Chapter Text
Sherlock woke with a start. His suddenly conscious mind began to reorganize everything it had forgotten to remember.
“Twelve nights. That feels right. Why did it take so long this time?”
Sheer willpower drove the thinned man to his feet. He looked down and noticed the dip in his shirt where the meat of his stomach had been. After lifting the shirt to inspect the truth, the number changed.
“Fifteen nights.”
Addiction had left him dead to the world for over two weeks. He was certain about that. However wonderful the experience of being lost to his mind had been though, there would certainly be repercussions.
A screen that lit up after a small green button was held too long would see to Holmes’ disappointment. His fingers helped him glide through the most recent texts. All of the last forty-seven messages had the same initials resting next to them: JW.
Sherlock, where are you? JW
You couldn't have lost your phone again. JW
Sherlock, I'm serious. JW
If this is another one of those experiments, I swear to God I'll hurt you. JW
Those were some of the texts John had sent over the past two weeks after Sherlock had gone who knows where. He knew Sherlock had done this before, disappeared out of thin air, and when he came back it was never a good thing.
Sherlock smirked, alone in the room he'd bought out for the month in order to assure himself the time in isolation he so desired.
John was beyond predictable. It was thrilling in a way. Even through all of the aggravation, there was concern. Perhaps, it was the aggravation despite the concern that was so appealing to him. Either way, Holmes was pleased to see his partner was as easy to anticipate as ever.
Finally, after so much silence, John's personalized ringtone for his manic companion sounded.
John. Barnald St. S.C. Debb's Diner. - SH
You're a real git Sherlock. I'll be there. JW
As soon as the message was sent, John let out a long sigh of relief. At least Sherlock was alive, but even that might not last long. Grabbing his coat, he left the flat that he had paced through worriedly for weeks and made his way for the diner.
Sherlock waited impatiently for John to take his hint and arrive at his location. He’d only had to venture across the way from his hotel to the diner marked, “Debb’s”. The self-proclaimed genius had managed to lock himself away from the world—yet again—in an attempt to free his mind from the frustrations of his life. It had worked. His nearly suicidal thoughts were gone and his desire to look at other people and continue judging them fairly based on their mannerisms, habits, clothing, and so on had returned! More importantly, he felt he could look at his dear Watson’s face again without feeling the need to do something completely irrational.
He called it meditation. John typically called it recklessness.
Of course, there were always two or three things Sherlock forgot to pack when he decided to go on one of these ‘self-enlightening’ meditative jaunts; this time he forgot a form of transportation and any extra funds. Luckily for him though, he remembered his one connection to the only person it really mattered to get a hold of anyway.
Sherlock Holmes was waiting at the diner, eagerly gawking at the plates of the people furthest from him. His stomach was now registering how much pain it was actually in after so long without proper care. He could hear John now, going on about his complexion and his smell and his weight. Honestly, he just wanted a large cup of tea and an enormous breakfast. Once that was out of the way, it would be on to more amusing matters. That was his desire. He pulled down his long shirtsleeves just in case the vet. doctor was in a particularly nosy mood.
John's pace grew faster as he saw the sign of the diner, having walked there instead of getting a taxi. As he neared Debb's, John peered in through the glass, searching every table until he found the one that Sherlock, who looked a bit of a mess, sat in. He entered and gave a small smile to an employee that said, "Good morning." The sound soon faded as he went to sit across from Sherlock.
"Where have you been?" He demanded, lowering his voice as not to attract attention from anyone.
"It's good to see you too, John." There was a usual sense of disregard in Sherlock's voice; the one he always got after one of his tangents. "I tried to order but they wouldn't let me place it until 'my friend' arrived."
Sherlock gave a very displeased gesture of the eyes towards the waitress who had waived John in.
John rolled his eyes with an irritated sigh, glancing back to the waitress. "Hungry? That's probably because you didn't bother to eat, again." He looked over Sherlock who was obviously thinner than normal, at least thinner than when Sherlock was home with him and John forced him to eat. "So where were you?" He inquired again.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Guess.”
It was a simple task, Holmes knew, to figure out that he had just arrived from the hotel across the street. If John ever bothered to actually improve on his deductive talents, he would see all the facts laid out in front of his face as clear as day. However, Sherlock neither expected John to guess right his first try without using sarcasm or be able to explain his reasoning well enough even if he did. In every sense, John was to Sherlock, amusing. It was why he kept him so close. He was a cure for that chronic nagging boredom in his mind and fulfilled that troublesome human impulse for like-formed company. This was another one of their games and, despite how dreadfully hungry his body was, there was always time for a little game of “Detective Watson”.
