turned his nose back into the mattress again to hide it, heaving a noisy, irritated sigh. "And stop laughing. Iâm not here to entertain you." In truth, he wasnât at all nauseous. Mild dizziness and steadily overwhelming fatigue. He kicked each shoe off with his heel, sparing Johnâs non-answer only half an ear what with the concentration necessary to perform this great feat of undressing. Then there was the Problem of theâno, wait, that didnât require capitalsâthe problem of his dinner jacket, which would be wrinkled beyond recognition by morning. With a noise rather akin to a snarling cat, Sherlock heaved himself up onto all fours, carefully yanking off his jacket and ⌠tossing it. Somewhere. âNo. To both, no. If you blog about me Iâllââ There was a long pause while he considered all the possible threats, but he could only come up with one. âIâll replace all your tea with Lipton and hack your mobile to set your ringtone.â Good. That would be sufficient. Sherlock stared down at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to piece something together. Whatever that something was, he made no further comment, hunkering back down to get comfortable. âNo, youâre here because you forgot to stumble to the right room. Iâll laugh if I want to.â John only laughed this way with Sherlock. It took him some time before he managed to coax a real laugh out of his friend, and it felt like a triumph each time. Something that small made his heart warm. It was the little things. A smile wasnât as difficult, but there was a difference between the sarcastic and mild ones and the few he genuinely sent Johnâs way. He liked feeling special because Sherlock Holmes found him interesting. âIâll get a bucket if I think youâre going to lose it. Itâs my bed.â It started to feel Not Good again a moment later when Sherlock started to take off his jacket, and John fidgeted, not entirely certain why his stomach was acting strange. He shut his eyes instead.âYou will not. You wonât stomach Lipton yourself, and I donât mind having a new ringtone. As long as it isnât that particular moan.â It was startling the first time he heard it, and he never got used to the sound. At first it amused him, but eventually it became a bother. Irene Adler. Trouble from beginning to end, although he did respect her intellect. He looked expectantly at Sherlock for a few moments before becoming exasperated. âWell? Who were you drinking with?â âWrong. Not your bed.â It was mumbled, mostly because his thoughts were starting to jumble together and only the familiar made sense. Sherlock reached out a hand to flick Johnâs ear for the transgression. He missed, prodding the side of his flatmateâs neck instead. âNot our flat, either. Donât get too comfortable hereâthe mussels are wretched.â No they werenât. He pushed up onto his elbows, suddenly, looming over John with another piercing look. (Or at least, as piercing as he could manage while being tipsy.) âYou havenât made friends here, have you?â That was all he needed. Having to pry John tooth and nail from a reality not their own when he found the way out. Oh. Well. That was a new development. Since when did he think they were getting out of this before his mind had gone to marbles? Sherlock plucked at Johnâs collar without really thinking about it. âAre you asking for a different moan? I could arrange that.â His tone was thoughtful, almost, tracing the line of his jaw absently. Then poking him again. Mrs. Hudsonâs would be particularly convenient for revenge, though the actual procuring of that recording would prove a stretch. He didnât realize John was looking at him again until he asked another question. What was this, the Spanish Inquisition? âThe other woman.â Obvious. Except, heâd gotten it wrong. âNoâThe Other Woman.â It didnât occur to Sherlock that John couldnât see the capitals in his head, so he didnât bother clarifying. âItâs my bed and our flat for the time being, so Iâm going to treat it that way.â John did miss their flat. It was arranged just so. Not too long ago he thought he would never be happy there again. He considered moving. He couldnât. He missed Mrs. Hudson now and how sheâd peek in on them after fake knocks. He missed calling Greg for a drink. He had Sherlock though and that was enough. âFriends? I suppose of a sort. Theyâre nice, and I like to hear their stories, but I wouldnât say Iâve grown close to anyone yet.