Chapter Text
“Bored.”
John looks over from the kitchen table, where he has cleared a space among the endless array of test tubes and strange-smelling chemicals to set up his laptop and do some work on the blog. He sighs, shaking his head at his flatmate whose long, gangly legs are draped across the couch, his never-just-one-color eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall.
“Aren’t you always?” John counters, hoping Sherlock won’t decide to start shooting at the wallpaper like he is often prone to doing. Mrs. Hudson always throws a fit, and John is sick of having to constantly talk his partner out of tight spots he worked himself into by his lack of concern for “ordinary people”.
Sherlock doesn’t respond to that, but runs his fingers through his wild mop of dark curls. John forces himself to look away, to focus on the work he has to do, the case results to write up. His fingers cautiously dance across the keys, his mind wandering despite his desperate efforts to stay on track. Lately most of his thoughts have been focused on Sherlock, like they ever weren’t, but lately it has been in a different way. It was always hard not to think about Sherlock, but he’s sure that when he first moved in, he wasn’t able to notice every little thing the man did, every quirk, every tiny behavior, every movement. Maybe it’s just Sherlock’s hyper-observant nature rubbing off on him, or maybe it’s more. All John knows is that the man confuses him, confuses his brain that is used to order, logic, normal people doing normal things. Sherlock Holmes is far from normal.
“John?”
John jumps. He didn’t realize that Sherlock got up off the couch and strode across the room to stand behind him. He also didn’t realize that his neck had gone limp, his head flopped over and pressing into the keyboard. He quickly straightens himself, running his hands through his sandy hair even though he knows it isn’t messy, that it’s too short to ever become tangled or mussed up. How unlike Sherlock, whose hair is always unruly and wild, dark strands hanging in his face and sticking out in all directions.
“Is something the matter?”
John quickly shakes his head, looking up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought his flatmate looks almost worried. “No--no, I’m fine. Just...tired, that’s all.”
Sherlock nods slowly. “I see.”
John can practically see the gears whirling in Sherlock’s mind, his thoughts speeding and circling as he tries to deduce John’s true emotions. That’s probably challenging, considering John doesn’t even know them himself.
“Were you going to...tell me something?” John asks, hoping to pull Sherlock out of his thoughts which almost certainly pertained to him. Sherlock straightens his scarf.
“I’m going out for a bit,” he says matter-of-factly, picking up his coat from the floor where he tossed it upon entering the flat earlier today. John cocks his head.
“To do what?”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You told me we needed groceries. Milk, cereal, beans was it?”
“Eggs,” John corrects him, puzzled as he usually is as to how the man can have perfect memory yet be so forgetful. Sherlock nods.
“Eggs, then.” He buttons his coat and in a few long strides has left the flat, the door slamming closed behind him. John supresses a yawn, squinting at the computer screen to no avail; his eyes just refuse to let the text come into focus. Running his fingers through his short sandy hair, he lets his head droop as his thoughts whirl.
Heat. Sweltering heat, beating down upon his back; heat, exhaustion, brightness. Around him is barren desert, the endless stretch of dry earth broken only by misshapen jagged rocks and the brown scraggly skeletons of bushes. Blinking until his eyes adjust to the brightness of the overbearing midday sun, he sees that he’s crouched in some sort of ditch. To his left and right are men, clad in faded dusty camo suits, large guns under their arms held at the ready. John looks down to find he’s wearing the same uniform, that he’s holding the same gun. He must be in Afghanistan. He heaves a sigh as dread bubbles through his stomach. Squatting over the ground, hovering over the trigger, he waits and waits.
A piercing scream, and one of his comrades is launched through the air, landing with a thud a ways behind him. John wants to run over, but his legs won’t budge. With a jolt he knows what’s going to happen. He’s been through this before. Time seems to slow down as the enemy soldier comes closer, closer, raises his gun...with a bang, the bullet streaks through the air. He knows it’s headed towards him but he doesn’t have time to move...coming closer, closer, getting larger and larger. In fact, everything’s getting larger, his surroundings are swelling to an enormous size. Burning daggers of pain stab through his body, but the bullet hasn’t hit him; in fact it whizzed right over his head. Confused, he tries to stand, but his legs cave in under him, something’s pulling him down. He realizes it’s his gun; it’s grown to gargantuan proportions, just like everything else, and with great effort he drops the enormous weapon. The pain has stopped now, but now he feels...weird. As he attempts to climb out of the trench, which is now the size of a canyon, he realizes that maybe it’s not everything else that’s grown larger, but that he’s grown smaller. When he finally hoists himself over the edge and his feet hit the scorching earth, he confirms this, looking down at himself. His jaw drops. John Watson is no longer a man but a...something else. Something small, obviously, an animal that crawls on all fours. When he shakes himself off, he feels something covering his back, almost like spikes. Then he understands.
How the hell am I a hedgehog?