John grumbled, as he knew 'guess' was to play. He brought his arms up over the table and folded his hands under his chin, a pose that Sherlock made when he was deep in thought. He stared hard at Sherlock, trying to use the little deduction skills he had to figure it out. He looked out the diner window, noting the hotel across the way and that Sherlock had made it here before he did. "Well, you were close," he mumbled. That was all he was getting. "But what's with your sleeves?" He questioned as they were sloppily slid over the other man’s arms.
Sherlock smiled with a cocky grin that was indiscernible for being mocking amusement or honest approval. He avoided the topic of his arms easily with a taunting question.
“Do you give up, Watson?” He wasn’t going to give anything away and he wasn’t going to give the other man the answer. Holmes had followed Watson’s gaze out the window toward the hotel and he basked in the confidence that even though John was on the right track, it was for limited reasoning. This made Sherlock feel superior and quite clever.
At that moment though, his stomach made a terrible noise and he winced in pain. He licked his dry lips and sighed. “Perhaps, you can continue guessing after you’ve ordered?”
His body was weak from starvation and dehydration. He had kept drinking from the water bottles he’d stored next to the bed he had planned to spend his time in, but that did nothing for nutrition. It was necessary to continue feeding his blasted body, or else it wouldn’t keep running. Right now, he admitted, he needed to eat desperately. He secretly despised the fact he would not be forced to eat John’s cooking at home. He didn’t question his own motives for the frustration either.
John mumbled something as he frowned at Sherlock and turned so he could order something. He was buying, he assumed, but at least Sherlock would be getting fed faster and honestly with better food.
"I swear Sherlock, malnutrition will be the downfall of you," he growled. He was irritated that Sherlock couldn't take care of himself, even being a grown-up. He felt like the man’s babysitter at times, and he made a small laugh at the thought. He mused to himself and wondered if that was how Mycroft saw his younger brother too.
The waitress came over and smiled towards John again and he gestured at Sherlock. "He's ordering," was all he said, since he wasn't in the mood to eat. He instead kept busy with trying to find out what Sherlock was doing.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s reluctance. He sighed and looked away from John and the waitress. If John was going to make this difficult for him, then he would make sure to make things just as complicated for everyone else.
“We’ll have the farmhouse slam with extra bacon, sausage, and hash browns. We’ll of course require ketchup for the potatoes as my dear friend here,” he gestured to Watson with his gaze. “-has a particularly strange need to smother everything he eats in some sort of sticky substance. You will also need to bring eight pieces of toast. I will only be eating one myself, with low-fat butter to moisten the bread, but my college will need as many tiny packets of strawberry jam as you might have to offer. He has an affinity for the sugary stuff, for reasons not even I can deduce. Then I will need a kettle of tea with two cups left here, on the table, with those ridiculously tiny sugar packets, some fresh cream, and a large stack of napkins. Also for John. For his sticky fingers. Finally, I require a large stack of waffles with raspberries. I need the raspberries to be fresh, not candied, and placed in a bowel beside the waffles, not on them. Bring all of this with two glasses of orange juice and one glass of milk and we’ll all get along nicely.”
Sherlock gave the flustered waitress a quick, dimpled smile and waited in silence for a moment. Then, with a snip of attitude he asked, “Got it?”
Of course the poor girl couldn’t follow that madness. He had purposely insulted her abilities at her so-called profession by naming too much, too quickly, all at once. Though he had nothing personal against the waitress herself, he was trying to make a point. As he glanced over at John from the corner of his eyes he saw that his efforts were not in vain. The annoyed expression on his dear doctor’s face was priceless and just as he’d expected.
John was not at all amused by the detective's attitude. That smile on his face didn't make it better. His fingers twitched, as Sherlock was right about the jam.
He even notices the littlest of things. John shook his head and looked to the waitress with an apologetic smile.
"Bring us something hot please. Whatever you recommend," he said simply. He then sent the waitress confusedly on her way.
"What was that?" He asked, glaring at the male in front of him who either did it to show off or just make him angry. John wondered why he even bothered at times to try and understand Sherlock. Any other sane person would leave him to himself, but not John! He always found himself following along behind him like some sort of pet or yelling at him for his actions like a parent with a short fuse, but John was his friend.
His only friend.
John chuckled lightly to himself. Now, that was something he could deduce.
Sherlock looked at John with an expression of absolute shock. “Why John,” he mocked. “Whatever do you mean?”
