Tall and Tailored

Previous:  John 
——

“Well, fuck you.”

The whole world falls away under Sherlock’s feet.  He’s staring at John, unfocused, and gazing into a vast unfathomable blackness.  He stands in the exact spot where John kissed him and does nothing as he walks out of the flat. He hears a noise downstairs, the door opening and closing, and then nothing.  His mind is buzzing with static.  He assumed he would have longer.  More time.  He knew that if he pushed hard enough, John would move on at some point.  But he assumed there would be more time.

And before he can contemplate how to force his body to exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen when there is no John Watson to witness it, he hears them.  Footsteps.  And then the devil is at his door.

Sherlock can feel the blood rushing in his ears.  His eyes are now sharply focused on Moriarty’s figure just inside the door frame.  His brain works, he should respond somehow.  Text Lest- No.  John?  No.  Mycroft?  No.  He discards the thought of calling for help.  He doesn’t need it.  He can outwit him.

Moriarty takes a measured step into the flat.  Presses the door shut behind him.  Sherlock forces himself into motion and sits in John’s desk chair, in front of the empty table space that held his laptop only moments before.  An abandoned chess game still stands off to one side, near the wall.  Sherlock had been trying to teach John the Sicilian defense, but he had been proving himself spectacularly stubborn that night.  More intent on distracting Sherlock with his mouth than learning how to defend against white’s E4 opening.  Obviously Sherlock hadn’t had any Sicilians to teach him how to defend against John, so the game had been left to collect dust while they explored other ways of invading and conquering each other.  

Moriarty tilts his head slowly and makes his way across the room, taking Sherlock’s chair at the same table for himself.

John got out just in time, Sherlock thinks.  He takes small comfort in the thought.  The nagging sensation that something was coming, that destruction was on the horizon, was well founded, it seemed.

Moriarty smiles across at him, deadly and polished.  ”It was only a matter of time, I suppose.” He fingers a scratch in the table, something Sherlock caused via an experiment or two.  Sherlock watches the movement, his body going numb.  Moriarty’s knee brushes against his under the table.  It’s an intimate gesture that he had only ever previously shared with John.  Something about the way that Moriarty’s touch lingers against him turns his stomach.

“No fighting words for me this time, Sherly?” Moriarty looks disappointed and his gaze wanders across the table to rest on the chessboard.  He peaks an eyebrow.  Sherlock feels tired and wasted.

Moriarty drags the board across the table with one long finger and positions it between them.  ”Or maybe you spent all your fight trying to fend off that dishy Detective Inspector. Mmm.”  He smirks, shifting slightly in the chair.  Making himself at home.

“What do you want.”  Sherlock’s voice is flat.  Devoid of emotion.

“Oooh, you think I came by just for business?”  Moriarty tsked.  ”What if I just wanted a playdate?”  He looks down at the board again and spins it so that he becomes the black player.  He takes a moment to assess the game, then moves bishop’s pawn to C5.  The Sicilian Defense.

“You should just call your plaything then.  I’m sure he’s skulking around on a rooftop somewhere close by.”  Sherlock plucks the king’s knight from the board and moves it to F3.  He looks to Moriarty.  Your move.

“Mmm true, I could.  But Sebastian is much like John in that way.  Very pleasant to look at when they’re on their knees, but not much of a challenge intellectually, now are they?  You remember how Seb cocked things up a few months back.”  Black.  Queen’s pawn to D6.

“They are nothing alike,” Sherlock spits.  White.  Queen’s pawn to D4.  Aggression.  ”John is the only thing that can chase away the boredom.  You know nothing about him.  Or about us.”

Moriarty chuckles.  ”The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”  Black pawn.  C5 to D4.  Capture.
 
Sherlock curses himself.  Foolish.  Letting emotion dictate action.  He takes a deep breath.  ”And how is dear old Sebastian?  Still polishing that tarnished crown of yours?”  Sherlock lets his eyes slide down Jim’s body until he’s staring through the surface of the table covering his lap.  White knight.  F3 to D4.  Capture.

Moriarty shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat.  Interesting, Sherlock thinks,very interesting.

“He’s fine.  In fact, we both figured you’d like to know we’re back in town.  The game is back on, as they say.  Though, I suppose the playing field is a bit unbalanced now that you’re flying solo.”  Black.  King’s knight to F6.  ”Pity, I was so looking forward to the look on John Watson’s face when we took you away from him.  Though, I suppose now you’ve done half the work for us.  I should put you on the payroll.”
 
