the reason that i do not fall into this street, John/Sherlock, 1/2
Title: the reason that i do not fall into this street [1/2]
Summary: While someone is killing off clients of Irene Adler’s publishing company, John and Sherlock aren’t having a lot of sex and Sherlock is awkwardly in love. Sequel to Of Having Met You, And Loved You.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-15
Notes: Originally posted as ‘Belgravia House’ but I’ve taken that version down and edited it slightly to make it fit where I wanted it to go.
Irene Adler is gorgeous. When John mentions this fact, Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his newspaper when he hums noncommittally. John scoffs and picks up his mug of tea, wrapping his fingers around it to rid them of their morning chill.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. You could barely take your eyes off her when she was here.”
At that, Sherlock looks up and frowns but there’s something amused about the tilt of his head. It’s gone in a moment and John raises his eyebrow in question.
“There’s something about her…”
John huffs lightly, looks down into his mug and doesn’t feel the pang in his chest (it’s only slight and he can pretend it never happened). He downs the rest of his tea and pushes away from the table.
“Shower then work,” John announces and even he can tell there is something off about his voice. He scolds himself as he walks away, ignoring Sherlock’s protestations of ‘John? John!’.
--
It’s either the bus or the tube and today John’s decided he would quite like to see some of the outside world so he’s sitting on a stifling bus, the windows are fogged over and someone is practically sitting on his shoulder. His back hurts with the dampness that is seeping through his jacket and his feet are ice-cold in his relatively new boots and John curses the return of winter. It’s by no means as bad as it was the previous year, when Sherlock had almost been hospitalised with pneumonia but then it was still only November. The bus is packed and it’s moving far too slowly but John had left forty minutes too early and he’s got a lot of time to think. The iPod in his ears drowns out most of the noise but he doesn’t like having it too loud, just in case.
He may be paranoid, but he certainly has reason.
He sighs and thinks back to the strangely annoying (annoyingly strange) conversation at breakfast, thinks back to the way Sherlock had been hesitant when he’d handed John his jacket, the way he’d waited for John to initiate the goodbye kiss.
He sighs.
He’s known Sherlock for a year now; has been with Sherlock for probably half of that time (he’s not sure because he’s not sure exactly when ‘this’ started because he doesn’t really consider the night that Sherlock was a ‘little high’ on John’s prescription painkillers but he thinks that Sherlock does). Being with Sherlock isn’t what John thought it would be. It’s brilliant and John is more than a little in love with the other man but he’d been in the general vicinity of them when Sherlock and Lestrade had been having very enthusiastic, very regular sex in Sherlock’s downstairs bedroom. It’s not that they don’t have sex at all, it’s just that it’s stilted and, if John’s honest, sometimes a little awkward (still). John doesn’t understand it and, since he’s being honest with himself, his ego is seriously taking a battering from Sherlock’s lack of sexual interest. He knows Sherlock cares about him (Sherlock had told him, in a conversation that was even more stilted and more awkward than some of their sex) but he’s beginning to wonder if that’s enough.
He’s beginning to wonder if this is how Lestrade felt, in those last few months he was with Sherlock.
He pushes the thought away and pushes himself out of his seat as the bus pulls up to his stop.
It’s still drizzling and John can’t think of a more apt metaphor for his and Sherlock’s love life.
--
“I am very much attracted to you, John Watson,” is what John woke up to one night. Sherlock was a dark silhouette against the annoying brightness of the streetlamp and John’s sleepy eyes can’t focus for a long moment. Sherlock’s fingers were in John’s hair and they tightened and John couldn’t tear his eyes from Sherlock’s slowly shifting features. “It’s very distracting.”
“Oh.” John had replied, eloquent considering it was half past four in the morning. “That’s… It couldn’t wait until morning?”
“It could have,” Sherlock murmured and John thought the other man sounded very far off, as though he was asleep. John shifted a little and Sherlock’s equilibrium wavered for a moment. “But I might be a little high right now and I just wanted to tell you.”
John sat up at that, flicking the bedside light on, while Sherlock flopped (facedown) onto John’s pillow.
“What do you mean, you’re a little high?” He demanded as he watched Sherlock hide his eyes behind his forearm.
“Don’t worry, it’s just the painkillers from the hospital.”
“That you were supposed to have finished a month ago when you started physio. Where did you get them?”
“I didn’t say they were mine.”
Christ, thought John, this is not what he needed right now. This is not what he needed, ever.
“You took mine?” Sherlock nodded. “Why?” Sherlock shrugged and John reached out and pulled his forearm away from his eyes. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and tried to turn away from the light but John caught his chin and forced him to face the light. “How many did you take?”
“Just a couple more than the prescription said. I didn’t think they’d be as strong as this.” Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked against the light, his eyes taking a long moment to focus on John’s face. “You must be in a lot of pain.”
John scoffed.
“Of course I am. I almost broke my back when half a building fell on top of me.”