Holmes laughed inwardly. It was so easy to rile the other man. He was pleased to have him there after each rampage or half month of isolation. Before, it was only Mycroft who gave Sherlock any mind. Honestly, after years of bickering and trying to run the older brother off, Sherlock had stopped getting so much attention from the man. Now, Mycroft only bothered him in extreme circumstances, or when it frankly didn’t matter at all. John however, was different. No matter how much abuse and nonsense Sherlock put the boy through, he continued to be there. Perhaps a bit fussy and certainly more than a little wordy, but John was always there when Holmes needed him. It was Watson’s most unusual and singularly uneducable trait.
"You and your.... Never mind." John huffed and crossed his arms across his chest as he leaned back into the chair. He was trying not to bother any of the other people trying to enjoy a breakfast that morning, and that meant to not even try to argue with Sherlock. But John always seemed to think that's how the detective got his attention, by being smart and rude to others whom he thought weren't as bright as he was. Looking at the table, he bit on his lip.
Sherlock’s grin fell. “You’re boring, John.”
The brilliant man decided that he wasn’t entertained anymore and that now would be the best time to harass the ridiculously unreliable waitress. “Can I get my beverages now?”
The waitress nodded and at once left to get two orange juices, two coffees, and a glass of milk.
"Ha, I'm boring now." John laughed, saying thank you to the lady as she brought them their drinks. "I happen to think I'm fun when I'm not worrying about where you are and what you're doing." He muttered under his breath, taking his glass and looking the other way as he took a drink.
“Nonsense, John. You underestimate yourself. You are not only boring when you are worried,” Sherlock started. “You’re also quite uninteresting when you work, sleep, flirt with mindless women, pretend to work out, cook, when you eat, after a warm bath, and any time you are typing away on that laptop of yours.”
Sherlock was immensely amused with himself and it showed in the way he quirked an eyebrow as he took a drink of his coffee. “Just to name a few unspecific occasions, of course.”
John, rolling his eyes, set his glass down and bit his tongue. "So I was boring when we chased that cab? What about when I used rank over that soldier?" He threw in some things that he thought had been fun. He was annoyed that Sherlock thought him so boring with so many things. "Why have me around when I bore you?" he muttered, feeling as though he was unimportant.
Sherlock placed a finger to the edge of his chin. “Hmm. That time when you chased a cab,” he made a mock noise of consideration then clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
He just wanted to tease John a moment longer. He wanted to see that desperately darling look of complete abandonment for another second. As he watched John’s expression drop into something comparable to angry depression, Sherlock smirked just a little and took another sip of his beverage.
“Ah, yes! Now I remember.” His cocky attitude was exemplified once again in his tone. “Well I suppose in the moments where you are acting with me, you are quite a bit less boring. Still….”
Sherlock sighed and discarded his coffee. He just remembered his distaste for the bitter beverage. It seemed like tasting it would wake his otherwise dulled senses. However, it did not. It only served to remind him of what he already knew. It had also given him something of a test for John. The man didn’t mention anything about how strange it was that the detective was sipping on something he usually wouldn’t. Sherlock took note and decided to hold yet another point against his good fellow.
John tilted his head as Sherlock mocked him, watching him set down his cup of coffee. It was unusual to see him ever drink the substance but he thought nothing more of it. "Ha. ha." He laughed sarcastically, picking at a napkin to let out his frustration.
"So what isn't boring about me?" he inquired, looking up to Sherlock's eyes as if searching for something. No matter how hard he tried at times, he could never truly read the detective. He made himself a mystery with that cheeky grin and act of seclusion.
“I have a better topic, John. Let’s discuss what you have been wasting your time with these past two weeks.” He paused. “It has been two weeks, hasn’t it?” Sherlock glanced over at the shorter man inquisitively. He wasn’t usually very off on these sorts of estimates, but he always liked to double-check his work.
"Yes, two weeks. Other than worrying? Trying to help Lestrade with a few things and keeping Mycroft out of your business." John went back to wondering what Sherlock did over the two weeks.
“Ah!” Sherlock nodded to himself as John spoke, pleased he’d been right about the time gap. As he mentally recorded everything John said about his time away from the detective, the younger Holmes brother contemplated his own doings. He looked over at his doctor companion as he sat staring, waiting for a response. Clearly, Watson was hoping for some sort of exposition.