Sherlock clenches his jaw and wishes that John and his Sig Sauer would walk back in at any moment.  ”Mm, I can imagine you would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”  White.  Queen’s knight to C3.  Counter.  

Moriarty leans forward across the table, encroaching on Sherlock’s space.  ”There’s always room for one more,” he whispers.  He looks down at the chess game from where he is perched above it.  Black pawn to A6.  An invitation.  

Sherlock leans back, regaining his space.  He stands up, trying to do so calmly and slowly, but the chair tips back anyhow.  He catches it before it clatters to the floor, but only just.  He can feel Moriarty’s eyes on him as he walks to the mantle and fumbles with Billy.  He pulls out his cigarettes and lighter.  The first draw of smoke feels like he’s breathed in fire.  His chest constricts around the sensation, enveloping it.  Shelock exhales, watching the tendrils curl around themselves.  He turns, renewed.

Moriarty’s chair is empty.  Both chairs are empty.

On the chess board, the white king lays on its side.

Sherlock’s heart slows to a hollow thud and his chest grows cold.  Fire extinguished.

—

Next: Sebastian

Previously: John

—

The flat is insufferably quiet. John has only been gone for a night, and it’s been devastating. Sherlock spent the hours as if he were on the run again, pacing the flat and unable to sleep. He was alone and dead to the world, unsure if John really was safer out there.  Away from him.  Selfishly, he envies John’s nightmares; the kind that skitter away at first light.  Sherlock’s horrors are constant, thoughts of kidnappings and gunshots and revenge.  He knows it’s ‘a bit not good’ to envy someone’s post-traumatic stress.  He feels the strain of heartbreak pulling at his insides.  He has to conquer it.

He knows he must busy himself or he risks the chance that these ridiculous emotions will consume him and he’ll be out on the streets hunting down John.  Sherlock picks up his violin and begins to play a piece by Bach.  Slowly, it mutates into a movement he was composing for the good doctor.  He practically tosses the instrument away from himself and on to the chair. His sentiment is like a virus, spreading and growing and infecting everything.

Change gears.  If he knows John is safe, he can stop being this way.  Stop the spread of it through his veins.  Sherlock takes the stairs up to John’s room two at a time.  He stalks over to the desk and pulls open all the drawers.  He’s searching for the Sig.  If John has his gun, he’ll be safe.  He’ll be able to protect himself.  Sherlock finds nothing in the desk, so he switches over to the bedside table.  In the second drawer, resting on top of a small stack of books, is the Sig Sauer.  Fuck.

Science.  There’s only one place left to find solace.  To chase away the sickness.  Sherlock heads back down the stairs and propels himself into the kitchen.  He has a brief flirtation with the idea that he might not be quite alright, but he dismisses it.  Moments later - with a sterile syringe and a practised draw - he has a blood sample to analyze.  He will cure himself of the heart sickness.  He slips the glass slide into the clips and loses himself in biology.

So when the front door rattles open hours later, he is still stoically peering through the eye piece of his microscope. Sherlock pauses, listening to the shuffling and keys. Footsteps on the stairs. Slightly uneven. Bracing self against the wall.


John. Hungover.

A frisson passes through Sherlock. He hadn’t texted to say he would be out. Why was John back? Sherlock warred with the sense of fear and hope that was blossoming in his chest. Part of him desperately wanted John to walk in, drop his bag, and declare that Sherlock could definitely not get rid of him that easily.

The door opens and Sherlock resolutely keeps his eyes down. John doesn’t say a word, and the silence in the flat stretches out, becomes thick and impenetrable. Sherlock is aware of John only in his peripheral vision and hearing. Moving slowly through the flat and gathering small things. He brings more clothing down from his room upstairs. Ah. No declarations here, then.

John comes towards the kitchen, hesitating in the doorway. Sherlock’s eyes flicker towards John, taking in only his feet (still wearing his shoes, pants looking rumpled and slept in). Sherlock forces his gaze away and back to the sample. When it becomes evident to John that Sherlock is going to essentially ignore him, he steps through the doorway and makes his way across the kitchen. He passes behind Sherlock as he does, and Sherlock smells soap, shampoo. But a stale night on the town lingers in John’s clothing.

Freshly showered, then. Typical after a night spent drinking. Sherlock’s mind absently picks apart the scents, name brand, and relevant chemical compounds before categorizing the specific personal connections. A subtle whiff of perfume; women at the bar.  An earthy, nutty smell; peanuts from snacking.  Yeast and hops, masked by spearmint; beer and toothpaste.  And musk, like in cologne.  He knows someone who smells like that.