â He had no reason to think Sherlock meant a different kind of friend that way. He was a genius. He knew when John was having friends. John was completely thrown off by Sherlockâs rather direct suggestion. Surprised enough he thought the other man was joking and laughed nervously. He suspected for a long time Sherlock was either into men or no one at all, or so he thought until Irene Adler showed up and his friend turned into an idiot. Just like a normal bloke. It took him a second too long to react to the actual touch and he calmly removed Sherlockâs hand from him. That wouldnât do at all. He would either react to that or go back into denial, but the next thing Sherlock said got his full attention. âThe ⌠Other Woman?â He was confused again, and it took a bit to jump to the right conclusion. Mostly because it never occurred to him, even with her threat that she wanted to meet him. John went from joking and being uncomfortable to tense immediately. He sat up and looked down at Sherlock. âYou had a drink with their Ire--- their Moriarty? Are you completely mad?â Sherlock most certainly hadnât meant Friends, although he yanked another pillow out from under his leg in protest, tossing it across the room by way of his usual show of maturity. John wasnât allowed to have other friends. It meant less time with Sherlock, which was inexcusably Wrong and Dull and Not Good. âAmericans arenât nice, John. Theyâre like stray cats you feed once that keep coming back.â He twisted around again, trying to get comfortable and hissing out a breath when his phone dug into his back. It took several minutes for him to muster up the coordination to fish it out again, and predictably enough, started checking his notifications once heâd succeeded. Any and all inner emotional turmoil on Johnâs part was completely overlooked in favor of Candy Crush. âIâm out of lives,â was probably not the response John was looking for, no matter how ironic it was. Laying sprawled out on his back, brow knit in concentration, Sherlock seemed entirely unable to focus on more than one topic simultaneously. His phone blipped helpfully, prompting the occasional Sweet! when he nailed a difficult row of candies. As God-awful as this hellhole of a town was, the apps and television programs and, most recently, memes, were sufficiently entertaining enough to withstand the glare of his fixations. If he got to level 350, heâd be the smartest person to ever live. This was the face of addiction. âSherlock,â John said sharply, forgetting all the rest about their conversation. He was getting slowly but surely in a temper again. Why did it seem like he was getting angry at him more often? Or perhaps he forgot what it was like to be around an incredibly infuriating person all the time. He didnât think too much on his reasons for being angry, although the primary few were because she was a psychopath clearly. And she destroyed the other Sherlock. âSheâs dangerous, what the hell were you thinking?â Since his friend decided his phone was more interesting, he reached over and grabbed it right out of his hand. He considered flinging it, but even in a bad mood he wasnât going that far. They needed that. He did drop it on the floor next to his side of the bed. It made a clang, but no shattering. He was going to get Sherlockâs focus if it was the last thing he did. âShe is not our Irene or our Moriarty. I swear sometimes I think you are as stupid as you are smart!â He was getting right worked up now. He sat up entirely now, his back straight, turned slightly toward Sherlock to snap directly at him. John considered getting up and stomping off, going to the couch like he mentioned before. He was not going to be chased out of his own bed at the moment. âShe devastated him, Iâm not about to let her do the same to you! She might be beautiful, but ⌠for all you know she drugged you! Poisoned you.â It occurred to him a moment later the timing. âDid you do that after our talk?â "Of all the most asinine, imbecilicâ" Sherlock twisted over again until he was on his stomach, stretching his hand out in an effort to retrieve his phone. His fingers grazed the edge, but the mobile merely flopped over unhelpfully, now completely out of reach. It was obviously conspiring against him. As was John, who might as well be spouting more nonsensical gibberish. He felt the room sway again, worse than before. "Beautiful. Beautiful. Oh yes, because that deduction wasn't drawn out of the ether." He didn't move, straining every ounce of energy left on attempting to burn holes into his phone with the force of his glare. The wine must be wearing off. He flexed a hand against the side of the mattress, like a cat clawing at the furniture. Sherlock didn't bother turning to look at him when he spoke next. It was surprisingly venomous. "'Not my area' doesn't mean occasionally, John. It means never. Statistically improbable. Aversion, not affinity. Unequivocally no. If I have to find another way to say that I am, in fact, attracted to the same sex, I will do precisely the opposite of everything you say until youâve managed to understand this very simple concept." He inhaled sharply, feeling an onslaught of a hundred different things that he pushed down, forcefully, disavowing it all. Pure logic. If he refused to acknowledge emotion, he couldnât feel it. After a long, tense moment of silence where Sherlock didnât do anything further than breathe, he snatched the pen from the side table and ⌠continued to fish for his phone. Maybe it was a good thing the Pinot Grigio was still lingering. âIâm asinine, Iâm imbecilic?