He tears off, running as fast as his stubby legs can carry him, tripping over every rock, every broken twig; even the smallest gust of wind is enough to make him lose his balance. Still, he manages to cover quite a bit of ground, and as he runs, his surroundings get stranger and stranger. The sky has turned an odd shade of greenish-brown, the dirt beneath him bright purple. The rocks around him are large and pink, studded with crystals that blindingly reflect the light of the pale blue sun, and the bushes have begun to resemble black cauliflower, with orange and yellow polka dots. A man comes sprinting in his direction and skids to a stop, towering over the now-minuscule John. John snarls at the man when he bends to try to pick him up, and the man gives a yowl of surprise when John locks his tiny jaws on his hand. He brings his hand to his face and John, still attached, swings his body around so that his spikes slash across the man’s cheek and he drops him in surprise. John hits the ground with a thud and keeps on running, despite the fact that the ground has now decided to pulsate and ripple, as if it were made of waves instead of dirt. As the world spins around him, he runs and runs. Another man comes towards him, this one walking slowly, and John instinctively bites onto his shoe. The man laughs, and John glances upward to see messy brown hair and an almost maniacal grin. The man attempts to shake John off, but he won’t budge, and the man proceeds to drag John along the ground towards what looks like a telephone booth, only it’s painted bright blue. As the man drags John inside, John catches a glimpse of a sign posted high up on the outside of the phone booth (it reads POLICE something, John can’t quite catch the rest).
The phone booth is huge on the inside, much larger than he’d expect for such a small structure, and the walls of the cavernous chamber are painted with swirling designs in hypnotic colors and patterns. The colors appear to be moving; in fact, the whole thing feels like it’s spinning at dizzying speeds. John squeezes his eyes shut as the spinning sensation gets worse; his stomach flips over, he thinks he’s going to be sick...his head throbs, his body shakes, his ears are ringing...he feels a burning sensation on his chest, external, as if there are flaming coals pressed to his stomach...he hears screaming, but he’s not sure who it is...it could be coming from him...he’s growing more and more agitated, he’s almost positive he’s going to be sick...he hears a high pitched whine that he recognizes to be a violin...the world is spinning faster, the violin noise getting louder and more agitated...his heart is pounding, his head is aching...that music certainly isn’t helping his anxiety, and it’s just getting worse...
“Could you just stop with that fucking violin!”
John opens his eyes, panting, and his surroundings come into focus. He’s back in the flat, in 221B, and he gives a sigh of relief. It was only a dream. He looks down, and is relieved to see that he is once more a human, and everything has returned to its normal proportions. He is slumped in the armchair, and the burning sensation he’d felt in his dream is coming from his laptop, which is pressed to his chest and radiating extreme heat. He sets the computer on the table and rubs the large patch of reddish skin where it was pressed. Looking around, he also sees that the violin music was coming from Sherlock, perched in his own chair across the room with the instrument in his lap and a quizzical expression on his face.
“Excuse me?”
John sighs and shakes his head. “N...never mind. Just a dream.”
Sherlock nods and runs the bow between his fingers absentmindedly, staring into space.
“What time is it?” John asks.
“About three in the morning,” Sherlock replies matter of factly. “You’ve been asleep for about six hours,” he adds, already anticipating John’s next question. John nods slowly. Something looks different about Sherlock tonight, and John can’t quite place what it is. Maybe it’s just the light, but he looks darker, a wild edge to his chiseled features, and, John realizes, positively stunning. His eyes tonight look more gray than anything else, a cool melted silver laced with their usual blue and pale green, and they are a sharp contrast to his dark hair and ivory skin. His long legs are tucked under him, crossed, and his bare feet are sticking out from under his thighs. He has a serene expression on his face, and he taps his fingers on the polished mahogany surface of his violin. Without realizing it, John’s eyes have traveled down from Sherlock’s face and have been drinking in the sight of his body. All angular, Sherlock is, not a single curve to be seen; the man is all straight lines and sharp angles. From his prominent cheekbones to the way his elbows and knees bend, his long graceful neck and straight back, the man is gorgeous, for lack of a better word. Things are starting to make sense to John now, pieces of the puzzle of his feelings fitting together, and he is finally starting to understand his confusion around the man. John Hamish Watson, he mentally scolds himself. You are attracted to women, remember? You should not be having these thoughts.
As if he can read his mind, Sherlock clears his throat loudly. “John?”
John blushes, then quickly looks down. “Just uh...just thinking about my dream,” he says quickly. “It was a strange one. I turned into a hedgehog,” he offers, because that is true. Sherlock isn’t buying it.
“John. I know for a fact that you are not thinking about your dream, whether or not it involved a hedgehog.”
“Oh?” John pretends to look surprised. Sherlock smirks.
“Your posture is erect, as if you are trying to impress someone, and yet your shoulders are relaxed, and oriented towards me, as are your feet. You are leaning ever so slightly forward, you are breathing faster, and your pupils are dilated. Not to mention, you appear to be staring into the distance, yet your eyes are focused on one point, on me.”
John’s cheeks flush, and he quickly looks away. “So?”
“So? You’re in love.”
“In love? With...with who?”
Sherlock smirks. “Don’t be an idiot. With me, John. You’re in love with me.”