Chapter Text
There were several things John had learned he could deal with recently. This ranged from shooting a civilian justly and not thinking twice about it, committing to a car chase on foot by following a brilliant tracker, the physical pain essentially disappearing and not needing his old cane to walk around anymore, to getting a proper job at a clinic. These were just some of the mini-accomplishments John kept in mind whenever he got angry for some reason or another to calm himself down and remind himself that he could do anything he set his mind to. However, out of all of things that irritated John the most, the automatic cash register at the shop had to be his greatest pet peeve, and that had no cure.
He huffed, once more attempting to rationally use the device like any other twat in the market, sliding his credit card through the scanner before waiting to be prompted to enter his code.
However.
As usual (was it really?) he was told that the chip and pin machine could not identify the barcode on his card and that he would need to try again, thank you very much. John bit his lip, valiantly trying to stop himself from blowing a fuse. It had been the fifth time the card did that. Swear, if this happens again, John thought grudgingly, sliding it one more time-
Beep beep.
John gave a strangled laugh, fists clenched in anger. No, that was the last straw for John, and he was just about to make an enraged scene when suddenly a familiar pair hands appeared around him. With widened eyes he watched as the digits slid a black credit card into the till, before swiftly typing in the code and grabbing the receipt, successfully buying the groceries that were quite desperately needed. The receipt was stuffed into his hands, causing John to look up to his savior in masked awe, the ever-magnificent Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock was looking away at the moment, not giving the slightest hint of having paid for the groceries or even paying attention to the expression on John's face. Instead, his gaze was shifting around their surroundings, lips moving in inaudible words. Seeing that, John sighed to himself. He was glad he had managed to convince Sherlock to come with him, or the scene he'd almost made would have been very nasty.
John pulled at the groceries, taking them in hand before leading his partner away, who followed absent-mindedly as he glanced around, making mumbled deductions about the people around them.
"Tch. She's sleeping with her husband's best friend... look at that wine stain, obviously coming from a disappointing date... recently had a haircut for a new job interview, way overdue I'm afraid..."
Exhaling wispily, John gave Sherlock a curious sideways glance. He was still getting used to the outburst of deductions the detective was prone to, but even then, it wasn't without a tinge of admiration. John had been living with Sherlock for several weeks by this point, and at times he barely realized how quickly the pair had gotten used to each other.
From getting up in the morning to giving a good night, John Watson had stepped into a domestic routine that hadn't required much thought at all. The two had fallen into a rhythm John could hardly discern from his 'past' life, the one before Sherlock. Pre-Sherlock, if one would, the days of gray lights and empty mugs.
The duo approached the doors. John tightened his grasp on the grocery bag once he walked out, the cold London air causing him to momentarily stiffen up in an attempt to stay warm. Sherlock brushed past him however, his iconic coat wrapped around him loosely as he braved the chilling winds, still going on as if he hadn't noticed John wasn't at his side.
He probably hadn't, John thought, rolling his eyes as he moved away from the building's entrance, speeding his pace a bit as he tried to catch up. Perhaps Sherlock was a bit irritated at being asked to come along, but John had needed the help.
After some quick steps, John was eventually side to side with the detective, who had a pensive expression on his face. John cleared his throat, hoping to grab Sherlock's attention.
He didn't.
With another heavy sigh, the doctor pulled the grocery bags closer to him, nudging Sherlock with his shoulder.
"So. It's almost evening Sherlock. Do you want take-out or go somewhere?"
A taxi beeped past, emphasizing the silence Sherlock gave, eyes looking forward rather than acknowledging John had spoken.
John waited a few seconds before continuing.
"I think it's best we stay in - I heard from someone at work about this good Thai place - they only deliver anyways. That fine with you?" Sherlock was quiet, eyes flicking over to John. He nodded, pursuing his lips.
"It wouldn't happen to be the one next to a pet store would it?"
John blinked, a bit surprised at the response. "Er - I think so. Why do you ask?"
Sherlock gave a smirk. "Then I know how to get a deal out of there. Once helped the owner with some, troubles."
The detective's soft accent bristled through the words, which only added to John's amusement. It seemed like Sherlock had some favor or another for every shop owner in London. They could probably get free meals for weeks if they really tried.