â John did not expect to be having a fight like this in his bed in the middle of the night, but that was Sherlock Holmes. Always doing the unexpected. He rolled his eyes when Sherlock started desperately trying to go for the phone and made no move to help him. In fact he was thinking about kicking it farther away just to see what would happen. It was spiteful, but he was being yelled at in the middle of the night. And Sherlock got drunk with Ireniary. John was in a petty type of mood. âOh. Well ⌠you didnât say so!â John protested loudly. âYou seemed damn well attracted to Irene Adler -- our Irene Adler. You were practically in love with her!â Something John did not approve of for a variety of reasons, some known and some unknown. She did save their lives, so he gave her credit for that, but she wasnât good for Sherlock. âI know attraction when I see it, most of the time I wondered if I should be in the bloody room.â He sarcastically offered up his middle name as a baby name just to get attention. It didnât work. He was promptly ignored again. Not that he minded. âSo both of you identify as gay but were interested in each other, what does that even mean?â John was a direct sort of bloke. You liked the opposite sex you were straight, same sex you were gay, he knew there were bisexuals and that seemed all well and good, but it seemed confusing. Thatâs why he was glad for him it was so simple, right? Completely simple. âIt doesnât change the fact you went out for drinks with a known killer.â "I did say so." Rather more emphatically than usual, or so he'd thought. However much his temper had flared unabated, it deflated out of him as suddenly as it had sparked. Sherlock seemed to have lost the use of his muscles, practically hanging half off the bed in a boneless heap. "I found her mind attractive. She bested me, John. We were as likely to jump into bed as Mycroft is capable of wearing jeans." He was tired and frustrated and upsetânot that he would admit to the latter, so tired and frustrated it was. His phone was miles away. John was speaking another language. No one understood. He'd said as much about her pulse not because he thought she was at all attracted to him. Quite the contrary, in fact. It had been fear he sensed in her. And that, more than anything else, he could understandâparticularly after Sherlock had been backed into a similar corner when Jim was down to his last hand of cards. The irrelevant line about sentiment served the purpose of throwing Mycroft off the scent. Sherlock owed Irene many things, and divorcing her from the whims of his brother hadn't remotely begun to pay those debts. They, the both of them, had gambled too high in the face of an unmitigated, underestimated criminal. Peering over his shoulder for a moment, Sherlock stared at John with "⌠You thought we were in love." It was a completely, utterly foreign concept to him. Not that either of them would be capable of such an emotion, whichâwell. That was debatable, certainly. But the part that snagged him was the fact that John would ever think, on any plane of existence, that Sherlock could feel for someone more than what he felt for John. "Why," was all that escaped him. âIt didnât seem that way. You seemed very likely to jump into-- she kept, with the texting!â John wasnât speaking as clearly as heâd like, but he was flustered. To him it seemed obvious at the time. Sherlock noticed her body size enough to put the code in. He refused to answer her texts. âYou wrote sad music when you thought she was dead. You gave a good appearance of being heart broken. You let her beat you.â And in his head that only made sense if Sherlock loved her. Complexity thy name was not John Watson. He was a smart man, but he still lived his life in simple direct obvious boxes. âYou saved her life for godâs sake, went halfway around the world it seemed. If that isnât love, what is it?â John wasnât filtering well. He saw what happened to Irene when he watched their show. Since Sherlock didnât know about the show, there was no real reason for John to have that information. He plugged on to try and ignore that aspect of the conversation. âListen weâre getting off track, that Irene Adler is a psychopath, she destroyed her Sherlock, Iâm not going to let her get her claws into you. I donât care if youâre ⌠gay or not, sheâs brilliant, sheâd find a way to mess you up.