“Me too,” Sherlock murmured quietly and turned, tugging John’s arm so it lay across his chest, John’s hand trapped between Sherlock’s face and the pillow. “I’m glad we’re both okay.”
John scoffed again and shook his head, attempting to pull his hand away but Sherlock only held on tighter.
“Strange definition of ‘okay’ you have, Sherlock.”
“Alive, then. I’m glad you’re alive.”
John felt something in his chest snap and all the breath left him in a rush, his shoulders sagging slightly and his elbow buckled beneath him. He fell half on top of Sherlock but the other man barely grunted. John tucked his head against Sherlock’s back, the tangled sheets trapping his legs in the bed.
“No more pills, Sherlock.” Sherlock hummed and turned his head into the pillow, nuzzling the soft, worn in cotton. “Promise?”
Sherlock paused in his nuzzling, a long beat before he turned his head slightly and John dared not look up and across to the other man’s face.
“I… I can’t promise that. I can promise to try, though.”
When John woke up the next morning, he flushed his all opiate based pain killers down the toilet.
--
When he gets back from work, John lingers in the doorway watching Sherlock work. It’s strangely addictive, the sight, and John has yet to tire of it. The wall is covered with photos of women who are clients of Irene Adler, the owner and editor of Belgravia House Publishing Company. Some are beautiful, others not so beautiful. A few of them are dead. He moves into the room and settles beside Sherlock, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye.
“Progress?”
Sherlock hums in his throat and John watches as his long, slender fingers slide down the picture of the (gorgeous) auburn haired woman and his arm falls back to his side. He doesn’t turn to John but his eyes roam over the other images on the wall, lingering on some more than others. John can’t pick out which ones they are and after the first two he doesn’t even try. He stands there beside Sherlock for a good few minutes before he moves away from him and towards the kitchen.
“I’m making dinner, do you want some?” He calls from the far side of the kitchen, his head buried in one of the cupboards as he looks for the noodles he knows he left there the other night.
“What are you making?” Sherlock asks a few moments later and John sighs before grabbing onto the packet of dried noodles and pulling himself out of the cupboard.
“Chicken, green pepper and black bean sauce with noodles.”
“No you’re not,” Sherlock replies and John rolls his eyes.
“Yes, I am.”
He opens the cupboard above and to the right of the sink pulling out the jar of Sharwood’s sauce.
“You’re not. I used the chicken earlier for an experiment on decomposition.” John hears himself groan and drops his head against the cupboard door. “Don’t worry, I disinfected the dish, although you might not want to open the fridge until I’ve had the chance to disinfect that, too.”
“Chinese then?”
“That’s fine.”
-
He’s not the jealous type but it’s still a surprise to find Sherlock not alone when he returns from the Chinese down the road. Their guest is a woman, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and her slender stature is heightened by the addition of three inch heels. Her hair falls in waves down to the middle of her back and it’s darker than it had looked in the picture. Her skin, though, is just as white.
“Hello,” John says to Irene Adler as he deposits the bag on the kitchen table and rotates his shoulder slightly (he really should have kept up with the physio exercises but he just hasn’t had the time) and wanders back to the living room.
Adler turns from her position in front of the wall beside Sherlock and sends him a semi-pleasant, hurried smile before turning back to the wall and crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“You say the latest victim’s book hasn’t been published yet?” Sherlock asks as his fingers drift over a picture of an older woman, her hair consisting of more grey than blonde and John can identify with the set wrinkles around her eyes.
“Yes. It’s not due to be published for another two months.”
“And it was her first novel for your company?”
“Yes. Only her second published work. She didn’t start writing until her fortieth birthday when her husband bought her a place on a creative writing course at the Groucho Club.”
Sherlock hums and his hand drifts over the pictures on the wall, his eyes skimming again. John watches from his place in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.
“The killer broke from pattern. The others had been with you for much longer.”
Adler nods, her hand rising to rest over a small picture near Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock’s eyes drift over to where she is pointing.
“Some of them for their entire writing career.”
Sherlock doesn’t respond and John turns back into the kitchen. He digs into the bag and pulls out his dinner leaving Sherlock’s in the bag to cool. He watches (what little he can see) and listens to the stilted conversation (Sherlock’s questions, Adler’s answers) from the kitchen table. He flicks through the day’s newspaper, reads the article that has a small picture of Lestrade next to it and notes how tired the Detective Inspector looks. He doesn’t let himself dwell on that for too long, resists the urge to send him a text because things are still not okay between the three of them (John’s not entirely sure they ever will be, really).
By the time he’s finished his dinner (and the paper) Adler is making noises of departure. John doesn’t get up to see her out but waits until the downstairs door is closed before rising from his seat and taking his plate to the sink.
“Anything interesting?”
Sherlock shakes his head and John turns to lean his back against the worktop, watching as Sherlock peers into the white plastic bag containing his dinner with disinterest.