Lestrade.

Sherlock glances up, taking in John’s back as he reaches up to the cupboard, gathering his mugs. Very tense about being in the flat but otherwise seems relaxed. Clean but didn’t take the time to shave. John is humming nervously. Sherlock stands up abruptly and crowds into John’s space, grasping his wrist and turning him around. John’s eyes widen. His other hand places the mug on the counter.


“Sherlock, what the fuck—?”

Sherlock leans in and takes a deep breath.

Soap. Shampoo. Clean, but not John’s clean. Not John’s soap. And something else. A very familiar John smell. The way he smelled sometimes when they were tangled together at night, or in the very early morning. Warm.  Dormant sweat.  Saliva.  Sherlock catches John’s gaze, eyes narrow and mouth set.

“John.” His voice is deep and rough and for a moment John looks frightened. Emotions war on John’s face and that’s more than enough for Sherlock to figure out exactly what John is feeling.

Guilt.

Sherlock’s mind goes blank. Absolutely blank. His vision is white hot and there’s a ringing in his ears.  He’s aware of John saying something, pushing Sherlock away from him enough that he can slip back to the living room. He gathers the things he’s pulled from the flat and stuffs them into a small bag. Sherlock regains his hearing first.

“…know what your problem even is. You tell me to get out and then get in my face. I should have waited for your bloody text.” Every fourth or fifth word is accented by the pointed noise of John shoving something violently into his bag. The zipper pulls across loudly, startling Sherlock out of his stupor. Before he knows it he’s in the living room, and John is starting to pull the door open. Sherlock slams his hand down on it, shutting it loudly. He uses his height to pin John against the door. Where he was blank a moment ago, now he’s on fire. From head to toe, he’s burning.

“You’re not leaving.”

—

Next: John

Previous: Sebastian

—

It’s always different in the daylight.

Sherlock watches the light track across the ceiling. John is asleep next to him. At first, half on top of him, head nestled into Sherlock’s shoulder. Their skin is cooling in the air, and the light on the ceiling is artificial- streetlamps and tracking headlights of cars.

Later, John has rolled over, is breathing heavy and well into sleep. The edges of the room are lightening. Sun, somewhere, is coming up, hidden still behind buildings and trees, a subtle change in the sky.

Sherlock doesn’t usually need to sleep if he doesn’t want to. Tonight, he wanted to. As John’s skin was cooling from sweat-slicked heat under his hands, he wanted to sleep. Guilt was worming its way up from under his ribcage, instead.

It was easy to delete useless information. Information regarding John was a different story entirely. Sherlock cataloged and saved everything about John and was unable to stop. Sentiment.

Sherlock closed his eyes, blocking out the slowly lightening sun, and was greeted by memories instead. Pointing a gun at John, nightmares nipping at the heels of his vision. John’s disappointment. John’s silence. The ache between them. Guilt.

Eventually, when the ceiling is well lit with sunlight, birds chirping, Sherlock slides out of bed. The nice day seems specifically contrary to his mood. He glances down at John, relaxed into the bed. Covers tangled between his legs. Sherlock’s chest tightens painfully.

Sherlock dresses, head to toe in well tailored black. He knows John will likely come out in only pyjama bottoms, sleep mussed and relaxed. He’ll probably smile while he makes tea. Sherlock feels like he’s armouring himself as he does up his buttons.

He sighs and heads to the kitchen, pokes his head into the fridge and cupboards, pulling out whatever he can find. He cranks the knob on the stove, puts out pans. Mixes, chops, stirs. By the time John wakes up, there is a mostly done omelette in the pan, replete with cheese and bell peppers. John is deeply surprised, if his expression is anything to go by. 

“Did someone abduct you in the night and switch your brain?” John asks, pleasant. He runs a hand absently across Sherlock’s lower back as he passes him to the cupboards. Sherlock freezes as it happens, an ache spreading through his chest. He turns and smiles winningly at John, but doesn’t trust himself to respond.

John holds up a mug and silently asks Sherlock if he’s interested. He nods, and turns away. Busies himself with cooking. It’s always different in the daylight.

Sherlock would give anything for it to be different. 

He sets the table, John provides the tea. Sherlock eats toast, and a quarter of the omelette off John’s plate. There was only 3 eggs. John makes appreciative noises and small talk. His feet keep finding Sherlock’s under the table. 

