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John was of a doctor’s mind. So, when Sherlock had heard that John H. Watson was putting on a play, he almost blinked. Almost. Sherlock had prophesied it only once before, a fumble on his part. John was an excellent reader, able to easily see overarching themes of a novel and scan symbols of significance to the pinpoint. However, John rarely employed this skill in his free time, electing to hang out with friends or sleep (with what little free time he had).
Each time John would mention “his play” or “the play”, Sherlock would regard it with an air of indifference, replying succinctly. In fact, on the eve of the play, when John mentioned that he was “off to see to the actors” and that “It’s opening night”, Sherlock only mumbled an unconvincing “Maybe I’ll come see it,” as he watched John hurry out the door, lifting his eyes only briefly from his computer.
Just as John left the room, Sherlock stood abruptly, so dramatically that he accidently tipped his chair backwards, landing with a thump. He clapped his hands together sharply, stood up the chair, and sat again hunched over his computer.
Sherlock was clear in his purpose. He would see the play. His current task? Locate the school calendar online. He had been at this school for two years, but this was the first time that Sherlock felt the need to locate the time of any school event. And for any exemplary event which he did choose to attend, he usually had catalogued the date in his mind. But this case had been unique, because it was not apparent to him at first that he wanted to see the play. It took many times of John mentioning it until it became a growing sprout in his mind, each words a bit of water. Finally, the sprout simply erupted into flame for Sherlock needed the metaphor no longer: He would go.
Sherlock arrived at the theater five minutes early, and spent this time inconspicuously in the general vicinity of his seat chair: climbing around it, standing on it, and sniffing the seat. Yes. Inconspicuously. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he hopped into his seat as the lights dimmed, and sat focused on the stage, his face shifting slightly (vaguely resembling emotions) at each scene. The play was only approximately forty-five minutes, but it managed to capture many hearts of the audience, and the man next to Sherlock even shed a few tears at the end.
Sherlock stared, wide-eyed at the stage. He had to remind himself to close his visibly gaping jaw. He closed his eyes, resting his chin on his hands, and listened to the crowd clearing away around him. It was just him and the stage. The stage on which he was sure he had practically heard a confession of love.
Sherlock leapt up, creasing his eyebrows in concentration. He proceeded to the back of the theater, shifting through straggler actors and stage crew, muttering reluctant ‘excuse me’s as he went.
He was peering into an empty office when he heard a voice behind him. “Sherlock! You came!” John shouted excitedly. Sherlock whipped around. “Yes.” He nodded calmly.
John’s face fell. “What did you think of it?” He asked, trying to maintain enthusiasm. Sherlock crinkled his nose, unsure. “I thought it was very well disguised.” He replied. “Quite good, though.” He added.
“What do you mean?” John replied too quickly.
“You wrote a tragedy, John, I hope you don’t think I’m that terrible.” He said, placing his hands in his trench coat’s pocket. He took a step closer to better see John in the dun light.
John huffed. “Sherlock, the play isn’t about you.” John faltered.
“When did I say it was about me?” Sherlock smirked, appraising the backstage with his eyes. John had practically trapped himself just by saying that. Sherlock didn’t let John continue. He inhaled deeply and began pleading his case.
“The salesman quite clearly represented you. Even if you did so unconsciously, he reminded me much of the way you appear and disappear from the dorm, only giving me time to think of what you have said after you’ve left. He was quite puppy like, in fact. But the man who lived there, now that cannot be mistaken for anyone but me. Firstly, you established him as home-bound, quite obviously a reference to my hermitlike habits. I noticed that the spotlight did not appear until the salesman caught sight of him, need I explain the undertone that you yourself chose for that? The house, perhaps symbolic of the vast mind of the homeowner, correlates with my own mind palace, though it looks dimmer in comparison. The man is always two steps above the salesman, perched atop the impenetrable house, and do I correctly recall your saying “You’re always two steps ahead of me Sherlock!”? Sure, all this is very subtle, perhaps mistaken, but then explain to me why the protagonist is named Joseph, sharing its first two letters with John. It is a similarly religious name. Mr. Sherman, well that was a bit obvious there John, the mistake of a novice. Although, nice move, never saying his name, hiding it on the fake mailbox.”
Sherlock took a step closer.
“Even now, as I gauge your reactions more symbols come to light. A heart attack. Textbook! So that’s how he died. Poetic, really. Surprised I didn’t notice that sooner.” Sherlock’s face was alighted. He took another step, leaning his head forward to speak with fervor, teeth punctuating each word and hands motioning like a conductor.
“And the diction, brilliant!” Sherlock shouted, John cowering as he took a step backward. Sherlock spoke in low, quiet tones now. He took a step nearer, just half an arm’s length away.
“Throughout all the play, the homeowner never understands the pity the salesman takes on him. Through a series of mishaps, the homeowner accidently catches his house on fire. The salesman comes to his rescue, but is unable to get out of the house.” Sherlock spoke intently, staring starkly at John.
“The salesman dies of smoke inhalation from the house. Mr. Sherman looks upon the dead salesman. Later, he finds a brochure from the salesman among the ashes of his house. He has a heart attack and dies.
John’s heart thumped in his chest, and he fearfully looked up at Sherlock.
“All that Mr. Sherman wanted was a life in his mind palace. All the salesman wanted was to be around him. Tragically, both these goals led to their deaths.”
Sherlock stepped forward again. He could feel John’s breath. He cocked his head to the side.
“If I didn’t know you, I would have to leave these as mere theories.” He said, inching his head forward. John was simultaneously desperate and flabbergasted.
Sherlock placed his mouth next to John’s ear and whispered. “But I can tell the truth just by looking at you.” He smirked, John’s breath quickening as if on cue.
John glanced at Sherlock, unable to move his head without risking grazing it against Sherlock’s lips.
John cleared his throat. “Let’s just assume it were all true. What would you do then? Write a review and out me to the school?” He was quite uncomfortable, and shifted his feet.
“I just dyed of a broken heart and you’re being hypothetical?” Sherlock piped, raising one eyebrow, placing his hands on his hips, still achingly close to John.
“Sherlock.” John warned, raising his voice.
“Fine then, spoil my fun,” Sherlock whined, then leaned forward with two hands politely behind his back, and kissed John lightly on the cheek.
Breath on his cheek, lips, pressed tenderly there. Renewed warmth. The flower bloomed like springtime. John froze, turning his head rigidly towards Sherlock. Sherlock scratched the side of his face and looked down at his feet awkwardly.
“Everything you said is p-perfectly co-correct.” John stammered. Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Well then.” Sherlock replied, nodding. He kissed John again, on the lips, and John rejoiced in the warmth, humming as their skin met, his own lips parting slightly. They were as one in heat and mind. Suddenly, Sherlock heard a high-pitched creeak and a sliver of light shone through the backstage. Sherlock leapt back, and John looked at him, distraught. Sherlock cleared his throat and made eye contact with John. He place one hand on John’s shoulder.
“John, as much as I want this too, I just heard a door and I believe it to be the janitor. Shall we bring this to our room?” Sherlock asked, peering around the corner.
God yes, John almost mumbled. “Y-yes,” John breathed, exhaling when Sherlock took a step away from him. Sherlock offered his hand theatrically, and John took it, elated. Soon, their fingers intertwined and they walked jubilantly, talking eagerly as they made their way back to the dorm. Sherlock and John both would never forget that night, the night when they first kissed, on opening night.