“Nothing new.”
John can hear the frustration in his voice, can identify with it. Sherlock pokes at the boxes and frowns.
“You can put it in the fridge and keep it for later, you know. I’m not going to force you to eat it.” Sherlock looks over to him, a smile playing around the edges of his lips and John rolls his eyes and gestures the other man closer to him. Sherlock steps closer to him, pausing a good two inches away from John’s body and John knows the other man is trying not to get distracted. John at least knows him well enough not to push. Instead, he runs his palm down the outside of Sherlock’s arm, links their fingers together a moment before lifting their hands and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s palm. When he looks up, Sherlock is smiling at him and John holds his stare for a moment before dropping their hands and untangling his fingers. “Are you sleeping tonight?” Sherlock shrugs, his eyes already sharp with focus and John really should have known the answer long before he asked the question. “Well, I am. Wake me up if we need to go chasing after criminals, all right?”
Sherlock hums in response and John palms his arm again before the other man moves back into the living room. He watches him for a long second, smiles slightly then turns to the other door and heads down the corridor to bed. He leaves the door slightly ajar and falls asleep to the sound of Sherlock pacing in the living room.
-
When John wakes up, it’s to the sound of Sherlock talking to someone in the living room. He rolls onto his back and stretches out his spine, grimacing as his muscles protest and his spinal cord pops back into place. He can already tell that it’s going to be a day filled with the taking of numerous quantities of ibuprofen and he groans at the thought, before rolling himself carefully out of bed.
When he gets to the living room, Lestrade and Donovan are sitting on the couch and Sherlock is talking at them, pointing to the wall and it takes John a long moment to realise that there’s a file open on the desk in front of him and it’s far too early for the sight of the pictures that lie within it.
“What’s going on?”
There’s hurried footsteps on the stairs and the door to 221B bursts open and a harried looking Irene Adler storms through.
“Janet Paterson is dead!” She exclaims to the room at large and John looks from her to Lestrade to Sherlock, the latter of whom because he has crossed the room and has his hands on Adler’s shoulders in a move that, from anyone else, John would call comforting. Lestrade looks back at him, his eyebrow quirked up in question and John just shrugs and shakes his head. “My apologies,” Adler says after a moment and Sherlock checks himself and drops his hands awkwardly turning back to John, flinching. John frowns. “Inspector Lestrade.”
“Miss Adler,” Lestrade says with a nod, glancing quickly between the woman and Sherlock and then back to John. John pointedly looks away. “A step ahead of us, I see.”
“Yes. I wanted answers.”
“These things take time, Miss Adler,” Lestrade replies placatingly, and Adler pins him with a glare that could rival one of Sherlock’s.
“My writers don’t have time, Detective Inspector. Seven of my writers are dead and ten more are trying to get out of contracts with my company because they are terrified for their life. Forgive me for trying to protect my people by moving this investigation along.”
Lestrade stares at the woman for a long moment before smiling tightly, his eyes flicking to Sherlock with a glimmer of amusement.
“It seems we’re on the same page now, though. Sherlock - what have you got?”
“The latest victim - before Janet Paterson - had her back cut open and her shoulder blades exposed; there was feathers surrounding her body and her face had been made up in make-up that was not her own. Last night, Miss Adler identified the allusion to a novel by Angela Carter, in which the main female character is said to have wings.”
Adler nods and John’s eyebrows rise. He hasn’t even had tea yet and already Sherlock is abuzz with energy and half way to showing off.
“Yes, in Nights at the Circus it’s never stated whether Fevvers does or does not have wings,” Adler agrees and John sees Lestrade glance between the two again and John frowns.
“So, what?” John asks as he leans his hip against the back of the chair. “Someone was checking to see if the victim had wings?”
Sherlock nods.
“It would appear that way.”
“That is… insane.”
“Yes, I imagine our killer is,” Sherlock replies with a thin smile but John isn’t amused so Sherlock moves on. “But the question is why is the killer targeting these women specifically? No other female writers are being killed other than the ones with contracts at Belgravia House.”
“Knocked back any psychopaths?” Lestrade queries of Adler and she squints at him.
"No." She glares at Lestrade. "Do you think the killer’s a man targeting feminist writers?”
“Hard to tell. It’s unlikely; there’s no discernible pattern to the women physically, nor to their work. I read Celia Lorraine’s first novel last night; there’s certainly nothing obviously feminist about it. Certainly not enough to set off a killer of feminist writers. No, that’s not it. Why these women? And why Celia Lorraine? Her novel wasn’t published. What was it about?” He addresses Adler then holds up his hand to silence her. “No, don’t tell me. Get me a copy, I’d prefer to read it myself. Lestrade-“
“We’ve got nothing, which is why we’re here.”
Sherlock huffs and pivots on his toe, staring at the wall with his hands on his hips. John doesn’t miss the smirk directed at Lestrade but he does ignore it.
