Home-->Mom, Don't Go Here
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John awoke from a fitful doze in his chair to discover that Sherlock was no longer lying on the sofa, where he had been doing his best impression of a corpse: motionless, eyes focused on the ceiling, hands folded as if in prayer. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the plum silk shirt, the picture of death he had been presenting would have been complete, and John might have called the coroner. It had been a week since the events at the pool, and since then, bruises had faded, cuts had healed (mostly) and Moriarty’s body had not been found. John had taken time away from the clinic, Sherlock had not taken on any new cases, and the previously (mostly) comfortable silence between the two of them had become heavy and fraught with something. A something that John was finally starting to wrap his head around. A something that had by turns shocked him, frustrated him, and delighted him, but in the end, hadn’t scared him a bit. In fact, he felt a little stupid for being so surprised. Sherlock had reacted to John’s sudden idiot grins and puzzled frowns at nothing while in the throes of this silent epiphany by ignoring cups of tea, periodically sending text messages on his phone and apparently attempting to break the Guinness book record for the World’s Longest Sulk on a Sofa. John opened the door at the top of the stairs and looked out curiously. Sherlock was sat on the step second from the bottom, hunched slightly forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were dangling from his wrists like lilies, and a cigarette was held loosely in the right one. Smoke wafted up from it like a small lost ghost and disappeared towards the front door, which was slightly ajar. A small crystal ashtray sat next to Sherlock’s hip, along with a crumpled pack of Silk Cuts and a silver Zippo lighter. “I had hoped to keep the smoke out of the flat at this distance. Should have taken it right outside to avoid any residue I suppose.” John noticed that Sherlock didn’t apologize, and realized that he hadn’t expected him to. Instead, he briefly wondered what could be so puzzling to Sherlock that the usual nicotine patches weren’t enough. For a few moments John just watched as Sherlock shuttled the cigarette to his mouth and away again, flicking the ashes into the ashtray just as they looked precarious enough to fall onto his dark black pants or his bare feet. Sherlock didn’t look up at John as he came down the steps. Didn’t look back at John as he took a seat on the stair just above him, which put them at the same height. Didn’t look over at John when he pressed their legs together very briefly. “I’ve heard that Mrs. Turner’s lodgers are moving,” Sherlock said, “and she will need a new one in order to keep up the mortgage.” When John didn’t respond, Sherlock continued, and his voice was that of someone who had been working double shifts in a coal mine, not spending a week lounging about the flat. John thought he’d never heard the man sound so tired. “Mycroft has offered me a retainer to engage in some of his ‘legwork’ for him,” he said, “so I can handle the rent now, a-alone.” John didn’t miss how Sherlock stuttered over the word ‘alone’. He waited to see what else was coming and watched Sherlock’s hand as he brought the cigarette to his mouth, then away again. Smoke curled upwards, wreathed Sherlock’s head briefly, and then dissipated. When the cigarette was burned down to just the filter, it was transferred smoothly from right hand to left, and crushed so violently into the center of the ashtray that tiny sparks flew up and lit on Sherlock’s hand briefly. If it stung, Sherlock showed no sign of it. “You don’t have to give notice,” he said. “You just have to go.” He reached for the cigarettes, drew a fresh one from the battered pack, and slipped it into his mouth. Bringing up the lighter, he cupped one hand around it briefly as he struck the flint with the other, sheltering it from a non-existent breeze. John was more doctor than consulting detective, but he didn’t have to be either one to notice the way that Sherlock’s hands shook just enough that he had to chase the flame for a moment to get the cigarette lit. John watched this cigarette perform the same hand to mouth loop as the last one and thought about what Sherlock had just said. He watched those long fingers betray Sherlock with their minute trembling and thought about the look on Sherlock’s face when the old woman had been killed. And he watched this cigarette be reduced to ash and nothing just like the one before, and thought about Sherlock’s stuttering gratitude after Moriarty had left them the first time. But he didn’t move until Sherlock’s hand was hovering over the ashtray. Then he slipped his own hand into the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head and he scrubbed it roughly through the dark curls there like he’d seen Sherlock do himself countless times since they’d met. Sherlock looked up with a baffled frown, and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and John ruffled his hair again. “Just deleting those thoughts from your hard drive,” he said, removing his hand. He didn’t add that he wouldn’t mind adding his own programs to the hard drive that was Sherlock’s brain, or that he’d like to delete a few of the other files in there as well, especially the ones that had obviously been added years ago, and seemed to cause nothing but error messages. He frowned when he realized he was thinking more like an IT worker than a romantic, and that made him think of Moriarty again. Sherlock turned away, took a final drag off the cigarette, and snuffed it out a bit more gently than the last one. John reached for him again; his face this time, and cupped his chin lightly but firmly. There was a momentary struggle but John just kept up the smooth pressure and turned Sherlock’s head so that the other man was looking back at him, more alarm than suspicion in his eyes this time. When their faces were just inches apart, John’s gaze focused on Sherlock’s lips. The last trace of cigarette smoke curled from between them, a diaphanous bridge between the two men’s mouths. John crossed the gossamer link and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, not hesitant, but cautious, well aware of what he was doing and to whom he was doing it, and knowing that the response was almost guaranteed to be something he didn’t expect. Sherlock didn’t kiss him back, not exactly. But he followed John’s mouth with his own, never breaking the contact, keeping his lips just slightly parted and breathing in John’s air. John immediately recognized the careful reluctance as being born of inexperience, not revulsion, so he didn’t press further, pulling back after just a couple of minutes with a quick swipe of his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip. When John pulled away, Sherlock dropped his chin to his chest and tried to quiet his breathing. The facts of this case warred in his head, making it spin in a way he’d long since deleted, and he tried to filter them into some kind of logical order. John needed to leave. John had to leave. John should want to leave. He could make John leave. He had to make John leave. He couldn’t bear the thought of John leaving… “Not much cop, this caring lark,” John mimicked Sherlock’s words from a lifetime ago back at him, nudging his shoulder. Sherlock quickly turned to look at him again, and John smiled serenely as he watched the thoughts flit across Sherlock’s face. ‘You’re mocking me. Are you mocking me? Why are you mocking me?’ John continued to grin. And then, slowly, like syrup, like treacle, like molasses, Sherlock gave him a very, very small smile in return, completely honest, open and sweet. “Fuck you,” stated with all the depth of public school timbre and haughtiness of Received Pronunciation that Sherlock could muster. John giggled, then sighed and stood with a groan. “Maybe not just now,” he murmured. Sherlock had immediately turned back to stare at the door but the way Sherlock’s back stiffened suddenly told John that he’d been heard. This is going to be a tricky one, John thought. And then, but of course, I did invade Afghanistan. “You coming up, then?” he asked casually. “Not just yet. Bit more thinking to do,” came the response. John was halfway up the stairs now, but still heard the strike of the lighter, and he added extra nicotine patches to the running grocery list he kept in his own hard drive. “That’s fine,” he said. “S’good.” It was a start. |
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