â He finally stood up and moved over to pick up Sherlockâs phone. That led to almost immediately him sorting through the phone to see the texts for himself. Boundary crossing, yes, and Sherlock couldnât argue that since he ignored them so often. âIâll break this, donât think that I wonât.â Sherlock turned his face away again, chin resting on the edge of the bed. He stared at his phone until his gaze unfocused, shadows swimming together like light reflecting off the sea. If that isnât love, what is it? âItâs admiration,â he said, feeling distinctly like he was making an apology more than an explanation. âItâs deference. Thatâs yielding to someone of greater skill. I approved of her, John. It doesnât have to mean either of us were interested in anything else.â When fatigue had well and truly set in, Sherlock tended to lose the ability to control the level of his voice, which resulted in his now gravelly excuse for speaking. Every word was pronounced with slow precision, his thoughts running together and distilling any ability to notice just what John had unintentionally revealed. âYou met Sebastian,â he said, making another feeble attempt to snatch his phone. That was the most obvious piece of evidence because John had been there. He must have noticed. But he hadnâtâhe considered Irene a veritable rival despite the fact that she wasnât a man nor was she his live-in. As if she were even interested in men to begin with, much less men like Sherlock, which he suspected she was far too shrewd for. He went very still when John went for his phone, but not for the obvious reasons. Live-in. Rival. Liability. Something was very important and very obvious here. It didn't have to do with the timestamps John was likely reviewing or the real lead-up to all of this. He shifted onto his back again and watched John with his phone, waiting, strangely quiet. âYouâre very wrong about her on that. She wouldâve jumped you in a second if you offered.â John assumed Sherlock was not interested in general. He was surprised with how his friend acted as soon as Irene got in the picture. Trust him to have a strange sense of romance with a woman he didnât physically desired. Mycroft was no real help on that issue, although his comment about Sherlock not knowing sex stuck with John. âSeb---â John looked sincerely surprised at that point of news. He didnât like the man, not in the least, and it was a quick business. Oh but now it made sense, why Sherlock took the case in the first place. Why he made it clear John was his friend and there with him. That was the first time he clearly said âmy friendâ and emphasized the word as if it meant something. âSeriously?â He snorted and shook his head. âYou have terrible taste if so, that man was a true ponce. And I didnât like the way he treated you.â A few things did click in his head. The subtext in the room was now text and yes, he was oblivious in the wrong way. John did see the messages, and he scowled. âI really wish people would stop referring to me as a dog,â he muttered. âYour watchdog, faithful lap dog, on and on.â Moriarty spoke of him that way too, like he was Sherlockâs pet. Infuriating. The timestamp was what he saw and he sighed, tossing the phone over to Sherlock. âSo this was punishment. You didnât like what I was doing, so you did something I wouldnât like.â Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking at a loose button that had come undone on his shirt. âHasnât it ever occurred to you that she said those things to incite your grievance? She was cunning, John. Not overt.â And clearly, it was still working. He hadnât put two and two together at the time, but retrospect made detectives of them all. âDivide et impera,â he murmured, dragging a hand through his tousle of curls. Somehow, it wasnât strange to be having this conversation with John. In a bed. The boundaries between them were rapidly evaporating, and for once, he had no intention of building them back up again. âHe did thisâtrick. With his hands.â Sherlock made a very vague, easily misinterpreted gesture with his fingers and didnât elaborate. They served a function with each other. Sherlock had overestimated what they had, Sebastian had underestimated Mycroft's level of dedication. It had ended rather spectacularly poorly. He glanced sidelong at John, starting to smirk before he could stop it. Or care to, really. âYou donât like how anyone treats me.â It was equal parts entertaining and confusing to watch John always leap to his defense all the time, but he still couldnât quite unravel what heâd done to deserve that kind of loyalty. He was certain the novelty of his skills had long since worn off. The phone landed between them, Ireneâs texts glaring in the half-dark before the screen dimmed. He didnât touch it. Nor did he bother with lying. âMore or less.