“Of course.” He steps up to the wall, runs his finger under the collage and spins back to the room. “I cannot make bricks without clay; I need data!”
John pushes himself away from the back of the chair and runs a hand over his face, suddenly very aware of his morning attire.
“And I need tea.” Four sets of eyes turn to him and he smiles slightly. “Anyone else?”
Adler declines and leaves to get Sherlock a copy of Lorraine’s book and Lestrade and Donovan excuse themselves, too. Sherlock shakes his head and turns back to the wall. John makes him tea anyway and goes to shower. When he comes out, the cup of tea is cold and Sherlock is gone.
John sighs, sends him a text to be careful and gets ready for work.
He’s too old for all of this.
--
John went to the physio alone. He took a cab because Sherlock’s not with him to ring up Lestrade and force the other man into chauffeuring for them. Since the night that Sherlock had been a little high John had had him under almost constant watch and it’s, in a word, harrowing. Sherlock will lie on the couch, curled into a ball as his body shivers and jolts while sweat pours out of every single pore on his body. After Sherlock had almost knocked himself out by slipping in the shower (John didn’t trust that Sherlock wouldn’t drown in a bath), John had taken to washing him down with a face cloth and a bowl of warm water and forcing Sherlock into a clean t-shirt at least, if not clean bottoms.
Needless to say, when the week had come to an end and their Friday appointment at the physio had rolled around again, Sherlock was in no physical state to go.
John wasn’t either, not entirely. His back ached in a way that made him think of someone tightening the bones of his ribs, forcing the discs of his spine simultaneously closer together and further apart. His shoulder seared with pain that ended with a hot sizzle in the fingertips of his left hand that made most day to day activities virtually impossible - just that morning, opening the door to the living room had made his hand feel like it was burning from the inside out.
Gemel was scarily fit. When he saw John limping into the studio he frowned, looked behind him briefly and then scowled deeper when he noted the absence of Sherlock.
“Giving up already, is he?”
John didn’t want to say too much about the state he’d left Sherlock in back at the flat, so he shrugged then bristled as pain shot from his hip to his knee and he almost collapsed from the shock of the ferocity of it.
“He’s a bit…” John moved his fingers about at his side and Gemel narrowed his eyes. “He’s in withdrawal.”
Gemel’s eyebrows rose up his forehead and John had to look away.
“So you chucked out your meds, too?” John nodded and he could hear Gemel’s huff out breath. “That’s insane, John. Have you been to a doctor to see about alternative treatment?”
“I am a doctor,” John barked and Gemel stared at him again.
“Yes but you’re not an expert in pain management. I’m not continuing until you’ve been to a doctor to see about alternative treatment. The stuff we’ve been doing is bad enough when you’re on pain killers, never mind when you’re not. Have you taken anything?”
John grumbled under his breath, bristling at Gemel’s tone because damn it to hell he’s a doctor and he knows this and he hated the tone that Gemel had taken on. It was condescending because the stupid, gym-lover isn’t even a doctor and John is.
“Some co-codamol I had, some ibuprofen and paracetamol. Sherlock’s refusing all of it.”
“Get yourself to a doctor, and take Sherlock with you. If it’s as bad as all that, he needs to be in a hospital.” John moved to protest but Gemel raised his hand to silence him. “I’ve been doing this for nine years, John. I know what I’m talking about. Keep up the basic exercises I gave you until you come back and we’ll start back up from there.”
When John left the studio, there was a familiar black car waiting for him. It didn’t take him to Baker Street and John fell asleep long before they even made it out of central London. It’d been a long few days.
--
John is at the surgery (not Sarah’s, God, no) when he gets a text from Sherlock asking for his debit card back. John huffs slightly and leaves it at the front desk for Sherlock to pick up and he ignores the way the old Mrs Griffin’s eyebrows ride up her forehead.
“You’ll know him when you see him,” John says just for something to say and Mrs Griffin smiles at him indulgently.
“You say that like I’ve never seen him before. He’s a dear, coming to walk you home at night.”
John smiles tightly even as he agrees with her; he’s under no illusions as to why Sherlock comes to the surgery to walk him home (he knows it’s either that or have Mycroft send a car and neither John nor Sherlock want that, really) but it’s… nice, in a way.
“If he’s not in before lunchtime buzz me through and let me know and I’ll nip out and get it to him at home.”
“No problem, dear.” She hands him a small bundle of files. “There you go, save me a trip up the hall if you would?”
John smiles and takes the folders and distributes them to the doctors as he goes back to him own office at the end of the hall.
-
When he gets home just after six, the flat is quiet except for the low rumble of Mrs Hudson’s television coming up through the floorboards. He sighs tiredly and slips into the kitchen from the hall, flipping on the light when he finds the sliding doors closed. He fills the kettle, readies a cup of tea and checks his phone again for messages he may have missed from Sherlock. There’s none and he contemplates sending him one asking his whereabouts before pocketing the phone with the mental reassurance that Sherlock is a big boy and can take care of himself.
