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Words, for Sherlock, had always been frustrating. The words came in impulsive bursts, flying from his mouth too fast to censor, or never came at all, trapped within his head at speeds his mouth couldn’t translate to the outside world. He wasn’t sure which was more annoying until he met John.
~*~
When his mind flew by at a certain speed, jumping from thought to thought, back-tracking, and adjusting velocity, it was impossible to get his mouth to form any coherent sentence. When he was young he had tried desperately to communicate during these moments. The end result being either a pronounced stutter or something akin to a word salad.
With a good deal of speech therapy, something that was a near complete waste of time for him, Sherlock had eventually learned that in moments like these, where his mind was working faster than his mouth could, that it was best to stay silent.
Of course every once in a long while he did have trouble knowing what speed his mouth could and could not handle, something which resulted in some unfortunate slips.
While working the case with The Women, Sherlock had one of these moments at an extremely inopportune time. He had, in his defense, been thrown off his game by his inability to deduce The Women in front of him. This mystery while stacked on top of two others, the hunter and the photographs, had set his mind whirring and proved his mouths downfall.
“Thpostionathca”
Sherlock had shook his head quickly and restarted, refusing to give anyone time to comment on his slip. “The position of the car,” such a simple phrase and yet there he was, Sherlock Holmes, taken down by five words.
On later inspection, that moment might have been what had given John the frankly ludicrous idea that he had been attracted to The Women. Intrigued, yes; one might even go so far as to say allured, but not attracted.
---
Of all the people to have speech issues, John would have never thought one of them would be Sherlock.
From the beginning, there was something John knew that he wasn’t catching. The prolonged silences and seeming inability to talk, while thinking about something complex, had hinted at a speech impediment of some sort.
It wasn’t until one morning when Sherlock had seemingly just rolled out of bed and plodded into the kitchen in all his be-sheeted glory that John finally heard just exactly it was that Sherlock was hiding.
“John?”
“Mm?”
“Ha-Have you seen my c-coffee mug?”
John had looked up in surprise, “No I haven’t. You’re the one who insists on using them for all kinds of God forsaken reasons.”
Sherlock had simply harrumphed, poured himself a cup of tea, and relocated onto the couch.
“Why are you up so early?” John asked in what he hoped seemed like a normal way. He was shaken with curiosity about this new, and strangely endearing facet to Sherlock.
“C-Couldn’t go back to sleep.”
John had nodded and turned back to his crossword puzzle a small, fond smile gracing his face.
~*~
Nothing scared Sherlock more than when he felt the words run away from his control. It was as if they were a physical, tangible thing hurling themselves at his sealed mouth until they broke through and were spoken to the world at large.
The lack of control, the unpredictability of it all, was what drove Sherlock to distraction. He had yet to find a way to sensor, to stop being the Freak that everyone accused him of being. He dug his own grave in many interactions, the deductions, good and bad, flying from his mouth before he had even fully acknowledged them. Questions of the inappropriate variety out of his mouth before he had even registered his curiosity.
So when the clearly traumatized, ex-military doctor, wounded in action, man walked through the door, Sherlock had known he was sunk.
It had been all fine, it had been going okay. He had been holding the questions back but that damn phone and the man’s alcoholic sister and the bloody cane had pushed it all over the edge.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
He had thought it was over but then the man, John, had shown up to the flat when all reason said he wouldn’t and then he did more than that, he’d gone on the case with Sherlock. In the cab he had said Sherlock was “amazing” when in reality it was he who was amazing. He who, cane in hand, chased after Sherlock, helped Sherlock, and, as if to put a button on the whole case, killed a man, for Sherlock.
It was a first to say the least.
In the coming years Sherlock had many “first’s” which revolved almost exclusively around John: first friend, first promotion to best friend, first time being a best man, first selfless sacrifice, first experience of deep regret, first stirrings of jealousy.
Sherlock had never had the opportunity in his life to have someone to worry over, to panic over, to make happy, to betray, to trust, to understand deeply and as fully as he felt he could ever understand another human being.
Sherlock Holmes had one more first, one more that he had just realized as he sat across the table from a five months divorced John at Angelo’s. John’s face was lit softly by Angelo’s rather useless “date candle” and talking softly about one of his (few) pleasant times in Afghanistan. There was a soft smile on his face and a shine to his eye that had Sherlock’s heart suddenly, and unexpectedly, hammering in his chest.
Sherlock had one more first to add to his list.
He was in love.
As soon as he had the thought, he felt the familiar pressure behind his lips. The disastrous deduction moments away from being spilled out into the air where everyone could hear it, where John could hear it.
Without warning he threw himself from the table with all the fear of a wild feral cat and fled to the men’s room. He heard John’s questioning “Sherlock?” before he slammed the door to the single stall bathroom shut and locked the door. As soon as he knew he was safe he let the stream of words fly. Pieces of evidence from years past up until just a few moments ago wove together as they spilled from his lips, culminating in a simple, terrifying sentence,
“I love John H. Watson.”