"Is that so?" A smirk played on the doctor's lips, "I look forward to it then."
John pushed his elbow playfully into Sherlock's side, to which Sherlock beamed at with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. The grin caused something to swell in John's chest, a familiar sentiment that seemed to drown him every time he caught those lips curling into a smile for him. It was getting stronger every time and John was never really sure why, why.
For once John couldn't hold himself back, and with a hesitant gasp, his tongue barely flicking out, he opened his mouth to say something -
A buzz came out. John was startled, the words that had been teeming behind his lips thrown back into his throat as Sherlock ruffled through his coat pockets, pulling out his cellphone. He glanced down at the message on the screen, before a sudden change went through his features.
Gone were the soft gaze and crinkling eyes, and in came the stern composure alighted with a furrowed brow. John gave a silent sigh, both disappointed and full of wonder at how quickly Sherlock had shifted into his detective mode.
Sherlock started to storm off, barely glancing over his shoulder to look at John. "There's been a murder, let's go!"
It was the last thing John heard as Sherlock rounded a corner, leaving the doctor to struggle with the overflowing grocery bags as he hurried along.
It was never the right time.
The next time John had food on his mind, the heavy whisper of water flowing accompanied his thoughts. Sherlock and John had just finished a meal, the first of many that followed once a case started. Well, more like John had finished it, seeing as Sherlock had just sat across from him and brainstormed out loud about what the murder weapon could be.
Sherlock had been occupied with the case’s details since Lestrade had offered them through the pages of a manila folder. Oh, what important pieces of paper.
John chuckled humorlessly, running his hand over a soapy dish as the water drained down the sink. There was the sound of crinkling pages coming from the living room, accompanied by little sighs and frustrated noises as Sherlock flipped through several books, looking for something that would be pertinent to the case. He hadn't been able to find it all day, being completely untouchable to John as he tried to parry around the younger man in attempts to do minimal organization to the papers stuck in disarray around his workspace.
Usually when Sherlock got like this, John would leave him alone, but the detective hadn't eaten all day and it was worrying to say the least.
"... I guess now would be a bad time to ask if you want tea, wouldn't it?"
Sherlock glanced up to see John's apprehensive half-smile as he grabbed another plate, finishing the daily load. Huffing slightly, Sherlock raised his shoulders helplessly. John quirked an eyebrow, waiting for a proper response. The detective grimaced as he shut the book curtly, standing up with a foul demeanor.
"It's hard to tell at this point John. Instead of letting tea occupy your mind, I think you should be more concerned whether or not I can find this blasted -" his voice rose as he leaped over a stack of books - "piece of information, or this case really will go down to hell."
The detective pinched his bathrobe to settle around him more comfortably, before reaching over and opening another book, scanning the faded lettering on the page with a frown.
John stilled for a second.
That could have been handled better.
With a stifled sigh, he resumed his scrubbing, grating the plate more forcefully with the sponge.
Another moment passed. Wanting to fill the silence for a moment, John began to recount what had happened at the clinic, beginning with a tale of a women's checkup. He went through the details smoothly, of how she first had been late, and not only that but had been in toll with some bags of the strangest equipment John had ever seen.
He paused, chuckling a bit. "You should have seen it, that would have been interesting, it was as though she was shocked she couldn't bring them in -"
"Hm?"
The doctor looked over, eyes dimming in comprehension as he realized Sherlock was facing the wall, engrossed in a familiar book. Not a lick of word had come through. He cleared his throat, returning to the dish he was washing. "Nothing."
A moment passed, before Sherlock turned, staring at John as his eyes furrowed a bit. "You said something John. Perhaps a clinic story?" He glanced back to his book, meticulously grabbing a page and flipping it as he spoke. "I'm sure it was of great importance, had I just been listening -"
"That's just the problem, you never listen!"
Sherlock pointed his gaze at John, eyes widening before narrowing. "What?"
John looked shocked at his own words before clenching his fists.
“I know the work is important but Jesus, Sherlock, you never really pay attention do you? Much less to others!” He sputtered, raising a hand angrily. “You could at least have the decency to not play your violin at all hours of the night, you know, when people are normally sleeping!”