Sherlock gave a quirked smile and pretended to prepare to speak when the first round of food was placed before the both of them. He used the opportunity to escape the pressure of confession and indulged in the delicious first course that would help put meat back on his starved bones. He shoveled forkful and spoonful of tasty things into his mouth and didn’t bother to watch his manners. Also, he saw no reason he should. When John suggested he slow down, Sherlock just waved him off and spoke after swallowing, “John, I’ve not looked at a scrap of food for two weeks. It is a miracle I even kept hydrated. You should appreciate my appetite more than anyone.” Then, he went back to it through the first course and on to the second.
"Sherlock..." John hissed as he stared at the other man, both embarrassed and mortified at how the detective was eating. Though he did say nothing else after Sherlock mentioned that he hadn't eaten for two weeks. With a sigh, he stood up to pull the waitress aside and apologized, already paying for the meal and giving a tip. When he returned to the table, Sherlock was already done with his second course.
"Don't think this is getting you out for telling me why you were gone." The doctor grumbled, taking another drink of his juice and started slowly eating his food. Seeing as this would give him the chance to keep Sherlock in one place, he would make sure he got proper answers this time.
Sherlock eyed his doctor with a level of impatience that was common when John became a bit too pushy about matters the detective didn’t think he really had the right to be so flustered about. Of course John wanted to know “why”. The medical vet was always asking “why”. “Why” and “how” and such questions that really could answer themselves if the little man would just discover and deduce things on his own.
“It’s as simple as examination,” Holmes finally coughed out before taking a full swig of his water to push down the last of his breakfast. He knew this would only lead to more questions like “what?” So, he continued to speak himself. It would be easy to loop poor John around until he became exhausted of the ride. Sherlock was as confident in that he could break him as he was that John over-tipped the waitress.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you rushed out of the house, John. I appreciate the enthusiasm. I really do. Though you could have at least brought me my black coat.” Sherlock put the attention forcibly back onto his partner. It was the easiest way to get the man to drop a conversation; when he felt attacked and guilty, John Watson usually backed off. This would be ideal.
Sherlock didn’t want to talk about “why” he had ventured off into a hotel room to loose himself mentally and physically. He didn’t want to confess “what” had made his hands shake and his palms sweat long before the drugs had entered his system. He certainly didn’t want to have a little chat about “how” he had been feeling or the effects those sensations were having on his body. It had been a temporary state of mind, and the brilliant but stubborn man was sure that he had gotten rid of the cause of his suffering. Now, he just wanted to forget about it.
John frowned as he stopped eating, his darker blue eyes glaring at the detective. He was dodging his questions again, like always by bringing up things that weren't what he wanted to be discussed. It aggravated him and he was getting to the point of wanting to burst.
"I'm sorry, I was much more concerned for your well-being then your damned coat." The blond spat, folding a napkin angrily. John knew Sherlock hated being asked questions, but he needed answers, not to be waved off or ignored.
Sherlock glared at John from the corner of his eye. How dare John not take his bait? How was it that he dared to stay focused on such an annoying conversation? He wasn’t going to give up the fight that easily.
“Well it would have been preferable had you remembered the coat. I texted you. That meant I was alive. You could have grabbed the coat on your way out the door.”
John gave a short laugh, looking over the other with a scrunched up nose. Again with the coat, that's all the detective had to drive him away from the subject? His fingers started to tear at the napkin, deciding he could guess.
"Alive? Look at you, obviously malnourished and you've lost maybe more than five pounds. You haven't showered or cleaned your clothes. Not to mention you look like..." John paused, putting one and two
together. Drugs.
Sherlock leered at the man and realized he had figured out the foundation of the story and it was more than he wanted John to figure out. He turned his head away and took in more hydration, now making sure to avoid eye contact.
John watched the other man’s face, a frown sketching on his own features. Great, that was definitely the last thing he wanted to be the problem. The doctor felt suddenly stupid for not catching it before, knowing that Sherlock had a history with doing such things.
"So now you're not going to talk."
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Sherlock scoffed, took back the remainder of his beverage, and stood. “I’m going for a walk.”
There was a good chance that John would follow him, Sherlock knew that, but he hadn’t the mind to care if the doctor did or not. He was tired of that street and that diner and the conversation. He planned to just walk away from all of it.
John quickly stood up to follow him, putting on his coat and leaving the majority of his food uneaten. He wasn't about to let Sherlock walk off again and risk the chance of him vanishing for the second time that month. This was obviously a touchy subject, seeing as how he didn't want to talk about it.
"There is a lot to talk about, Sherlock," he said in his displeased tone.
An immense aggravation caused Sherlock to storm away from his partner at an unusual speed. He wasn’t feeling regret. He simply didn’t want to talk about what he did or why.