He makes a slice of toast because he’s hungry and can’t be bothered making anything else. The cheese slices are a little dry around the edges and he peels them off and drops them into the bin before popping the toast in his mouth, picking up his tea and making his way into the living room.
The toast drops from his mouth, butter-and-cheese-side down on the dusty crumby carpet and he can’t help but let out a startled “Fuck!” at the sight of Sherlock illuminated by the tall lamp next to the square armchair, hunched over a book.
“You could have let me know you were in!” John manages as he picks up his toast, inspects it then discards it as a lost cause.
“Mm? Oh, I thought you would have seen the light.”
“No,” he says somewhat dumbly and he drops into the chair opposite Sherlock. “What are you reading?” It’s then that John looks around the floor at Sherlock’s feet and it is littered with books (brand new, of course) and there’s a bag that looks packed, the corner of some more books straining the plastic to the point of almost bursting. “Christ, what did you do - buy the whole of Waterstone’s?”
Sherlock hums in the back of his throat again, barely glancing up from the book (Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, John notes, the title almost familiar to him (he thinks he might have seen it on the Amazon front page a few months ago - he’s not sure)).
“Only the feminist section,” Sherlock replies and John can see the hint of a smirk and he rolls his eyes.
“Do I even want to know how much money you spent there today?”
“Probably not.”
“Right,” John murmurs and nods, glancing again at the books. “Need a hand with anything?”
Sherlock looks over to him for a moment then down to the gaggle of books at his feet. Grabbing one at random, he tosses it at John.
“Read through this and take notes of the most striking characteristics or features of the main female characters in it, if you would.”
John looks at the cover. ‘Girl Reading’.
It’s going to be a long night.
--
John wakes up with Sherlock looming over him, a blanket held hesitantly over John’s body. He looks flustered and John smiles, blinking into the dimness of their sitting room at Baker Street.
“I didn’t know whether to wake you or…” He jiggles the blanket and John smiles, remembering a conversation (well, a Sherlock-monologue that still managed to feel like a conversation) where Sherlock had articulated how much better John slept when it was warm, as observed over a two week period when the central heating was acting up. (John should perhaps have known then. But Sherlock is… well, Sherlock and random observations were the norm rather than an indicator of interest and besides he’s been with Lestrade and rather (John thought, at least) happy being with Lestrade (the sex sounded happy enough (good enough)) at least).
John shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts, stretches his back and shoulders and Sherlock drops the blanket on the coffee table.
“I’m up now. Going to bed.” He yawns again, stretching and his back protests. He really should know better than to fall asleep sitting up in chairs. “Coming?”
Sherlock looks up at him, startled and glances at the Wall of Notes and John knows the answer before Sherlock turns back to him and shakes his head.
“Not yet.” He settles his hand briefly on John’s knee, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm before rubbing idly against the material of John’s work trousers. “I will soon, though.” He raises himself up, looms over John again and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to John’s forehead. John’s eyelids flutter for a moment, and he can feel a smile tug at his lips.
There’s this, at least, as proof.
He doesn’t sleep well and he’s too aware of the creak of Sherlock moving about in the living room. The world floats in and out of focus, orange streetlight vibrating slightly as the wind buffets the lamppost and shudders against the windowpanes. He wakes fully again as Sherlock slips into bed behind him, warm and solid and John settles against him fully. Sleep’s not far off after that.
Summary: While someone is killing off clients of Irene Adler’s publishing company, John and Sherlock aren’t having a lot of sex and Sherlock is awkwardly in love. Sequel to Of Having Met You, And Loved You.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-15
Notes: Originally posted as ‘Belgravia House’ but I’ve taken that version down and edited it slightly to make it fit where I wanted it to go.
Irene Adler is gorgeous. When John mentions this fact, Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his newspaper when he hums noncommittally. John scoffs and picks up his mug of tea, wrapping his fingers around it to rid them of their morning chill.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. You could barely take your eyes off her when she was here.”
At that, Sherlock looks up and frowns but there’s something amused about the tilt of his head. It’s gone in a moment and John raises his eyebrow in question.
“There’s something about her…”
John huffs lightly, looks down into his mug and doesn’t feel the pang in his chest (it’s only slight and he can pretend it never happened). He downs the rest of his tea and pushes away from the table.
“Shower then work,” John announces and even he can tell there is something off about his voice. He scolds himself as he walks away, ignoring Sherlock’s protestations of ‘John? John!’.
