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Almost everyone has played Tetris at least once in their lives. It's a very entertaining game, almost addictive; who knows what was going through Pázhitnov's mind while creating it, because despite the easy premise, it's a very complex game, you see. The key is to build a structure in which every block must combine in harmony, but there's no way you can win if you leave an empty space. A crack, if you want to call it like that, and you can watch as you lose your game if you let go too much spaces.
Fill in the blanks you've fucked up, then.
"Are you even listening to me?" John asks with barely catched breath. Sherlock doesn't need to look up to deduce that John has been carrying too much shopping bags all way from Tesco, he did asked him to come, as always, but he refused, as always.
"You could take a cab, you know" he replies uninterested, still fixated in playing Tetris in John's laptop, his slender fingers dashing around the touchpad with similiar precision he uses to play the violin.
"I said I'll bring some folks to the flat tonight" John announces with caution. He knows Sherlock well enough to expect what is going to happen next; he pauses the game (Level 77 out of 100) and frowns disgusted from the couch. "People? Visitors aren't customary in our daily activities" he wrinkles his nose, almost invisible lines are marking because of the frecuency. "Unless you mean interesting clients, then we could make an exception-"
"You weren't listening!" A tired voice cuts off "I said I invited some old army friends here. They'll be here by eight o'clock, that's why I brought some snacks"
Blue eyes drop down at the bags. Some high in sodium chips and several cans of beer, perfectly aligned in six packs. "Army friends?"
"Yeah, friends Sherlock. I do have a life besides you" he hisses, setting aside some old chemistry books from the coffee table. "And It would be really nice if you treat them, well, less you-ish" he asks, like a mother telling his child how to behave. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I do what I want" and with a offended look on his face. Sometimes, very rarely, his stone expression cannot hide his emotions. Is John intending he is a wild creature unable to control himself? Please, the master of disguise? Anyways, his pride seems childish to John. He just wants a quiet evening, remembering some fun times, maybe it's too much to ask for. "Or maybe lock yourself in your room.
When he thinks about it, Sherlock realizes that he has never been part of the social tradition of "Saturday Night". His actual idea of entertainment is not in wild parties until the sun breaks down, occasional shags or strip poker, even if he has just a vague idea of the true meaning of the concepts he's just thought of, but in sleepless reading nights, chasing criminals around London, or, when the thing gets really boring, a sniff of coke. But that was ages ago, he has promised John he wouldn't go back to that, and he kept that promise.
He won't keep his promise of restraining from the living room, though. Armed with his sleeping gown and some dull expectations about John's friends, he breaks into the living, the most icy and con descendent expression he could portray in his face.
¨And there goes your cash, Mark!¨ a blonde man mocks, raising his beer high in the air. Along with him, three other men laugh. One of them has too long black hair, in what military established haircut concerns; Next to him, a red-haired and a matching set of Rolex and cufflinks way too expensive to belong to a recently returned soldier. Finally, the guy apparently named Mark, with light-brown hair and clearly the youngest of them all (barely thirty), frowns and tosses his cards in front of him "Shut up, Justin". Mark is about to grab chips from a bowl when he stops laughing and watches Sherlock frozen. The rest imitate him.
"Er, John, there's a dude in pajamas coming out of your room" the wealthy one asks halfway concerned and halfway alarmed.
"It's my room, in fact" Sherlock clarifies politely. He recognizes John's steps coming closer and, without looking the men back, falls heavy into his chair.
"Were you saying, Percy-" The army doctor enters with a smile that vanishes instantly. He licks his lips, his public waiting patiently for an explanation. "Guys, this is my flatmate Sherlock Holmes. He's, well, a-"
"The Sherlock Holmes?" Mark interrupts. "I've seen his stories in the newspaper! It's been ages, John, so you guys go in adventures for real? You can't stay away from danger, can you?" he glances to john, amazed.
"Yeah.... you guys" There's doubt in the voice of Justin. Maybe the sight of barely dressed Sherlock wandering around it's not the most heterosexual possible.
"Shall we continue?" Inky head tries to go along with the game. John sighs grateful "Thanks, Howell".
The decks are delivered, a distant silence goes for a couple of minutes when Sherlock's voice is the only sound in the room.