When they both finish, Sherlock clears the plates to the sink.

“Got a case?” John asks, nodding at Sherlock’s clothes, “It’s only 9.”

Sherlock looks down at himself, then out the window. Considers the sunlight, the incessant chirping of a bird outside. Doesn’t bother to categorize the birdcall which disturbs him. Too distracted. Even worse.

Sherlock turns and faces John, steady now, grips the counter behind him surreptitiously.

“I can’t be with you, John.” I love you too much.

John goes very still. His mug is halfway to his mouth, which is set in a very hard line. Sherlock recalls very vividly exactly how that mouth tastes and feels. He imagines how it would taste now. He waits for John to say something. He is pretty sure that’s the correct thing to do.

John doesn’t speak.

Sherlock, impatient, ventures to repeat himself a bit more clearly.

“I can’t be with you.” He pauses, waits for a response, then: “I’m going to get you killed.”

Sherlock’s heart is pounding. John doesn’t seem to have a response, and is just watching Sherlock with a very measured gaze. Sherlock turns back towards the window.

“I almost killed you, myself.”

Breathe In

“It’s one thing to protect me, as a lover or a friend.”

Breathe Out

“I love you now, though, and it’s distracting, and I almost killed you.”

Breathe In

“So I can’t do this anymore. We can’t be together.”

Breathe Out

“I’ll leave by the end of the day.”

Silence. Breathe in.

It’s always different in the daylight. 

—

Next: John

Previous: John

—

Sherlock watches John down the hall, feeling his chest constrict, contract into him. I shouldn’t have. His mouth still feels warm from John’s, and he is silently pressing his fingers to his lips an hour later when they are stepping into a cab together.

“You going to tell me what happened?” John ventures into the silence. Sherlock gazes out the window, long fingers pressed to his lips. He doesn’t respond.

“Greg tells me you were just…there. And you left your phone at the flat.” John pauses, “You never forget your phone.” 

Sherlock could feel John shifting on the seat next to him, his posture leaning away, his gaze turning outward to the passing sidewalks. Silence stretched between the two of them.

The night passed similarly. Sherlock hoped against hope that John just assumed he had fallen into non-responsiveness. Thought. Somehow, when he left himself catch glimpses of John through his peripheral vision, he knew that wasn’t the case. Guilt bubbled up inside of him, washing his vision. This was all his fault.

Hours later, after John had fed himself take away (and unsuccessfully attempted to feed Sherlock as well), after John had showered and watched the news at length on a very low volume, after he had sat in front of his laptop, watching the cursor blink into a blank blog post, John slipped away to bed. Sherlock’s heart began to pound, expecting him to gather pyjama’s from Sherlock’s room and disappear upstairs. He didn’t. Sherlock heard the distant creak of the mattress, and fractionally relaxed.

If only he could forgive himself. John seemed to.

He allowed for 45 minutes. He assumed that John would be asleep by the time he crept in. And 45 minutes later, it seemed he was right. John was on his side, breathing evenly. The blanket was pulled only halfway up his chest, and dulled moonlight lit his bare skin. Sherlock’s chest contracted. 

He undressed, and climbed in, unable to breathe around the sensation. 

He’d prided himself so long on not needing contact or comfort from anyone else, his entire life. But less than half a foot away was the one person in the world Sherlock needed more than anything and all he could do was watch helplessly as he shattered everything they had together. 

Helpless, he pressed he forehead into the skin between John’s shoulder blades. Felt his warmth. He was always warm while sleeping. Sherlock was, too, creating a veritable sauna under their covers every night, which always resulted in all the sheets kicked off. It hadn’t in the last few months, as Sherlock constantly put off coming to bed. John looked so vulnerable and loving while he slept, on good nights.

Sherlock shifted, nuzzling into the warmth of John. Breathing him, deeply. He smelled clean, soapy. A bit like the curry he’d eaten earlier. He followed the underlying scent of John up his back, to the curve of his neck. Before long, Sherlock found himself pressed along John’s entire length, as if he was attempting to use his warmth and smell as a salve to sooth his entire aching soul.

John shivered. It was small, and strangled. Like he was desperately holding something in, trying not to break the spell. Sherlock could hear him breathing, in measured stops and starts. In, two three four. Out, two three four. He placed a kiss on John’s shoulder, and the bands around his chest eased open to hear the hitch of breath. 