--
It’s either the bus or the tube and today John’s decided he would quite like to see some of the outside world so he’s sitting on a stifling bus, the windows are fogged over and someone is practically sitting on his shoulder. His back hurts with the dampness that is seeping through his jacket and his feet are ice-cold in his relatively new boots and John curses the return of winter. It’s by no means as bad as it was the previous year, when Sherlock had almost been hospitalised with pneumonia but then it was still only November. The bus is packed and it’s moving far too slowly but John had left forty minutes too early and he’s got a lot of time to think. The iPod in his ears drowns out most of the noise but he doesn’t like having it too loud, just in case.
He may be paranoid, but he certainly has reason.
He sighs and thinks back to the strangely annoying (annoyingly strange) conversation at breakfast, thinks back to the way Sherlock had been hesitant when he’d handed John his jacket, the way he’d waited for John to initiate the goodbye kiss.
He sighs.
He’s known Sherlock for a year now; has been with Sherlock for probably half of that time (he’s not sure because he’s not sure exactly when ‘this’ started because he doesn’t really consider the night that Sherlock was a ‘little high’ on John’s prescription painkillers but he thinks that Sherlock does). Being with Sherlock isn’t what John thought it would be. It’s brilliant and John is more than a little in love with the other man but he’d been in the general vicinity of them when Sherlock and Lestrade had been having very enthusiastic, very regular sex in Sherlock’s downstairs bedroom. It’s not that they don’t have sex at all, it’s just that it’s stilted and, if John’s honest, sometimes a little awkward (still). John doesn’t understand it and, since he’s being honest with himself, his ego is seriously taking a battering from Sherlock’s lack of sexual interest. He knows Sherlock cares about him (Sherlock had told him, in a conversation that was even more stilted and more awkward than some of their sex) but he’s beginning to wonder if that’s enough.
He’s beginning to wonder if this is how Lestrade felt, in those last few months he was with Sherlock.
He pushes the thought away and pushes himself out of his seat as the bus pulls up to his stop.
It’s still drizzling and John can’t think of a more apt metaphor for his and Sherlock’s love life.
--
“I am very much attracted to you, John Watson,” is what John woke up to one night. Sherlock was a dark silhouette against the annoying brightness of the streetlamp and John’s sleepy eyes can’t focus for a long moment. Sherlock’s fingers were in John’s hair and they tightened and John couldn’t tear his eyes from Sherlock’s slowly shifting features. “It’s very distracting.”
“Oh.” John had replied, eloquent considering it was half past four in the morning. “That’s… It couldn’t wait until morning?”
“It could have,” Sherlock murmured and John thought the other man sounded very far off, as though he was asleep. John shifted a little and Sherlock’s equilibrium wavered for a moment. “But I might be a little high right now and I just wanted to tell you.”
John sat up at that, flicking the bedside light on, while Sherlock flopped (facedown) onto John’s pillow.
“What do you mean, you’re a little high?” He demanded as he watched Sherlock hide his eyes behind his forearm.
“Don’t worry, it’s just the painkillers from the hospital.”
“That you were supposed to have finished a month ago when you started physio. Where did you get them?”
“I didn’t say they were mine.”
Christ, thought John, this is not what he needed right now. This is not what he needed, ever.
“You took mine?” Sherlock nodded. “Why?” Sherlock shrugged and John reached out and pulled his forearm away from his eyes. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and tried to turn away from the light but John caught his chin and forced him to face the light. “How many did you take?”
“Just a couple more than the prescription said. I didn’t think they’d be as strong as this.” Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked against the light, his eyes taking a long moment to focus on John’s face. “You must be in a lot of pain.”
John scoffed.
“Of course I am. I almost broke my back when half a building fell on top of me.”
“Me too,” Sherlock murmured quietly and turned, tugging John’s arm so it lay across his chest, John’s hand trapped between Sherlock’s face and the pillow. “I’m glad we’re both okay.”
John scoffed again and shook his head, attempting to pull his hand away but Sherlock only held on tighter.
“Strange definition of ‘okay’ you have, Sherlock.”
“Alive, then. I’m glad you’re alive.”
John felt something in his chest snap and all the breath left him in a rush, his shoulders sagging slightly and his elbow buckled beneath him. He fell half on top of Sherlock but the other man barely grunted. John tucked his head against Sherlock’s back, the tangled sheets trapping his legs in the bed.
“No more pills, Sherlock.” Sherlock hummed and turned his head into the pillow, nuzzling the soft, worn in cotton. “Promise?”
Sherlock paused in his nuzzling, a long beat before he turned his head slightly and John dared not look up and across to the other man’s face.
“I… I can’t promise that. I can promise to try, though.”
When John woke up the next morning, he flushed his all opiate based pain killers down the toilet.
--
When he gets back from work, John lingers in the doorway watching Sherlock work. It’s strangely addictive, the sight, and John has yet to tire of it. The wall is covered with photos of women who are clients of Irene Adler, the owner and editor of Belgravia House Publishing Company. Some are beautiful, others not so beautiful. A few of them are dead. He moves into the room and settles beside Sherlock, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye.
“Progress?”