â It was the canine analogies that seemed to conceal something deeper. Sherlock waited a breath before reaching out to hold onto the side of John's shirt, steadying. âI donât think that about you.â His voice was heavier, communicating something through the haze of wine that he hadnât meant to but wouldn't retract. âI think youâre wrong. This is one of those things I know a bit more about than you do.â Sherlock knew a great deal about many things, but he wasnât as astute with people. Or subtext. Or understanding what it meant on an emotional level. John was stubbornly positive. He saw Irene and despite being brilliant and cunning, she was also easier to read than sheâd like. âYou beat her because of her feelings for you, Sherlock. Maybe it wasnât sexual, but it wasnât platonic either. At least not on her end.â And he stubbornly would not be persuaded any other way. âI donât need to know!â John made a face. Not because of the gay part, but because that guy was a real tosser. He didnât want to picture the two of them together like that, it was bothersome. Clearly since Sebastian treated him poorly. âThatâs because people donât treat you well. Not that you give them much reason, to be fair. But if he was ⌠with you, he shouldâve been nicer to you.â John was now going to have to wonder what to do if Sherlock did bring a bloke home. It would be fine, more that he couldnât imagine Sherlock in a relationship. How would he act? Was he completely the same as he was now only ⌠it was probably best not to dwell on that. God he hoped tomorrow was going to be less confusing. At least he wasnât trying to lie. John sighed and rubbed his eyes. Sherlock was never too fond of him dating, it took his attention away from their work, but this seemed to be to a higher level. He usually ignored it. He smiled wryly at what Sherlock said, getting what he meant. He let him touch his shirt and didnât move away. âGood, because Iâm not your bloody pet.â He looked over at his friend and met his eyes. âIf it bothers you that much, I wonât go on a date with her, all right?â Something was important here. Feelings. Pulse. Wrong. John had information Sherlock couldnât put together how heâd found out, but it made his head throb to focus too long on it. âOh, yes! Do regale me with your rapier deductions, Detective Watson. Iâm all aflutter.â He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, heaving a great sigh. This was as good as a dismissal of the whole thing as far as Sherlock was concerned, though he did chuckle lowly for all his efforts in the melodramatic. It was still a bit strange to think John felt so strongly about some nonexistent affair heâd apparently had with Irene Adler, of all people, but it seemed he couldnât sway him. That was just as well. What they had was ⌠indefinable. He was equally unmoved when John strongly disputed any further stories concerning a one Mr. Wilkes, partly because heâd read enough email correspondence from his flatmateâs girlfriends to last a lifetime. And Sherlock hadnât even said anything that constituted TMI yet. âIf itâs any consolation, Mycroft kidnapped Sebastian and offered him moneyââ Sherlock yawned, not particularly interested in the story itself, but that may just be the warm buzz distracting him. ââonly to blackmail him thrice over after he cashed the first cheque. Iâd said it was rather extravagant for severance pay, but he seemed adamant.â By morning, heâd likely wonder what had possessed him to confess any of this. Only one person knew about what really happened with Sebastian, and that very person had inserted his rook between them the moment he predicted their end. Sherlock still hated him for it. Maybe he always would. Giving Johnâs shirt a firm tug, Sherlock felt himself relax in slow degrees. There was something so deceptively simple about his flatmateâas if his very function was to act as a living anchor, like a lighthouse in a storm. Sometimes, in the moments before exhaustion took him, he imagined a world without John and knew of its impossibilities. When he met his gaze, Sherlock made sure not to blink. âNot important. Get down here and sleep with me.â John wasnât particularly fond of being mocked. This was one of those times when he was getting that subtext of âpunch me in the faceâ whenever Sherlock began to talk. âIâm not a detective, but Iâm not an idiot either. I might not all be as brilliant as you, but I know a few things.