Experimentally, he trailed slow, chaste, kisses along John’s bare shoulder, pausing in the crease of his neck. Here. This was the John smell. Warm and loving. It made Sherlock think of sunshine, warm blankets, and gunpowder. John twisted towards him, just slightly, lifting his chin. Questioning. Sherlock responded by pressing his face deeper against John’s neck. Gunpowder. He felt John’s pulse, pressed his lips against it. Blood. John’s breath quickened, but he bit his lip against questions. Don’t break the spell.

Sherlock would have done anything to package John back up into the relative safety of just being his flatmate and friend. But he couldn’t quite fit him back into that space, no matter how hard he tried. He needed him too badly, too selfishly, he needed him.

In a rustling of covers, Sherlock shifts his body and John’s. John peers up at him from his back, eyes bright in the dark. Sherlock hovers over him, hands bunched into the sheets on either side of John. He places warm, open, kisses on his cheeks, neck, collarbone. He trails them down John’s chest, and back up. He listens to John’s breathing fast and short in the dark. Feels his heart speed up under the thin skin of his throat. Pressed there, feeling John’s pulse jump desperately, he speaks for the first time since the morning.

“I love you, John.”

Heartbeats. 

“I need you, John.”

—

Next: Sebastian

Previous: John

—

Sherlock winds his way to the scene rapidly, thoughts of Moran whittling away at the back of his mind. Three months of silence. The damage was done, but he could be anywhere, waiting. Waiting. What if John had followed?

Minutes later Sherlock is slowing down in a long laneway, taking in the scene. Female. Late 20s. He circles, eyes catching on the spray of blood, the burns on her forehead, the stray bullet holes in the wall nearby. A struggle, personal. His eyes fall to her hands, marking tan lines and defensive marks. A 2 at best. Shouldn’t have bothered. Simple. His hand dives into his coat pocket to text John and then Lestrade, but comes out empty. He swears loudly and paces to the opening of the lane, listening for sirens.

Well, he could wait for Lestrade, at the very least. Tell him who to look for. Surely that would be alright? He hadn’t been invited, obviously, but. Sherlock considered his options carefully. At this point, someone had surely called the police, and surely seen him. Fleeing now would likely look worse than waiting. He sighed, resigned, and propped himself up against the brick wall. In a few minutes, sirens finally approached.

Two patrol officers Sherlock barely knew, but who recognized him, spilled out of the car. They frowned deeply, but radioed Lestrade when Sherlock asked. This was a homicide after all.

He watched impassively while they taped up the scene, and clumsily gathered clues. No point in telling them what to look for. He would only have to repeat himself to Lestrade.

Sherlock was getting restless when Lestrade finally showed up. 

“Lestrade, finally..”

“Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Lestrade demanded, looking thunderous.

“I was in the neighbourhood.” 

“Really. Look, you might be cleared now, but there isn’t a single person above me who trusts you farther than they can throw you. You do know that, don’t you?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning towards the crime scene. 

“You should check the apartment, boyfriend. Fiancee, more likely.”

“Sherlock.”

“He was angry. Not a very good shot, obviously.” Sherlock pointed at the holes in the wall, “He’ll be shaken up. Probably hasn’t gotten rid of the weapon, or anything he was wearing.”

“Sherlock, look at me.”

“They likely live nearby, it doesn’t look like she had been intending to go out.”

Lestrade steps between Sherlock and the scene, resolute.

“Sherlock, I have to take you in. You realize how bad this looks? You just showing up at a scene before anyone else? Knowing what will likely turn out to be all the right details?”

Sherlock let his gaze wander toward the ground, refusing to respond.

“Get in the car, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes an involuntary step back, eyeing the surrounding area. Suddenly aware of the other present witnesses, the small gathering of civilians starting to wander from their flats. He presses his lips together and meets Lestrade’s gaze.

“I won’t, if you just get in.” Lestrade nods, bringing his hands up to show them empty. Sherlock lets Lestrade put him in the back of the cruiser, hands unbound.

—

Next: John

Previous: John 

—

Sherlock is desperately trying to play the violin. Something that John liked, once, or had at the very least tapped his fingers along to. Even if he hadn’t known what it was. But his hands are betraying him, the bow is sliding in a way that is driving him mad. 