Sherlock hums in his throat and John watches as his long, slender fingers slide down the picture of the (gorgeous) auburn haired woman and his arm falls back to his side. He doesn’t turn to John but his eyes roam over the other images on the wall, lingering on some more than others. John can’t pick out which ones they are and after the first two he doesn’t even try. He stands there beside Sherlock for a good few minutes before he moves away from him and towards the kitchen.
“I’m making dinner, do you want some?” He calls from the far side of the kitchen, his head buried in one of the cupboards as he looks for the noodles he knows he left there the other night.
“What are you making?” Sherlock asks a few moments later and John sighs before grabbing onto the packet of dried noodles and pulling himself out of the cupboard.
“Chicken, green pepper and black bean sauce with noodles.”
“No you’re not,” Sherlock replies and John rolls his eyes.
“Yes, I am.”
He opens the cupboard above and to the right of the sink pulling out the jar of Sharwood’s sauce.
“You’re not. I used the chicken earlier for an experiment on decomposition.” John hears himself groan and drops his head against the cupboard door. “Don’t worry, I disinfected the dish, although you might not want to open the fridge until I’ve had the chance to disinfect that, too.”
“Chinese then?”
“That’s fine.”
-
He’s not the jealous type but it’s still a surprise to find Sherlock not alone when he returns from the Chinese down the road. Their guest is a woman, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit and her slender stature is heightened by the addition of three inch heels. Her hair falls in waves down to the middle of her back and it’s darker than it had looked in the picture. Her skin, though, is just as white.
“Hello,” John says to Irene Adler as he deposits the bag on the kitchen table and rotates his shoulder slightly (he really should have kept up with the physio exercises but he just hasn’t had the time) and wanders back to the living room.
Adler turns from her position in front of the wall beside Sherlock and sends him a semi-pleasant, hurried smile before turning back to the wall and crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“You say the latest victim’s book hasn’t been published yet?” Sherlock asks as his fingers drift over a picture of an older woman, her hair consisting of more grey than blonde and John can identify with the set wrinkles around her eyes.
“Yes. It’s not due to be published for another two months.”
“And it was her first novel for your company?”
“Yes. Only her second published work. She didn’t start writing until her fortieth birthday when her husband bought her a place on a creative writing course at the Groucho Club.”
Sherlock hums and his hand drifts over the pictures on the wall, his eyes skimming again. John watches from his place in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.
“The killer broke from pattern. The others had been with you for much longer.”
Adler nods, her hand rising to rest over a small picture near Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock’s eyes drift over to where she is pointing.
“Some of them for their entire writing career.”
Sherlock doesn’t respond and John turns back into the kitchen. He digs into the bag and pulls out his dinner leaving Sherlock’s in the bag to cool. He watches (what little he can see) and listens to the stilted conversation (Sherlock’s questions, Adler’s answers) from the kitchen table. He flicks through the day’s newspaper, reads the article that has a small picture of Lestrade next to it and notes how tired the Detective Inspector looks. He doesn’t let himself dwell on that for too long, resists the urge to send him a text because things are still not okay between the three of them (John’s not entirely sure they ever will be, really).
By the time he’s finished his dinner (and the paper) Adler is making noises of departure. John doesn’t get up to see her out but waits until the downstairs door is closed before rising from his seat and taking his plate to the sink.
“Anything interesting?”
Sherlock shakes his head and John turns to lean his back against the worktop, watching as Sherlock peers into the white plastic bag containing his dinner with disinterest.
“Nothing new.”
John can hear the frustration in his voice, can identify with it. Sherlock pokes at the boxes and frowns.
“You can put it in the fridge and keep it for later, you know. I’m not going to force you to eat it.” Sherlock looks over to him, a smile playing around the edges of his lips and John rolls his eyes and gestures the other man closer to him. Sherlock steps closer to him, pausing a good two inches away from John’s body and John knows the other man is trying not to get distracted. John at least knows him well enough not to push. Instead, he runs his palm down the outside of Sherlock’s arm, links their fingers together a moment before lifting their hands and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s palm. When he looks up, Sherlock is smiling at him and John holds his stare for a moment before dropping their hands and untangling his fingers. “Are you sleeping tonight?” Sherlock shrugs, his eyes already sharp with focus and John really should have known the answer long before he asked the question. “Well, I am. Wake me up if we need to go chasing after criminals, all right?”
Sherlock hums in response and John palms his arm again before the other man moves back into the living room. He watches him for a long second, smiles slightly then turns to the other door and heads down the corridor to bed. He leaves the door slightly ajar and falls asleep to the sound of Sherlock pacing in the living room.
-
When John wakes up, it’s to the sound of Sherlock talking to someone in the living room. He rolls onto his back and stretches out his spine, grimacing as his muscles protest and his spinal cord pops back into place. He can already tell that it’s going to be a day filled with the taking of numerous quantities of ibuprofen and he groans at the thought, before rolling himself carefully out of bed.