â He was taking it personally, and it showed in the way his jaw clenched and the stiffness in his posture. There was nothing Sherlock could say that would dissuade him from thinking there was something between him and Irene. Maybe there wasnât an exact word for it, but it was suspicious, so he wasnât wrong about that. John frowned at Sherlock when he explained what happened to Sebastian, and he considered what Mycroft did and the implications. âGood,â he said finally. âIf he didnât treat you well and agreed to take money to spy on you, when you were in a relationship, Iâm glad Mycroft got rid of him. You deserve better than that.â He and Mycroft agreed absolutely on one subject, and that was taking care of Sherlock. They had different opinions on how to do that, but it was important to them both. Not that the brothers were willing to admit they cared about one another enough to make gestures like that. It always had to be a game or a chess move. John thought it was simpler than theyâd both like, so they found ways to complicate it. John sighed when he was tugged down to the bed and he was grumpy about doing it. He still felt uneasy about being there, like he should most definitely go to the couch, but going to the couch seemed like it meant something too. He wasnât sure what. It was too late to get into the intricacies. He met Sherlockâs gaze for a moment, and then his expression hardened. âPromise me you wonât do that again. That you wonât go out alone with her.â Sherlock, perhaps not so remarkably, decided that talking was grossly overrated and dull and whatâs more, he was bloody tired. Thus, he reached upâfully intending to cover Johnâs mouth with his hand all in one smooth motion. As with most plans tonight, the execution far outstripped the intent. The flat of his palm connected a little harder with Johnâs nose than heâd initially meant, which meant a little fumbling while he attempted to find said flatmateâs lips and only coming up with his forehead and, later, his ear. It was all rather messy, truth be told. Sherlock huffed, abandoning his pursuit to latch onto Johnâs wrist for a second time that night. Better. This business was far more conducive to sleeping than he usually allowed himself, and for that, he decided a repeat experiment was in order. Preliminary theories that required testing, of course. What Effect, If Any, Does Johnâs Bed Have As Sherlockâs Sleeping Aid? Independent variable: John. Dependent variable: Johnâs bed. He took down brief mental notation and then shoved it all away in one jumbled heap into the corner, never to see the light of day until sobriety or inspiration visited him again. In whatever order. For a beat, then two, he forced his breathing to slow in time with the throb under his fingers. It was steadying, this tempo. To know that John would always be a constant in his life despite that life starting to fray at the seams. âPromise,â he spoke through another yawn, eyes closed. He felt further away and, somehow, equally more present than heâd felt since before he fell from St. Bartâs roof, so unwound he neared boneless. That was John for you, ever the heady weight of the present. Sherlock counted each beat of his heart until his own matched the tempo. âYou can come next time. Brunch. Waffles with Moriarty, or some such.â He hadnât let go of Johnâs wrist. âOw,â John said with a swat at Sherlockâs reaching hand. âI hope I wonât wake up to a broken nose if you get riled up in your sleep.â He really would feel better if he wasnât being touched at all, to be honest. It was a double edged sword. The touch was comforting. He liked knowing Sherlock was alive and well. After tonight when he apparently tried to cause trouble. On the other hand they were in bed together and that was strange. He couldnât help but smile with Sherlock looking this tired and full of trust. âIf I knew getting you to sleep required a few drinks, I mightâve taken the approach sooner.â His heart beat just a little faster. Not enough heâd call it a big deal, but it was a change. John took his hand back and gently placed Sherlockâs on his side of the bed. There was a moment when his hand seemed to hover and maybe linger on his friendâs shoulder, and it was a tentative pat. âWeâre not having food with Moriarty, sheâs trouble.â He didnât only worry about Sherlock with her. She had a way of getting into the heads of others, and while he and Joan were both extremely level headed, they werenât immune to her either. He withdrew his hand and moved onto his back. âGet sleep, and weâll get you waffles in the morning.â His request for Sherlock to try for more food and sleep was halfway there, and John was satisfied with it. Under the wrong circumstances of course, but when were there right circumstances? Sherlock was about to assert that he did, in fact, rather detest waffles, but he'd already fallen asleep. Funny, that. |