“There is nothing worth talking about,” he corrected himself and John.
"Sherlock, don't walk away and not answer me." John cursed, reaching to try and grab the back of the detective’s shirt to slow him down. He just wanted to know why Sherlock did it. Had something brought him low enough to do such things or was it just a stupid act of Sherlock’s boredom? John was just trying to be his friend. All he wanted was to help.
As John’s fingers locked into the neck of the sensitive man’s shirt, Sherlock swung around defensively to break the grasp. His quick motions left a stunned expression on the doctor’s face. The two met eye to eye as the detective took exactly three steps backwards and away from his concerned companion. They eyed each other for a moment. Sherlock watched Watson’s brows knit together in distress. It was obvious the man would not let the matter go, but Holmes had no intention of giving away his secrets.
The questions were written plainly on the shorter man’s face. Sherlock imagined what he must look like to John right now. He saw himself in the state he knew he was in: Thin. Pasty. Large rings under his eyes. Cracked lips. Dirty skin. Filthy two week out outfit. Unwashed and not well kept. A mess of a brilliant man walking away, avoiding the truth of his fault.
Sherlock locked his teeth together as the irritation in his stomach grew. Why did John care to pry into his business so much and so often? It was a mystery. The doctor saw him as a ‘friend’. Sure, Holmes had already confessed that he thought the man was his one honest companion. He’d even dared to use the word “friend” once or twice. –but why did John never let things go? It should have been clear to the older man that his younger sociopathic buddy was not in a mood to discuss his misdeeds. Shouldn’t that be enough?
The detective’s eyes narrowed and finally he spoke, “Knowing would not benefit you.”
It was a simple statement he hoped John would take and leave the rest alone. He worried he would not. He thought that John would keep it going, and then what? How would he explain himself? There were so many factors to account for. How does one tell their only friend, “I did this because of you”?
When Sherlock had broken his hold, John froze and stared at the other while his face showed that he didn't understand. “Knowing would not benefit you,” is what the detective said, but what could he mean by that? John wished that at this moment he could be the detective and Sherlock be the doctor. To have him see and feel what the blond saw and felt.
John wanted to curse the man, scream at him, punch him. What was so wrong for telling your friend why you did this to yourself? Why did everything have to be such a mystery? Why couldn`t Sherlock see that he had to know?
"Sherlock. Please."
“John,” Sherlock didn’t blink. “Let it go.”
Sherlock sounded stern. His mind was racing over his legitimate reasons. “Why did I do it?” he thought. “Because it was the only way to wash away those dreadful thoughts.”
"No." John said, his jaw tightening as he glared back up at him. Not this time, he had let it go too many times before to let Sherlock more than likely go off to do this again.
Sherlock glared at John. “Yes. It is a pointless endeavor. Not knowing will only spare you the wasted time and information. Knowing will bring you nothing but wasted effort. So, the only logical thing to do is drop it.”
A small line of sweat began to bead on Sherlock’s brow. He didn’t flinch, but he was beginning to get nervous as he contemplated his own motives and felt sure he understood his own logic now. He was determined to get John to give up his pursuit of knowledge. At least on this topic.
John swallowed, his throat so dry the liquid going down feeling like paper or sand. His hands were now fisted at his sides, knuckles whitening as he was using all the strength he had in him not to just beat the other in the public of the streets.
"Sherlock, I'm tired of this. Why the hell can't you just say what it is instead of keeping it secret? You know I'll find out sooner or later. So why not let me know now?" He asked, his stance perfectly still but in his mind he was rattling like twigs. "Just once, can't you tell me what's going on in your head?"
A sort of underlying desperation began to boil in Sherlock’s stomach. He was locked now. John wouldn’t let him go. Not without a fight. He could see it in the shorter man’s eyes. There was only one clean way out of this: Explain the situation to John Watson.
There is no reason that I should reveal my motives, he thought. The matter is so simple. So easy to explain. It’s clear that he’s determined to hear what I have to say, but I have no desire to tell him what I’ve realized so recently myself. Why, though? His head titled to one side and he gave John an almost confused stare. Why do I care if he knows?
A moment passed between the two. A silence echoed in the small space that was held between them. The detective was working over information in his own mind. John was waiting for an answer.
The problem wasn’t so much that Holmes wanted to keep the truth from his partner simply to keep him ignorant. The real problem was that he needed John to stay clueless. Reveling his motives out loud would be very similar to a confession, and Sherlock didn’t want to believe he had something to confess to. Still, he couldn’t help but run over the events that lead him to the point he was at now.