It seemed like such an insignificant five words. So small a sum of letters to equal the vast amounts of data that lead to its creation. Thousands of moments building, compiling over the years to create this complex tapestry of regard toward the enigma that was John Watson; all summed up in five fairly small words.
“I love John H. Watson.”
Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. He knew he could not trust himself with this knowledge. At some point it would slip out, completely without precedent or warning. It would scare John away and Sherlock would be left with those same five words to torture for the rest of eternity.
“Sherlock? Are you alright? Are you sick?” John asked with a knock on the door, the concern in his voice bringing the urge to the surface once more.
Sherlock whispered it quietly to himself before answering, “I love you.” Then raising his voice so John could hear, “I’m fine now. I was feeling nauseous.” He lied.
The was a few moments pause before John spoke again. “Are you coming out?”
Sherlock pulled himself up tall and clenched his teeth. He would not ruin this. He was in control of his transport.
---
“I’d be lost without my blogger” I love you.
“That jumper again, John?!” I love you.
“It’s an experiment!” I love you.
“Bit not good?” I love you.
“Tea?” I love you.
---
John was about three more insults away from punching Sherlock and at this point he was feeling rather liberal about what constituted as an insult. They’d been on the case for three days and, even with the addition of two bodies since he’ been called, Sherlock had made hardly any progress. Sherlock, John, and the rest of Scotland Yard, though for different reasons, were quite close to pulling their hair out in frustration.
“What about her family?” Greg pitched into the silence. A brave move considering the state Sherlock was in. Sally had kept safely quiet for the past day as well as Dimmock. Anderson had hardly lasted thirty minutes before Sherlock had sent him away from the room they had reserved for the case.
“Her family, Grahm? Is that really all that you could come up with? A smorgasbord of potential pitfalls for the simple minded and you turn to the least interesting one: her family?” Sherlock snapped.
The room lapsed into silence. John, Greg, Sally, and Dimmock staring dejectedly at the pictures of the bodies which lay scattered on the table while Sherlock paced manically around the room.
“Who even enjoys reading those things?” John asked to the room at large some ten minutes later.
Greg chuckled, darkly. “Beyond me, mate.”
Sherlock whipped around to John. “What are you talking about?”
John pointed to the pictures. Each woman had a copy of OK, a popular gossip magazine, on their person to which none of them had any tie. “Those gossip magazines. Anyone with half a brain knows that all of it is libel and complete utter bull shit. I just don’t know why anyone would-”
“Oh! Oh, John!” Sherlock interrupted, throwing his arms in the air and then gripping John firmly by the shoulders. “John you are the most wonderful accidental genius!”
He quickly gathered up the photos holding each one up for everyone in the room to see. “Each of these women have something in common aside from the copy of OK, their education. All of these women are highly educated with masters or doctorates in their fields. Obviously none of them would be caught dead reading one of these magazines. These are women who have suffered through years of have to double and triple check sources for papers. The uncredited nonsense that is written in here would be completely unappealing to them.” Sherlock quickly consulted his phone and pulling up an article titled, “OK and US Go to Court”. Bring in the CEO of US gossip magazine, I have a feeling that he might be attempting to besmirch the already tarnished name of OK.” Sherlock spun around himself, hands in the air for a moment in apparent glee at the solved case. “Oh, John! I love you!”
John’s head snapped up, the awe on his face let over from Sherlock’s rapid fire deductions quickly slipping away into shock. He watched as Sherlock suddenly froze and a moment later the color drained from his face.
In hindsight, it was impressive how quickly and stealthily a group of policemen and women can leave a room.
John pursed his lips and shook his head once, replaying what Sherlock had said, before looking at him again. “What was that Sherlock?”
“I love you.” Sherlock blurted as if he had no control over it, his hand quickly coming up as if to stopper his mouth.
John let out a deep whoosh of air. He rested his hands on the table and let his head hang low, trying to get rid of the light headed sensation.
“You do realize,” John began tensely. “There is no going back from this.”
“Yes.” Sherlock whispered from behind him.
“This is not- You can’t just walk away from this one by calling it an experiment, Sherlock.”
“It’s n-not an experiment.” There was a long, thick pause in the room. “I’m sorry, John.”
“Why?”
“Because I am afraid I love you quite desperately.”
John let out another long breath of air that slowly turned into a chuckle. He turned around to Sherlock who stood, facing the window, face lit in all its hurt and disappointment from the street below.
“Hey, Sherlock.” John said softly walking closer and taking that extra step into Sherlock’s space. Sherlock refused to look at him. His mouth was tight and eyes shining in a way that spoke of great pain. “Sherlock,” John smiled softly, using a hand on Sherlock’s cheek to force him to meet John’s eyes. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. In fact, it’s more than fine because well,” He paused and smiled sheepishly before lifting himself up on his toes to murmur against Sherlock’s mouth, “I love you senselessly, too.”
And yet again Sherlock was destroyed by five words but this time it made him feel strangely light headed in all the best of ways.