Sherlock is certain that upstairs, John is awake. He doesn’t seem to sleep as much as he did before, his aching sadness permeating the walls around the two of them. Sherlock plays the violin to try and touch John in a way he isn’t sure he can anymore. Not after what he did, and lost. A long note reverberates through his chest, rattling his heart. He grimaces and sets the violin down. Sherlock is aware of John shifting upstairs, can hear the long groan of his bed springs as he likely curls in on himself. He feels bereft. If he could just allow himself to..No. No.

He leaves instead, and John’s ache chases him blocks and blocks away into the night. He finds himself under a bridge near the Thames, staring out over the dark water. He can’t see the stars that John so loved, covered as they are by concrete. A cold breeze keeps lifting off the water and buffeting Sherlock, and he wraps his coat closer around himself, breathing puffs of smoked air and wishing to god he had a cigarette.

He consummately ruined everything in one fell swoop. His unending curiosity had got the better of him and Moriarty had pulled the entire little trap around him, certain of the aftermath. He had shot at John. He could have killed him! And of course, Sebastian got away. Moriarty had flaunted his web of power right at Sherlock’s face and walked straight in to lift his right hand man out, but only after sucking what they could out of Mycroft. Cut Sherlock off. Trust him to do enough damage on his own, and of course Sherlock had lived right up to the challenge.

Sherlock tucks his chin towards his chest, seeking warmth from inside his coat, his mind seeking out memories of John. He could have been pressed against him in the dark of their flat, instead. He could have been kissing his skin - warm and salty, smelling of tea and laundry - He shakes his head to dispel the image. No. If he is to save John he can’t get distracted. 

I don’t deserve him. This continued presence.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he could stand that ache. The one embedded in the walls of their flat, the floors, the table between them while John ate and Sherlock didn’t. It filled his entire consciousness. If only he had case, something…Anything. But he had to stand it. John deserved to be set free, even if he couldn’t see it yet. He deserved it. Sherlock loved him enough to admit that, at least.

Breaking into his thoughts was a loud crack. The kind of noise that set normal people wondering Was that a firecracker? Or..? But had Sherlock on his feet in moments. Gunshots.

—

Next: John

Previous: Jim

—

Buzzing.

He knows John is talking. Is angry. Sherlock presses his head against the cool concrete in front of him, feeling as though he’s on fire. Everything is slowly collecting back to him, rehousing itself in his head. But his thoughts are still scattering like mercury, slipping through his fingers and rushing off to the darkened corners. He sighs.

“…don’t think I’m just going to…” John. Angry. Tense. Pacing. Can hear his shoes on the concrete. Still a slight unconscious favour lent to one leg, despite there being no limp. Sherlock thinks he would know the sound of John anywhere. 

Hydrogen, Helium…

Sherlock starts running through the periodic table, but it all starts to run away from him. He works at math next, but the numbers come apart. A sigh and a loud screech of metal lets him know that John has given up. Sat himself in the chair. Probably bent over the table, head in hands. Sherlock gets the urge to peek over his shoulder to check, but the world starts to tilt a bit under him instead. He breathes deep and tries to focus. 

Detrimental to mental facilities.

He adds that to his mental ledger, under fear, paranoia, and a whole list of other things. He’s almost back to himself, though he’s still jarringly unsure of where he is other than “holding facility”, and feels as though he’s running a fever.

Long minutes pass and he becomes aware of John’s breathing. Unsteady. Sherlock does turn, this time, almost causing himself to roll entirely off the tiny cot onto the floor. Everything slides around dangerously. John, though. John. He looks broken. Sherlock swings his legs out and gets his feet under him. Makes his way slowly across the floor. John startles a little when his hands grip him, when his arms slip around his neck. John. Sherlock breathes him in, deep. Presses his face to John’s neck. John sighs. Resigned.

“I’m sorry, John.”

Sherlock knows he’s repeating himself, but he desperately hopes John hears it. He didn’t mean for all this.

—

Next: John

Previously: Sherlock

—

Then, silence.

The silence stretches out. Sherlock can see John’s feet, still and planted. At least he’s not pacing. He can’t stand still when agitated. Distracting. Sherlock supposes that the pause is getting awkward and chances a look upwards. John is staring. Unblinking. Sherlock tilts his head, questioning.

John mutters something just out of hearing and makes his way over. Sighs. The soft blackness scatters away. Sherlock makes a point of keeping eye contact with John, trying to read him. He gestures for Sherlock to move over and sits beside him when a bit of space is vacated.

“It’s still not alright.” John explains, “But the apology means a lot.” 