"Mr. Justin, I'm afraid to say that despite the almost certain success of that old cheating trick through the cards, there's no possible way you can win after the second round regards the deck of Mr. Howell, he's got a Full House down there" he explains calmed. All heads turn back to him.
"What are you saying, you cunt" Justin complains.
"What I'm saying it's that it's required a minor intelligence to notice the sudden flip in your cards, thing that your fellow players don't posses"
"So you are saying that we are idiot or what?" Percy raises an accusatory brow
Sherlock blinks bored while facing them. "I wouldn't use that choice of words, but If you are willing to find the explicit meaning in mine.."
"Calm down, girls, Sherlock's a little bit of bitchy today..." John apologizes, smiling shyly at Howell who is at with his arms folded looking obnoxious;"Bitchy?"
"Bitchy?" Sherlock echoes, chuffing and standing up back to his room, leaving the crowd angry behind.
Once the door is closed, Justin mutters annoyed. "What's wrong with the dude?", and Howell replies with the same tone: "Don't know. John, is he your friend? And does he always walks around like that?
John's cheeks burn bright red, and plays with the border of his cards. "Just a colleague".
Behind the door, Sherlock swallows in silence, with a hurt expression in his face. He did not see that one coming, John being ashamed of him. He has never denied he doesn't have an easy attitude to people, but he had always counted that John, his pillar, his anchor and practically his everything, would be standing for him until the end of times. But even pillars have weak points. Cracks that cannot be holded by fingertips. This is the first space left empty. Strike one. He moves towards his laptop and continues the paused game.
The next morning, or more exactly, the following week, went all the same. Sherlock woke up, took a sip or two of his cup of tea that John left ready in the table, and went into his room, by the noise of the laptop John could tell he was still playing that fucking game he has been obsessed for days, but besides that, it was silent most of the time. This was the third week without a case, so at first, Doctor Watson thought it was just a reaction product of boredom. He realized, in Friday Night, that there was something wrong, that idea growing in his mind as the violin started playing at four in the morning. That went like this:
He put his slippers on and headed to Sherlock's room. The flat was dark and he almost tripped with some thick books on the floor, but arrived at the door. He knocked twice, remembering his manners and awaiting. "Come in" a tired voice raised among the violin.
"Hey Sherlock, I know you are bored, but maybe this can wait until tomorrow.."
"I'm not bored" Sherlock didn't turn back to look at him.
John yawned softly. "Then, I don't know, I thought you were just bored, you see, I'm not having a lot of fun lately, neither"
"Then you should call your friends to play poker" the consultant detective replied, casually, but even John notices the sudden choice.
"Should i?" he frowned in suspicion. "Whatever, I hardly think they come back after that saturday's show, but alright" he gives up, after all, it's four in the morning. Without saying anything, he closed the door behind him and went upstairs.
But what he didn't realize, it's that Sherlock wasn't bored. He was thinking.
Eighteen hours later, we find the same picture than last saturday. Everything it's on its place, the cast conformed by Howell Jenkins, Mark Fisher, Percival Heen and Justin Suliman are happily playing poker, pounds and coupons wildly placed at the center of the table. John Watson, co-starring the scene, is putting all the cards from the previous game together. But where's the main star? He left home very early and hasn't come back. At least until now, because at the moment he stands at the doorstep.
Wait. He's not the one we've been waiting for. The visitors react as expected; twisted mouths showing bothering by his presence, light expressions compared to the one in the proper 221B Baker Street's tenant, whose jaw is practically hanging as he manages to ask a confused "Sherlock?"
Because, there he is, Sherlock Holmes, in what we could call a 'disguise', in jeans, a t-shirt (a t-shirt, for god's sake!) a gray scarf instead of a blue one, and a jacket. Maybe this is the right moment to quote the man himself, England's gonna fall. "May I join?" he asks grabbing a chair with an elegant and gracious movement; old habits are hard to forget. He sits across from John, and taking the cards from his hand. With expertise, he shuffles the cards and gives everyone their pertinent decks. There are a couple of minutes of deep silence, until young and bright ark breaks the ice "So, Sherlock, what is it like being a detective?"