Sherlock blinked several times to return him the present. He had zoned out and now looked quite like a man who had just come out of a trance. “I’m sorry, John. What nonsense where you going on about?”
The taller gentleman knew exactly what they were talking about, and it was odd, but he wanted to rouse his friend further. He knew that the good doctor would take his adventure in thought as a discourteous behavior and assume that Sherlock had just decided to stop paying attention. He anticipated the response that would come next. Sherlock was ready for the accusations. He would welcome them.
John's face fell from the angry furrow it had held, now looking at the other male with disbelieved eyes. He wasn't going to tell him. That much seemed to become clear with the question of his so-called "nonsense." But how could he expected more, even after all the time the blond had lived and spent time with him, whether it be crimes or just home life, he was never going to know what Sherlock didn't want him to.
So, he was nonsense now. His concern was a folly and made him look like a blabbering idiot.
"Fine." John's voice cracked suddenly, his jaw clenching tightly as his vision blurred but cleared right away. "Have it your way."
He turned his head, no longer wishing to be looking up to the taller man and his bright blue eyes. He wet his lips, pursing them as he looked down and looked the other way before he started to take a step. "Keep your bloody secrets," he spat, brushing past him and glaring forward as his pace quickened.
He felt like crying, which was odd, but he was tired. How was he supposed to be a best friend like this? Or perhaps he just cared all too much for someone who didn't care in return. The doctor suddenly had an idea of his own, an experiment to test that theory. He could disappear for a week or two, or maybe not come back at all...
Sherlock watched John storm off and felt an honest sense of longing. That’s it? He inwardly wondered. It wasn’t all that surprising. After all, Sherlock knew it was going to upset the shorter man. Still, it didn’t feel like enough. He’s really just going to wonder off like that, is he?
The detective felt a grin crease his lips. He wasn’t about to let John ruin the fun he was starting to have now. No, he wanted to tug on the Doctor’s emotional strings a bit more. Suddenly, Mr. Holmes realized he wanted to confuse the other man completely and leave him asking questions again. He even considered that his end objective was to fight.
Yes, he thought. I wish to fight with John. I want him to show me all those petty feelings of his face and I want him to make an ass out of himself. Why? Because it is simple and because it will bring me amusement.
There was more behind the psychology of all of it, but Sherlock didn’t care to analyze it any further.
“I wanted to engage in an intimate affair with you, John!” Sherlock called after the quickly scurrying away man in a monotone. He hadn’t moved from his spot and his hands where in his coat pockets. He knew that the words would grab the blonde’s attention. It was all too easy. Sherlock knew John would have to question his statement and could not refuse questioning his words.
John froze, the words catching his ear and made all his being just stop. Had he heard correctly? Perhaps he had just overheard some other person speaking close by that his brain picked up on the wrong words. But know he couldn't help but wonder. Intimate affair? Sherlock would never want such things, and much less with him. The blond found himself turning however, his eyes wondering over his shoulder.
But what if it was a game? The grin on the other male’s face confirmed he had heard him correctly, but that brought more questions as well. Was he serious about it, or was he just pulling tangled strings? And how was John supposed to react to that? Why? Of all the answers he could’ve been given; “I was bored” or “I needed to think.” The doctor got that.
“What?”
Sherlock made a disapproving face, as though John had just proven to be the most incompetent person on the planet. “You’re not loosing your hearing, are you, John?”
He knew perfectly well that John had heard what he had said and that “What” was simply the only response the man could give. It amused him, but he would play it as coy as ever now. He had the doctor’s attention again and it was all that he had wanted. Now, to continue the game was his only desire.
“You wanted the answer. I gave it to you.”
John's mouth closed shut, fully facing the taller male as he knew that Sherlock knew what he had said. And it was still whispering in the back of his mind. He felt suddenly angry, mad that he got an answer that didn't seem to make sense.
"And what kind of answer do you think that is?" he questioned, his feet starting to stomp towards the other as his fists clenched. "Why don't you explain more of that?" John was now in front of him again, fighting to lean on his toes to glare upward.
Sherlock looked down into the shorter man’s eyes and gave a soft but cocky smile. “You can’t be serious, John. Do I really need to explain what intimacy is? Or what an intimate relation suggests? It seemed to be that you should know all to well what I meant.”
Holmes was eyeing the blond now. He wanted to riel him more.