Sherlock lets out a breath in relief. Every bit of him near John begins to feel a bit more normal, cooler, though Sherlock is sure he is sweating out every bit of poison out of every one of his pores.

John lays a tentative hand on Sherlock’s knee. He flinches back at the temperature of Sherlock’s skin, but it had felt so good. Like a coolness spreading, rippling, out from that one point. Sherlock snatches John’s hand and pushes it back against his leg. 

“It..it helps.” He begins, feeling simultaneously very far from himself and incredibly trapped in this over heating body. “It’s a balm, of sorts. You. It feels cold.”

John turns, surprised, only to find Sherlock’s hands tangling into the front of his shirt. The shadows are all tumbling out again, and the light has started to throb in Sherlock’s peripheral vision. Everything feels electric blue and stark, but John. John. John is comfort. His face has settled into a look of concern, the anger at Sherlocks indiscretion tamped down and carefully tucked away. Doctor instincts taking over. And something else. tellmeyouloveme. Sherlock exhales, pressing his face against John’s neck. A sensation of peace washes over him. John slowly wraps his arms around Sherlock, taken aback by the affectionate gesture.

Sherlock breathes John in. The rational bits of himself filter John into sections of soap, clothing, the air in 221b, old fear. The things slowly releasing a grip on his mind categorize him as home and comfort and coolness. John sighs, and Sherlock is aware of the way his breath rustles his hair, slides down his skin. 

“Sherlock..” John begins, his voice rumbling through his chest. It sounds deep, percussive, close. Sherlock leans back, his eyes catching on John’s. John, eyebrows pulled together, mouth pressed into a tight line. Hands steady against Sherlock’s shoulders. Worried, comforting, stable. Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s shirt and pulls him in, presses his lips against John’s. John stiffens and Sherlock is vaguely aware of the ever present blink-blink-blink of the surveillance camera. He just can’t manage to give a shit about it.

“John..” He murmurs, pleading. Trying to appeal to John’s caring nature. Sherlock sucks gently on John’s lower lip, encouraging. “It helps.” Sherlock explains, again. John’s hands slide slowly down Sherlock’s arms before leaving to seek his waist.

John relaxes into Sherlock, finally, and they kiss longer, taking time to taste each other. Sherlock explores the topography of John’s lips, feeling as though each second is stealing more and more of his breath. Their tongues tangle and the coolness John lent is replaced with a gasping sensation of breathlessness and a warmth that is electric. Sherlock releases John’s shirt, and slides his hands over John’s shoulders, and under the neck of his jumper. He flattens his palms against the planes of his shoulders, maximizing contact. 

“Mmmm,” John murmurs gently against Sherlock’s lips, pulling back, and trying to catch his breath. “Sherlock, you know they can see-“

Sherlock cuts him off, kissing him hungrily. John is consuming his senses, the world shrinking down to a singular point of John and Need. Sherlock slides back on the bunk until he feels the concrete wall press against him, pulling John with him and onto his lap. He runs his hands up the back of John’s shirt, letting himself wander across the muscles along John’s spine. John inhales sharply, shivers running through his body. Sherlock grins, feeling as though their sensations are running across into each other, a shared high of each other. Sherlock kisses along John’s jawbone, to the sensitive skin of John’s neck. John moans, low and urgent, dropping his mouth near Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock drops his hands to John’s hips, pulling John tight against him. They’re both so entirely breathless and focused they miss the noise entirely when the door squeaks open across the room.

—

Next: John

Previously: John

—

tellmeyouloveme

“I love you.”

Sherlock jolts awake, cold and slicked in sweat. The room tilts beneath him threateningly. Not out of the woods yet, then. Everything is quiet, a fan humming in processed air somewhere above him. Shuffling of feet. Nervousness. John. 

Sherlock lurches to a seated position, hands gripping the edge of the small cot he’d been placed on. Slowly, agonizingly, he opens his eyes. 

Everything is concrete and slate and brightly lit. For brief moments the light sears into Sherlock and he feels on fire, hot and concentrated around his eyes. Seated into his forebrain. He must look pained, because John stands up from the single chair in the room and makes his way over. He’s about to reach out, touch Sherlock’s forehead, maybe, and stops. A sussuration of noise seems to emanate off John, and endless whisper just out of Sherlock’s register. He shakes his head.

“Alright?” John ventures, quiet. Sherlock looks up, tries to focus around the fire in his head. The act of tilting his face up to meet John’s sends the sensation tipping out along the inside of his brain, running down his spine. A bead of fresh sweat catches along his hairline. John finally bridges the gap, his fingers brushing it away, sliding slowly into Sherlock’s hair.

sigh

Coolness.