John sighed, grabbing another plate as he turned away. He wasn’t sure how useful it was to talk to Sherlock that way, which he could begrudgingly try to understand, but frankly he was just about at his limit. Before he could even exhale to calm himself down, a humorless voice from the living room broke his resolve.
“People don’t really matter John.”
The plate shattered on the ground.
Sherlock flinched, watching the pieces of the ceramic spread in jagged pieces, several landing dangerously close to John's feet. There was a pause, the other man's back completely still as he hunched forward, almost as if he was thinking about what was just said. Finally, with raged reluctance, John slowly turned to gape at him, eyes pinched in disbelief.
"What, did you say?"
The detective shrugged, eyes facing the downcast windows as he continued to speak.
"Well, you know it's true Doctor Watson. One can't change the facts."
John gave an incredulous laugh. "What are you even talking about?!”
“You know exactly what I mean. People, and their, emotions. People, and their, cruelty. What right do they have to any control over what I do, what I say? They don’t matter.”
With visible effort John had to bite back a nasty retort, twisting his face away. He sputtered for another response.
"Wh-what the hell do you mean Sherlock? By any means, how is that even necessary?"
Sherlock gave an impatient raised eyebrow from his corner, John visibly upset more and more.
“You’re going to tell me that I’m wrong? People are heartless, and are only careful when it’s convenient.”
"No, that's just what people do Sherlock, they care and are patient because it's right!"
"And who's to say what's right and what's not? For God's sake they’re just a stupid species!" Sherlock huffed, stomping over to sit down on the weathered couch with more force than necessary as he glared up at John's figure.
Mustering up the final shreds of patience he had left, the doctor took slow shallow breaths, trying to calm himself before he said something he would truly regret. Sherlock crossed his arms indignantly, daring John wordlessly to defy his word. In response the doctor's temper began to rise higher at the blatant display of disrespect.
John refused to take his bait but Sherlock's taunting gaze was too much. With a stifled curse John suddenly whipped around, aiming for the door as he grabbed his jacket and curtly slipped it on.
"I'm going out."
He didn't pause for a response, already half down the stairs by the time Sherlock realized what was going on. There was a loud thud that resonated through the apartment as John slammed the front door behind him and walked down the stoop, a hushed gasp escaping his clenched teeth as he stuffed his hands into his pockets once the chill in the air forcefully hit him. Scoffing at the cold, his face was set in a grimace as he stormed off, no destination in mind, but rather the compelling need to get away from 221B as quickly as he could.
There was a somber buzz that clouded John's thoughts as his feet drove him through scattered crowds, muttered apologies said as his shoulders clipped against others, but otherwise keeping his eyes on the ground. Snippets of their argument ran through his head, the corners of his lips twitching into an uncomfortable frown every time the plate would shatter to the ground. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
At the very minimum, he would have to buy a new plate to replace the broken one. Not that he could afford the posh quality of the plate he had broken though, or any of the ones they owned, now that he thought about it.
Great, another thing I've been dependent on him for, John moaned mentally, fingers curling in displeasure. The cold only added on to his frustration, to which John sighed to, not sure what to do as he watched people walk by, immersed in their own problems.
Annoyance began to border John's musings as yells and arguments walked past him, almost in reminder of why he was out there. He sighed again after he passed yet another bickering couple, pursing his lips together in thought. He hadn't meant to get so angry but Sherlock's stubborn ways sometimes got to him. After everything that had happened that day, it would have been only a matter of time before he had exploded the way he did.
John just needed a little time to himself. To calm down, that's all.
Rationalizing his reaction, the hurried frenzy of his pace gradually soothed out to languid strides, the desire to run slowly dwindling away. Noise started to filter through his senses, the familiar beeps and shouts of the outside world closer to him than what he was used to. Confused, he eventually gazed around his surroundings, the expression on his face switching to one of subdued awe as he realized where he was. John had gone further than he thought he had, nearing the more populated centers of the city.