“I was referring to my reason for absence, Doctor. I meant to say that I left to medicate the thoughts of behaving out of character with you out of my mind. After our last mission,” he explained it as if it were a simple matter-of-fact. “I found myself desiring to be intimate with you—that is to say ‘close-to-you’ and ‘sexually involve myself with you’—and it disturbed me. So, I left. I got high. I forgot. Now I’m sober and remember. And now, I’ve explained it all to you.” His expression turned challenging. “So, John, what do you think about that?”
John couldn't help but stare dumbly at the detective. Up close he couldn't have mistaken what he had heard. He was pretty sure he was shrinking down as well from his anger. He was surprised mostly, as could be told by the 'oh' that left him as his face flushed slightly. That sounded so absurd, Sherlock had never desired such things as far as he knew.
"What I think of it..." He said, swallowing as his throat became more dry. What did he think of it? He wasn't gay, and that had to be true due to how many women he'd dated, but the information John had now felt like it meant something.
"I don't know," He answered truthfully, staring into the zone his mind conjured for thought.
Sherlock watched John closely, but didn’t move for a long moment. He waited for the doctor to regain his thoughts. As he stared John down, he contemplated his own confession.
I wanted to have sex with you, he repeated—more bluntly—in his mind. The problem isn’t just that I had considered it, but that I actually planned for it.
The detective had indeed explored the many possibilities that night. The two of them had just solved a murder case involving a guilty husband, a dubious wife, and their three dead maids. Strangely enough, John had actually been right. The two of them had made a small verbal wager of rights on who had killed the workers. Sherlock had placed his money on the husband who was trying to hide his obvious affairs with the women or on the jealous wife who clearly knew about the affairs. However, John had made it clear that he thought both people—though clearly in need of some marriage counseling—were not bad people and certainly wouldn’t kills three innocent servants.
It turned out that John was right on the money! It was—in fact—the butler who had killed the three women, and for something as simple as the fact that they had all—at one point or another—broken something in his kitchen. He took the matter very seriously, it seemed.
After discovering the truth, Sherlock had felt a level of enthusiasm and pride shuffle that he didn’t understand. Then, as the police arrived and Sherlock explained the situation, he felt a kind of frustration towards John that he couldn’t fully absorb. Finally, as the two heroes ventured away from the scene and into the back of their cab, Holmes was not-at-all surprised to hear Mr. Watson pridefully inhale a large gulp of air, then exhale in a long satisfied sigh.
Had it not been for that one sign of dominance, that one moment of “I told you so” behavior, Sherlock might not have gotten so excited. However, John was overtly proud of himself for calling out that the rich people hadn’t done it.
It was something in that moment, the way John glanced over with his smug little eyes and that cheap smile that made him look almost pompous that had triggered the first wave of heat and dizziness to roll over Sherlock’s mind and body. It was the, “Well?” that the man had said aloud that had made Sherlock’s blood begin to boil.
As Sherlock had replied with a simple, “What?” and crossed his arm to make himself more comfortable in the back of the cab, John had already began laughing a little.
“Well don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” the doctor had asked.
“About what?” Sherlock had begun making his pouting face.
“Oh, come on!” John had rolled his head a little and his ears starting burning red from the adrenalin. “You know what!”
There had been a pause. Then, John had continued.
“You know! The whole me being right about the murder thing.”
Hearing John announce it so cockily was almost as bad as it simply being truth. No, it was worse!
Or… better?
It had taken Sherlock a moment too long to catch himself grinning a little. He’d started smiling. He hadn’t realized when his lips had betrayed him, but he had smiled. John’s boasting was putting him in a rather fine mood. It was thrilling him, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked that. So, of course, Sherlock did what he was best at: being a pompous dick.
Sherlock had played off the smile as a cocky grin and started offering John only a little fake-sounding praise. He covered up his true feelings on the matter with sarcastic vocal patterns and huffy eye rolls. It had worked like a charm! John had almost given up on trying to rip genuine sounding complements from his stubborn partner.
Then it happened!
John had just put on his own slightly pouty face and turned to look out the window. He had said plainly, “Well you’re not wrecking my good mood tonight, Sherlock. And I expect you to show me a little more respect from now on.”
Just then, as John finished his statement, Sherlock felt an overwhelming animalistic urge he had never felt with another man before, and only twice before that with a certain woman. He had never acted on the impulse before though, but this one had been so strong that Sherlock nearly lunged across the back seat of the cab and attacked John.
Suddenly, Sherlock calculated everything.
How long they had before the cabby would notice. Ways to conceal their involvement. How long it would take to get back to Bakers Street. What the best position would be. How the temperature of the car might affect everything. The length and depth of the back seat versus the height of himself and John versus the mass of their forms curled on top of one another. How John would react to the attack. Counter measures for any resistance.
