Chapter Text
“Are you really going to stay hunched over that desk all day, Sherlock?” He joked. After a beat of silence, “Ah, your sense of deduction is getting better. In order to find a cure for this period of boredom, I am searching for any unsolved crimes in the surrounding cities. Care to join me?” I suggested. A flash of hesitation twinkled on John’s face, much to my dismay. “Uh, no, I actually…have a date.” He said, clearing his throat. I groaned, “I already knew that. I would have been an idiot to miss the overpowering scent of Calabrian bergamot and cedarwood, which are the exact notes of the cologne you bought last week. Not to mention the residue of black polish on the pads of your fingers, the crisp ironing of your dress shirt and the lack of scuff marks on your watch. Indicating its newness.” John rolled his eyes at me, hinting at his exasperation.
“Now you could not have POSSIBLY deduced that from the ten seconds that I have been in this room, and my cologne is not overpowering.” John said, looking incredulously at me. “It’s actually quite rudimentary. But then again, you only seem to possess the ability to see. The ability to observe, not so much.” I quipped. “You know, Sherlock, you. are. insufferable.” John stated punctually. “I’m off now, you can expect me back by nine thirty, ten-ish.” He started down the stairs, towards the door. “Just be safe, John.” I said, peering over my shoulder. “I will.” He said softly.
And yet again, he’s off to another failed partnership that follows the exact same pattern: John takes his girlfriend off to the movies and forces them to watch two grueling hours of Moulin Rouge, they exchange contacts, have a “great time” in John’s eyes, just for him to later find out that he has been mysteriously blocked. I wish sometimes John would spend time helping me solve cases, as I prefer to have a second source of intellect. After all, it would have a higher yield than wasting his time attempting to get laid.
I typed away on my computer seeking any intriguing cases in Brighton or Oxford, but to no avail. I huffed and closed my laptop. I wondered to myself if anyone else felt this level of boredom. The kind that gnaws at your bones, urging you to do something about it. I walked over to the couch and slumped onto it. Sweeping my hands over my face and resting them on my chest, I entered my mind palace in a desperate attempt to think of something to occupy these next 4 hours. After cycling through thoughts of Bach, Dostoevsky, hound breeds and the chemical reactions that cause phosphorescence in flying insects, I remembered a specific kind of literature that John’s last girlfriend Clementine enjoyed. What was it called? Ah hah! Fanfiction. I remember making a remark that the reveries of fanfiction were for vacant-minded individuals. I guess I can make an exception just this once and temporarily associate myself with such individuals.
I leaped to grab my, well, John’s laptop and searched up fanfiction. A myriad of options flooded my screen but I just went with the first option, something called AO3. At first, I thought it was an online literature database for authors to publish free editions, but after a while of scrolling, I quickly realized that was not the case. Curiosity got the best of me, and I ended up searching up my name just to see if John’s blog had gained enough traction to end up here. I can’t say I was particularly surprised but the tags alone were enough to briefly stun me. I closed the tab immediately. “What the hell?” I whispered to myself. The range of human imagination was quite broad, as demonstrated by the explicit nature of the works. I of course hit the back button and reentered the website. I clicked on the tamest one I could find. Hours had passed as I read. I can't lie, the author was really good. She had engulfed me in a fantasy world in which I was sent to Belgravia to investigate a strange woman, but it took a deadly turn in which John and I got trapped in a holding cell, tied facing each other.
Additionally, the cell was rigged with ticking time bombs and we had no feasible way out. It was basically a spin-off of John’s blog entry, A Scandal in Belgravia. However, one part of the story stopped me dead in my tracks. “I can't believe I’m saying this right now, but I have to because if I don’t, you’ll never hear me say it. I tried so hard to pretend as if I had everything put together the first time we met in the lab, but I was desperate. Desperate to be fixed, to lead a normal life and just finally breathe and take in the fresh air. I wanted to put the war and injuries behind me and start again. But I was scared, Sherlock. Really scared. You melted away each and every single one of those monsters I was afraid of, and forged them into beautiful creatures. I can’t thank you enough for shaping me into the man I thought I could never be. I’m imperfect, Lord knows. But with you at my side, I realized I have a shot at being that perfect guy. Everything I’ve done, it was for you. So even though we have 30 seconds left with each other, I’m more than grateful I get to spend the last few seconds of my life with you. I love you, Sherlock. Always have, and always will.” And the bomb went off, and we spent those last seconds with each other.
My chest felt tight and uncomfortable, as though I were having a premature atrial contraction. “Sherlock?” John said softly, holding his rain-soaked coat. “Are you alright?” I was so engrossed in the reading that I hadn’t noticed his arrival. I looked up at him, studying his face. His steel blue eyes examined my face for the slightest microexpression of emotion. The soft warm lighting of the tall, velvet lamp in the corner of the room cast a favourable ray on him, highlighting his eyes and slicked hair. “Yeah. My sinuses are clogged. That’s all.” John had that look on his face, the one he gives me when he doesn’t quite believe me. “If you say so. I’ll put on some tea. Or maybe coffee, since I presume you found a case to work on.” He said, taking off his shoes. I adjusted my collar and shut off the laptop. “Thank you, John, but I think I’ll retire early tonight.” I said quietly. He popped up, seemingly perceptive of my emotional state. “Now I know for a fact something’s wrong. You couldn’t have missed me that bad, so what’s the matter? Is it the case that’s bothering you?” He inquired. “Just feeling a bit under-the-weather. I might be getting sick.” I lied. “Okay. Just drink some tea before you head off to bed.” John said, heading towards the kitchen. After a while, I inquired about his evening. “So…how was your date?” He gestured that it was decent.