The night was loud, as it usually was. People were clustered in small pockets, their voices and tilling laughs echoing across the streets, with cars and taxis rumbling through in shaky synchronization. The lampposts were turned on, highlighting stores that were still open at the late hour, and glaring lights from advertisement signs and clubs hummed with pleasure. A light fog covered the world, with the awakening chill winds nipping at people's noses without restraint. In the air were the collisions of aromas that were rising from chip shops and straggling restaurants that had people leaving the premises either drunk or extremely satisfied. All of that with the sky itself being a blanket of black, dotted with the white figures of planes and jets flying by, and the sparse light of the stars that shone with a familiar dimmed twinkle.
Home, John thought with a wry smile, glancing up to catch a glimpse of the skyline. Home sweet home.
There really was nowhere else John could picture living in, after everything London's beauty and energy were what made him feel truly alive. The thrill of living in such a vast area was addicting, one that John hadn't been able to get over quite yet in all of his adventurous years. The siren song of the city was his call to action, the Punch to his Judy, the George to his Ringo. He chuckled at the poorly made metaphors, silently hoping his own writing hadn't gone down in quality as his thoughts rushed about in amazement.
The stark rich decadence of coffee suddenly filled his nostrils, and John knew he had to have a cup, even if it wasn't to chase away the cold. He rushed over to the source, a coffee shop just across the street in hopes of warming himself up. Queuing patiently, John was soon nodding his head slightly in appreciation as the vendor handed him a steaming cup of coffee, black and unsweetened. He continued to walk on, sipping at the liquid every time the cold threatened to settle in his bones.
John turned a corner, stepping into a crowded square when a flash of blue whisked by in his peripheral vision. For a moment he was reminded of Sherlock -
Oh.
Sherlock.
John let out a sigh, running a tired hand through his ruffled hair.
How did one even begin to describe the impossible man?
Rude. Elegant. Intimidating. Graceful. Clumsy. Intelligent. Moral. Immoral.
There was too much that fit into Sherlock's figure, too much to be a linear progression of self.
A brilliant mind cramped into a single entity, teeming beneath so many humanely protocols, an inquisitive rage that was only calmed with solutions and equations.
There were times when John caught a sliver of what was behind Sherlock's façade, a bursting curious youth, eyes shining in wonder at all the possibilities, before it faded away, cleverly concealed behind a mask of aloofness. Perhaps Sherlock thought no one noticed, that no one cared, but John noticed. Noticed since the moment he met Sherlock, hunched over and barely glancing up to greet his new roommate.
John yearned to see more of that Sherlock though, intense and brooding, thinking of nothing yet everything as his mind whirled about in high speeds, gaze piercing over steepled long fingers. There was something, for lack of a better word, attractive about the way Sherlock held himself, and dared to defy the world with his deductions and righteous calculations.
A rock crossed his path, making him stumble a bit and almost lose hold of his coffee. He sighed.
As right as he was, he also knew that he enjoyed the other Sherlock's company, the Sherlock that said crude jokes with a tinge of black humor, that laughed as suddenly as John did when something too extraordinary happened, and relished in a little teasing here and there. Two distinct parts, yet made the man John admired with no end.
One day he's going to blow all of us away in disbelief, John thought affectionately, setting his coffee down on a nearby railing to glance at a wising newspaper. On the front page was a picture of Sherlock, covering his face with the collar of his coat. He chuckled, thinking of when the picture had been taken. Sherlock had almost started up a storm of offenses once the photographer had snapped it but dutifully stayed silent, eyes pinched in anger as he tried to continue explaining to John what had been happening in the case they were working on.
Oh.
Cases.
Danger.
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh God yes."
There it was, his heart pumping in triumph as Sherlock's eyes bored into his own. There had been a click of decisiveness, a sudden switch that had John buzzing in anticipation, in need of the excitement, of the danger. The danger that revolved around and entwined in his life with Sherlock, his only life.
Grasping the empty air for a coffee cup that wasn't there anymore, he thought back to his first day with Sherlock, the abduction and Mycroft's words. That he saw the war once more at Sherlock's side. That he missed it. That he never really left it. Though at the time he had felt a bit offended, later on he realized that the older Holmes had been more than right - at Sherlock's side the world had a new layer, one that was covered with bursts of danger, of excitement, of mystery.