Then he started to observe John himself.
Did John notice his intentions? Did he seem eager too? How was John likely to react? What was John wearing and how easy would it be to get him out of it? What would his lips feel like? What would his base chest feel like? What would it feel like against him? Inside of him?
That one had done it. When Sherlock had started to visualize their two bodies mingling, he realized two things. First, he was aroused for the first time in months. Secondly, that he had instinctually began creeping up on John so much so that the shorter fellow was now curled up against the cab door, barely looking over his shoulder uncomfortably, and Sherlock’s mouth was just inches from the other man’s face.
“Can I help you?” John had asked sheepishly.
Sherlock registered what he was doing and snapped his mouth shut. He waited there until the moment was properly awkward. Then, he gave a simple and strong “No” and sat back down.
For John, that had been the end of it.
For Sherlock, it had been a long and lonely night of strange contemplation that had left him running off to do unhealthy amounts of heroine in a motel room.
Now, Sherlock had confessed his reasoning for his absence and he was waiting for something more to happen. All he’d gotten out of the doctor was a, “I don’t know.” It was time to use that sociopathic charm.
“Of course you do, John,” Holmes said bluntly. “You practically begged me for the answer and I gave it to you. You are always so full of opinions. So, give me it.”
His stare was challenging. He wasn’t sure what would happen next.
John blinked up at the taller male. His words were unable to escape him as he tried to come up with an answer that was acceptable. What on earth was he supposed to think of his best friend wanting the sort of intimacy he explained with him? And for God's sake, how was he to answer such a serious sort of question with his eyes just penetrating him like that? That's when he stood there longer, allowing himself more time to think.
Sherlock had said that he felt that way after the last mission, which had been the case in which John had been correct on who was the killer. So were the other’s feelings all based around the fact that he had used what the detective had taught him, including his own smarts, to figure out and help detain the butler?
"I'm going to go to bed, let Ms. Hudson know I'm home." John had quickly retired to his room that night, still proud of himself, and knew Sherlock was as well. He remembered his smile though, thinking the darker haired man must've had a small slip before covering it up with his normal sarcastic speech and manner. But then his mind lingered on the intense look in his bright blue eyes and a small shiver ran down his back and made his skin tingle in a very odd way. The blond had seen him look at corpses and dust and people in that way when he deduced or studied them, but in the cab where he had pressed close and had his mouth open as he stared at John as if wanting to...
He shook his head forcefully, clearing his throat and stretching as he stripped for a good night’s rest. Such things were impossible for Sherlock, and most definitely with him.
Or so he thought...
"So you're saying you drugged yourself up because you wanted to stop wanting me?" He asked, it coming awkwardly off his tongue. He still didn't quite believe it and he swallowed. "And even had you not told me, you still feel the same way?"
Sherlock laughed and stuck his hands deep in his pockets.
“Why don’t we head home now. I could really use a shower. Don’t you think?”
Now that he had confessed that dirty little secret and John was stuck on the topic, he knew the doctor wouldn’t be going anywhere. He had him hooked! Knowing this, Sherlock felt as though he controlled the world again. It didn’t matter that he had told John that he had wanted him. That was no longer the matter at hand. Now John would have to solve a new problem.
“Did Sherlock still want to be with John?”
That was the new question, and the detective, as usual, held the answer and wasn’t about to let it out for nothing. He wanted to see Watson struggle to discover the truth. So, Holmes would just lead him on for however long it remained amusing.
Sherlock started off down the road without another clue.
“Aren’t you coming, John? Or do you plan to get your own cab?”
Inwardly, Sherlock felt proud and clever. On the outside, he looked victorious and smug as he walked away with a large grin on his face.
John stood there speechless again, knowing that Sherlock had steered away from answering his question. Again. All he knew at that moment was that he was confused, growing irritated from that stupid grin on Sherlock's face, and most definitely not sharing a cab with him.
"I'll just walk," he muttered, his face hardening from any creases of thought as he turned away. God the man was such a prick, even after his absence and to top it off with that confession.
No, he wouldn't think about it. He was just going to shrug it all off on his way back to the flat, so not to give any entertainment to the sociopath than he probably already had. How he hated these games, especially when he wasn't sure how to play. And it just made it worse when he thought he could do one thing, but with each step he took home, he wondered if he would be able to handle staying at the same place with Sherlock. He would just have to find a way to get the answer out of him, and being annoyed as he was, he was going to do as much as he dared to get it.