I nodded my head. “Did she like Moulin Rouge?” I asked, getting up from the desk chair and moving towards the kitchen. His back stiffened at my words. “Sherlock, I’m not in the mood for your deduction games.”
“Ah, she blocked you, didn’t she?” I pressed, taking a seat at the table. “Sherlock.” He said, exasperated. “You know, why do all of them keep blocking you? It’s a bit strange, no?” He slowly turned around, revealing a stern expression. His eyebrows knitted into a dark glower, and his soft lips were pressed together, into a thin line. “Sorry,” I said quickly, as I traced a ring on the ridge of my slate coloured mug. After the tea was done steeping, John brought the pitcher over to the table, and poured the tea into my mug.
We sat at the table in silence for a few minutes, until John broke the silence. “Okay fine, I’ll tell you since you won’t stop glancing up at me.” He huffed.
I sat up, leaning forward and clasping my hands under my chin, resting my elbows on the table. “I chose to take her–”. “What’s her name?” I asked. “Clara.” I squinted. “I’m seeing a common denominator here. You seem to have a special affinity for the letter C.” He simply side-eyed me and continued. “Anyway, as I was saying, I took her to see Moulin Rouge because she had mentioned it once and I thought she would like it. Turns out, she actually hates it because the last time she saw it in theatres, she was with her ex-boyfriend who cheated on her.” I stifled a chuckle. “And before you say anything, I forgot okay? People make mistakes sometimes.” I had combusted into a full-blown laughing fit, while John was just staring at me.
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want. When you go out with someone, we’ll see how good you are at choosing movies.” “Oh, please, John. When have I ever expressed even the slightest inkling of interest in romance? I’ve told you before, love is a dangerous disadvantage reserved for those who choose it.” I said, walking to sit in my chair next to the fireplace. “You truly are a piece of work, Sherlock. You must think you’re high above human nature, huh? Sitting atop the clouds lies the great Sherlock Holmes, looking down on the asinine fools who have the gall to fall in love with one another.” He mocked, gesticulating wildly.
“I never said people are stupid for falling in love, I just think it’s a fatuous ordeal.” I said, slightly confused at what John was getting at. “There you go with the big words again. Just who do you think you are?” He said, pointing at me. “That’s an arduous way to express your narrow lexicon. As for who I think I am? You tell me. You’re the one who writes blog posts about me,” I bantered. John placed his hands on his hips. “Well, I…it’s not…I’m not your fangirl, Sherlock!” he raised his voice. “Do I detect tone, John?” I said, with faux-rage. He walked over to me and leaned directly over the couch where I sat, crowding my legs between his. He leaned closer, his warm breath laced with sweet mint gracing my cheek. Under the glow of the warm lamplight, I could see his pupils dilating further and a slight dash of mischievous intent flicker over his face.
I opened my mouth to point out the germinating physiological signs blooming on his being. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He was close enough for his body heat to radiate off of him, akin to a space heater. The notes of aerosolised bergamot flooded my nose, derailing any thoughts in my brain. I raised my gaze to meet his piercing slate blue eyes. I felt as if he was peering into the very throes of my soul, illuminating the darkness. It felt as if he were trying to make his presence known, using his sturdy frame to envelope my field of vision. He leaned down next to my ear. “Don’t flatter yourself,” John said to me, his breath ghosting over my ear. He released me, slouching into his seat across from me as if nothing had happened.
I felt short-circuited as he thrust my head into a pool of contented lethargy. With one tiny action, he slowed my mind and reset me. I wasn’t particularly opposed to it, but I was confused as to why that had disrupted my body. I stood up rigidly, stretching my arms out. “Look at the time! Seems I must rest my weary bones. Goodnight.” the words coming out entirely too croaky. He repeated the dismissal, opening his laptop. I walked over to my room, shutting the door behind me. I let out a deep sigh of relief, shaking my head vigorously to release the tension and racing thoughts. After my shower, I changed into my blue and white striped nightgown. I buttoned up the front, went to bed, folded the covers over my head and closed my eyes.
It must have been an hour since then, because I had changed positions six times in ten minute intervals. I was not flattering myself, I was simply describing a more efficient method of going about life. This was just a lapse in John’s behaviour. He was just an old, military veteran bobblehead trying to weasel his way into my head, possibly attempting to practice his interrogation tactics on me. I rolled onto my side once more, attempting to clear my mind palace, but to no avail. My mind kept looping back to the way he comported himself, and the way his silver locks fell over his forehead.
I forced those frivolous thoughts out of my head by wriggling around for a bit. This was just a temporary lapse in my processing. Just a glitch in my system, influenced by the late hours of the day and the boredom I experienced prior to this. It was simply an anomaly, one that would be fixed soon enough.
It had to be.