John, of course, realized that his life with Sherlock wasn't all that he made it to be on his blog, no matter how hard he hid it behind unwritten words. There were also moments when flashes of desolation creeped into Sherlock's gaze, almost haunted, as if he had seen one too many things. Situations and murders that spurred on new solutions, new methods that he in turn used, almost out of respect of the dead, even if he would never admit it. He was always dodging a mental minefield, running across a maze of deception, shielding himself from pointed remarks. A soldier without a proper cause, just defending the truth because it was the only thing he knew how to do.
Sherlock's war was far from over, but each little victory from the battles that ensued was more than rewarding. It meant a little more peace for the both of them, one more mystery unraveled for the world to revel at, one more opportunity to prove self-worth.
John's own inner demons had been of conformity, fitting in to a life he wasn't sure he even had anymore. Coming back from the war, from trials of comfort and the unknown, from getting injured, it was what made him who he was, but in turn he wasn't the same doe-eyed young man he had once been. His reflexes were sharper, his nightmares became realities, and there was times when his gait would stutter under his ever occurring limp.
Sherlock had changed that, had changed him, basically gripping him from the depression John refused to speak of, and gave him a new purpose in life. He had filled the cracks the war had carved into John, and may have made a few of his own, but it would never outweigh the rejuvenation he had given John.
All in the name to seek the truth.
Sherlock's war and John's war.
Not that different after all.
A hard piece cement clipped the toe of his shoe, causing him to look up. John was surprised to see 221B gazing back at him. He somehow managed to make a complete loop back to the apartment. John chuckled to himself. Even his own body didn't allow to him to stay away for long.
The doctor gripped the handrail as he made his way up, smoothly opening the door and walking up the stairs, promptly stepping into the apartment he now called home. It looked the same, lights blazing, though felt a bit chillier than from when he was last in it. Sherlock must have forgotten to turn up the heat, John thought, trotting to the thermostat to adjust the temperature accordingly.
Moving the knob, John slipped into the kitchen, and was surprised to see the plate shards had been picked, a task that would usually have been left to him. He couldn't help but to crack a faint grin. Sherlock outdid himself there, he thought jokingly, before walking out into the living room again. John wondered where the detective was as he couldn't see the man in sight.
The drapes were slightly open, flashes of moonlight peeping into the room and lighting up a shape John wasn't quite familiar with. There was a lump on the couch, and nearing it, John had to choke back a surprised gasp with effort.
Sherlock was slumped over, face implanted into the pillow as his limbs drooped off the edges of the couch, his hand twitching occasionally in response to the cold. Blinking slowly, John took in the rare sight. It wasn't every day that a person could say they saw Sherlock Holmes asleep.
Looking over to the open books on the ground, John could see that other than angrily written notes and sloppily placed bookmarks, there hadn't been any visible progress on the case. Guess he really was tired, John concluded after a while, grabbing a blanket from the bureau and going over to wrap it around the shivering detective with a small smile. Tucking him in, Sherlock groaned softly as the cloth covered him, his body suddenly rolling over so that his face was just hidden from John beneath a whirl of inky curls.
There was a pause, as John watched Sherlock inhale peacefully, a peculiar glint in his eye.
Hesitantly, he reached over, gently shifting the locks from Sherlock's forehead. Basking in the moonlight, Sherlock's face was more youthful while unconscious, the hard lines of frustration and annoyance weathered away under the weight of sleep. It made him seem like a boy more than anything, mouth slightly open as he inhaled and exhaled, skin smooth and pale under the moon's harsh shine. Marble, a dim thought pipped, as John looked down at his still face.
A sigh escaped him, hair entwined into his fingers, thoughts elsewhere.
Silence.
Sigh.
John quietly moved away, giving Sherlock's head a parting light stroke.
Turning, he went about the apartment, flicking off the lights that were no longer needed nor wanted, being sure to tread softly on the creaky hardwood floor as to not awaken the sleeping detective. Before long John was trudging up to his bedroom, ready to go to bed and try to forget what had happened earlier in the evening, hoping to keep things calm from now on.
The last light went out, and Sherlock's eyes flicked open.
He glanced around.
A soft rustle as he sat up, eyes on the stairs that led to John's room. A curious gaze, eyebrows quirked up, hand winding through thick curls, still watching the stairs.
Sigh.
Looking over to the coffee cup on the table, still warm from the discarded coffee -
Stop.