“Sherlock?” 

He licks his lips. They feel dry. Like he hasn’t spoken in years.

”..Yes. Yes.” As the words leave his mouth, the sparse shadows cobwebbed in the corners flicker. Shudder. Whisper. Sherlock closes his eyes.

John’s hand drops quickly from his head and Sherlock can’t help the huff of frustration. The fire finds its way back under his skin. He chances opening his eyes again to get a better look around.

Military. Two way mirror. Single chair, metal. Small table, metal. Interrogation room? The cot is bolted to the wall, a blanket folded several times to make a thin mattress. Likely an amenity only present for him. His eyes flicker along the ceiling, which seems to be creeping toward him. Once he finds the small camera winking at him he lets his eyes drop. 

“Mycroft, then.”

“Yes.. he.” John hesitates, “How much do you remember?”

Sherlock rolls a shoulder, shrugging. One of the small shadows clinging to the legs of the metal table detaches itself. It rolls, almost comically, across the ground, small puffs of darkness coming off as it goes. Sherlock tries to remember to breathe. Long moments pass, and John is shifting uncomfortably on his feet. 

“Sebastian.”

The shadow rights itself, chittering at Sherlock cheerily. He narrows his eyes. John notices the loss of focus immediately. Sherlock’s hands tense on the metal frame beneath him, and he goes rigid. More tiny velvet shadows are detaching, rolling around the floor cheerily. Pausing to gnash tiny shadowy teeth at each other. The room starts to over expose, everything washed into bright whites and grey-blues, punctuated by the tiny cavorting shadows. 

Sherlock’s vision suddenly fills with John, who crouches in front of him. His face is covered with concern.

“Your pupils are totally blown. You must be coming down by now.” His jaw clenches. His mouth tightens. Sherlock’s brain tells him he can hear the fury in John, whispering through the air. Hear the grinding of his back molars. The rush of blood as his face flushes with anger. It’s a cacophony of John. Sherlock puts a hand over one ear, as if to drown it out.

John stands, taking several clipped steps away from the cot. From Sherlock. His jaw clenches and unclenches like he’s chewing on something unpleasant. When he does speak, his voice is tight, restrained. Sherlock imagines it like a tiny spring, held under his finger.

“Why.” He takes a deep breath, trying to even out his tone, “Why, Sherlock? Why on earth would you inject a drug so obviously planted for you?” 

John turns when Sherlock doesn’t immediately answer, and pins him with his eyes. 

“I had to know.” Is all he can offer. How can he even explain?

“You had to.” John shakes his head, exhaling loudly, “You had to know. It could have KILLED you, Sherlock. It killed all those other people!” The spring breaks free. John’s voice starts to raise.

“You could have DIED.”

Sherlock stares up at John, washed in whites and reds and the dusty yellows of his hair. He’s blinding. Loud. After a protracted moment of silence he realizes that John is expecting an answer. He rolls a shoulder. Brings it to his ear. Shrug.

“I didn’t.” He tries to sound even, like himself. In his ears he sounds like he’s falling off the world.

 John paces quickly to the other side of the room, stopping in front of the wide reflective glass. The camera blinks merrily down at Sherlock. 

“I don’t know what I expected to change.” John sounds defeated. “I don’t expect you to change. But I thought..maybe…” He shakes his head, sighs. “I thought maybe you would try and consider me. At some point.”

Sherlock blinks back at the camera. Mycroft. He knows he’s on the other side of that tiny lens. Invading. 

John has turned back around, is staring at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock startles when he notices, and tries to remember to focus on John. John is angry. John doesn’t like this. John might leave.

“I..” Sherlock starts, before trailing off. tellmeyouloveme. Sherlock begins to feel incredibly vulnerable. The shadow things are chittering around John’s feet, clinging to the hem of his jeans. They’re collecting in a pool around Sherlocks feet. He’s barefoot, and they feel like velvet. 

“I.” He starts again, taking a deep breath. The fire under his skin is banking. He imagines it exiting through his skin in steam. His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Don’t go.”

John steps closer, straining to hear. He tilts his head, a question. Sherlock barely sees it in the periphery of his vision.

“I’m..” He starts again. Trying to speak up. The cacophony of John is getting closer, louder. Hard to hear over it.

“I’m sorry, John.”

—

Next: Sherlock