Sherlock smiles softly, isn't he a great actor? "A satisfying occupation, I may say. It keeps me busy enough"
Howell's attention is drawn to him. "Is it like the movies? Agent Bond, living for danger" he asks, waiting for his response.
Sherlock chooses his words carefully "I can't complain. Not everybody has the guts for it" he ends laughing. Like expected, the alpha male in each one of them wakes up, and they keep him listening about adventurous battles in Afghanistan, even more deadly than his. His hard-drive ignores them, anyways, because he is focused in John, still surprised and trying to decipher what's behind his new mask of his. He can manage thet amount of tasks at the same time, that he really doesn't need to try to win the game, he's already sweeping to victory.
"You smart twat, I'll be living in a cardboard box if I keep playing with you!" Percy protests
Sherlock has to bite his tongue to restrain himself from saying something that could appear as offensive. He just shakes his head, and puts his Quad in front of him. Everyone stares and congratulates him. "I bet you're one of those Jeopardy winners, aren't you?" teases Justin.
"He's worse" John's voice is emotionless, but there's an expectant look directed to Sherlock in his face. We could say John is trying to ruin our play. The men just nod at his comment and let it go. Mark takes a Heineken out of the six pack and offers one to Sherlock, but he declines it with his hand. He does the same for John, who's next to him but he mimics his flatmate
"And, how's your love life, Mr. Holmes, you have everything a lady could ask for: an exciting job, fame, good looks and intelligence-"
"And heads in the fridge. Of dead people" he mentions, nonsense, without getting a hint of attention.
"Yeah" Mark continues "As I was saying, do you have a girlfriend?"
Sherlock blinks twice and purses his lips "Women aren't my area"
And, once again, everything goes according to the script. The four men blush, barely keeping their composture with the clear exception of Mark, who smirks shyly in acceptation, resting his head in his hands. "So you have a boyfriend, then."
The man smiles back and orders his cards, perfectly aligned. "Yes, Mark. Actually, my partner is the man on your left"
Here's the scene you've been waiting for, dear public. The following actions will be described in order of sequence: Mark exchanges amused looks with John, Justine spits his beer a little bit, while Percy and Howell are still, eyes wide open. And then, we have the pleased grin of Sherlock, picturing a confident armor that cannot reach his eyes, worried and cautious deep into John's. John himself is babbling words, unable to come out of his mouth
"Holy shit, Watson, you didn't say you turned into a queer!" starts Justin, along with some random exclamations by Percy.
"Are you his boyfriend for real?" continues Howell.
Sherlock doesn't drive his gaze away from, who is tinted like a tomato, "Well, umm.." he tries to evade "..dating is a very strong word, you see..."
Can you hear the sound of cracking, creeping all way down your spine? Strike two.
He is suddenly interrupted by blue eyes burning with anger "John." He stands up, his fists closed and his jaw clenching. John does the same, ashamed. "I'm sorry, I just, I just don't want to.." "You don't want anyone to know you're with me" Sherlock clarifies, a bitter note in his voice. "I may not be the ideal subject of social interaction, but even If I tried.."
"I see! All of this clothing, and you, pretending to be normal it was all about it, wasn't it? What are you even trying to prove?"
"That I can be like all of you!" Sherlock yells, exasperated. "I want you to-" he struggles with the word, debating with himself "love me without caring what people say!". He raises his brows, expecting whatever from John. He wants him to contradict him so badly, to tell him how wrong is him. Milliseconds go way too slow in his head.
Meanwhile, the visitors keep silent, watching the whole argue with attention. The play is worthy, isn't it? But John is plain and white, not really knowing what to say.
(Strike three?)
"There it is" the other man says disappointed. He tries to hide his pain, but what's the point?. He takes his scarf off and starts doing the same with his jacket. "If I caused you any inconvenient, I apologize. I better be off"
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, understand that it's the first time I am with a man"
"You have never complained in these years. We've been doing the same during that time, the only difference is the commonly accepted term that we use to call our acquaintance. An acquaintance that shouldn't last for long." he says, turning towards the door. "When your friends leave, i'll be back to...arrange the necessary"
The remain actors shake their heads, now part of the background. "No no, don't worry, we were already leaving" Mark replies, taking his sweater from the chair. John ignores him, and reaches to touch Sherlock's shoulder. "Look Sherlock, don't do this, i'm sorry"
"For what?" Sherlock turns to face him, with a hint of desperation in his voice.
"For saying that thing of us, I'm sorry"
Sherlock is head down. "It's not enough John, now I'm the one who is sorry." he takes his coat from the couch. "At first, you were afraid of my lack of commitment, but I think you're the one failing. I'm leaving"
John clinges to the leap of his coat. "Of course it's not true, Sherlock! I'm so bloody committed to you that I'll do anything for you, I'll tell anyone who wants to hear me that I love you, for god's sake, I'll make an ad for The Strand if needed!"
The curly-haired man shakes his head. "But you'll do it only If I leave" Sherlock sighs defeated. It doesn't matter how much John loves him if that embarrass him. Because Sherlock doesn't give a single fuck about what others could think, If he's got John by his side, he's infinitely happy. But he won't keep John against his will.
"Do you want me to prove it to you, then" John replies, taking his hand and opening the door, and they both go downstairs through the hall. Mark, Howell, Percy and Justin wake up from they shock and rush to go with the dysfunctional couple. When they do, they find them in the street, not empty but enough crowded to make John shout.
"Everybody listen! I love this man, right in front of you, you heard me?". Everybody in the street turns to look at them. Disconcert, confusion, cheers and even a encouraging whistle fill the entire Baker Street. Sherlock's mouth is in a thin line, trying not to laugh. "Stop it John"
"Stop what?" the doctor says before taking Sherlock into his arms and pushing his head towards him, when their mouths meet. John tastes like beer and salty (iodized salt from the chips, the same brand he always buys) his lips so warm and determined against Sherlock's. He is surprised at first by John, John Watson, the only man able to get over his prediction filters and catch him unprepared, but he ends up putting his arms around his neck and pausing the kiss to breath, half-catching his breath and half giggling.
"I'm sorry I spoiled your game" Sherlock apologizes in the middle of the kiss.
"Nevermind. It wasn't that funny anyways" John does the same, turning the thing into a 'Kiss the other while he talks' riddle.
"Tetris wasn't either. I'm still bored. I was still bored."
John takes a step back. "Maybe I can show you a far more interesting game". He doesn't wait to Sherlock to agree when he's already dragging him by the shirt inside the flat. John's game partners move aside so they can go upstairs (No problem, never mind, go ahead guys, goodbye) and leave. Sherlock's blogger is still smiling when he pushes his mate against the bed, and slamming the door behind.
Life isn't a perfect structure of blocks aligned, each one of them neat and shiny. So damn shiny. It would be boring, don't you think. We don't regret the previous words, empty gaps and fissures can definitely bring a tower down. But it's not the end, it absolutely isn't. You can still build it up again, and you can break it again and again. You think you should forget, but there's no need to, those ugly bricks and steps brought you as high as you are now, and if you put them aside, you'll need to restart your game. As long as your foundations are strong enough, there's no hurricane, tornado or earthquake that can destroy your tower entirely. You're invincible.
Later, in Friday morning, John is dreaming of colored bricks falling into himself. He feels afraid, but then he feels Sherlock's expensive cologne by his side and then he is fearless. All he needs is him, but when he is lucid enough to react, is a funny 8-bit sound that wakes him up, bringing him down to reality.
Sherlock's face, all covered in tangled curls, is completely focused in John's laptop (he obviously guessed the password..for eighteenth time) and when the owner opens his eyes, naked in Sherock's bed and with a sticky layer of sweat in his skin, he recognizes the title screen. "Expert Tetris!" the page announces, "LEVEL 99"
Doctor Watson rolls his eyes. "Not again"
"I always end what I start" Sherlock replies, fingers tapping at the speed of light. John yawns as a response, and buries himself above the sheets to meet Morpheus again. He won't, because a couple of seconds after, a disturbingly cheery music comes out from the machine. "I meant everything John" the voice of the consultant detective is teasing before getting into the bed too.
Forget everything, what's gonna fall down and destroy without repair is 221B Baker Street itself, the walls are way too thin for the shouting inside the building and too weak to support the frenzy bed in the room downstairs, attempting to break at any moment.
"Boys" Ms. Hudson mutters as she turns on the TV. That doesn't disguise the moaning a little bit.