When he gets to the living room, Lestrade and Donovan are sitting on the couch and Sherlock is talking at them, pointing to the wall and it takes John a long moment to realise that there’s a file open on the desk in front of him and it’s far too early for the sight of the pictures that lie within it.
“What’s going on?”
There’s hurried footsteps on the stairs and the door to 221B bursts open and a harried looking Irene Adler storms through.
“Janet Paterson is dead!” She exclaims to the room at large and John looks from her to Lestrade to Sherlock, the latter of whom because he has crossed the room and has his hands on Adler’s shoulders in a move that, from anyone else, John would call comforting. Lestrade looks back at him, his eyebrow quirked up in question and John just shrugs and shakes his head. “My apologies,” Adler says after a moment and Sherlock checks himself and drops his hands awkwardly turning back to John, flinching. John frowns. “Inspector Lestrade.”
“Miss Adler,” Lestrade says with a nod, glancing quickly between the woman and Sherlock and then back to John. John pointedly looks away. “A step ahead of us, I see.”
“Yes. I wanted answers.”
“These things take time, Miss Adler,” Lestrade replies placatingly, and Adler pins him with a glare that could rival one of Sherlock’s.
“My writers don’t have time, Detective Inspector. Seven of my writers are dead and ten more are trying to get out of contracts with my company because they are terrified for their life. Forgive me for trying to protect my people by moving this investigation along.”
Lestrade stares at the woman for a long moment before smiling tightly, his eyes flicking to Sherlock with a glimmer of amusement.
“It seems we’re on the same page now, though. Sherlock - what have you got?”
“The latest victim - before Janet Paterson - had her back cut open and her shoulder blades exposed; there was feathers surrounding her body and her face had been made up in make-up that was not her own. Last night, Miss Adler identified the allusion to a novel by Angela Carter, in which the main female character is said to have wings.”
Adler nods and John’s eyebrows rise. He hasn’t even had tea yet and already Sherlock is abuzz with energy and half way to showing off.
“Yes, in Nights at the Circus it’s never stated whether Fevvers does or does not have wings,” Adler agrees and John sees Lestrade glance between the two again and John frowns.
“So, what?” John asks as he leans his hip against the back of the chair. “Someone was checking to see if the victim had wings?”
Sherlock nods.
“It would appear that way.”
“That is… insane.”
“Yes, I imagine our killer is,” Sherlock replies with a thin smile but John isn’t amused so Sherlock moves on. “But the question is why is the killer targeting these women specifically? No other female writers are being killed other than the ones with contracts at Belgravia House.”
“Knocked back any psychopaths?” Lestrade queries of Adler and she squints at him.
"No." She glares at Lestrade. "Do you think the killer’s a man targeting feminist writers?”
“Hard to tell. It’s unlikely; there’s no discernible pattern to the women physically, nor to their work. I read Celia Lorraine’s first novel last night; there’s certainly nothing obviously feminist about it. Certainly not enough to set off a killer of feminist writers. No, that’s not it. Why these women? And why Celia Lorraine? Her novel wasn’t published. What was it about?” He addresses Adler then holds up his hand to silence her. “No, don’t tell me. Get me a copy, I’d prefer to read it myself. Lestrade-“
“We’ve got nothing, which is why we’re here.”
Sherlock huffs and pivots on his toe, staring at the wall with his hands on his hips. John doesn’t miss the smirk directed at Lestrade but he does ignore it.
“Of course.” He steps up to the wall, runs his finger under the collage and spins back to the room. “I cannot make bricks without clay; I need data!”
John pushes himself away from the back of the chair and runs a hand over his face, suddenly very aware of his morning attire.
“And I need tea.” Four sets of eyes turn to him and he smiles slightly. “Anyone else?”
Adler declines and leaves to get Sherlock a copy of Lorraine’s book and Lestrade and Donovan excuse themselves, too. Sherlock shakes his head and turns back to the wall. John makes him tea anyway and goes to shower. When he comes out, the cup of tea is cold and Sherlock is gone.
John sighs, sends him a text to be careful and gets ready for work.
He’s too old for all of this.
--
John went to the physio alone. He took a cab because Sherlock’s not with him to ring up Lestrade and force the other man into chauffeuring for them. Since the night that Sherlock had been a little high John had had him under almost constant watch and it’s, in a word, harrowing. Sherlock will lie on the couch, curled into a ball as his body shivers and jolts while sweat pours out of every single pore on his body. After Sherlock had almost knocked himself out by slipping in the shower (John didn’t trust that Sherlock wouldn’t drown in a bath), John had taken to washing him down with a face cloth and a bowl of warm water and forcing Sherlock into a clean t-shirt at least, if not clean bottoms.
Needless to say, when the week had come to an end and their Friday appointment at the physio had rolled around again, Sherlock was in no physical state to go.
John wasn’t either, not entirely. His back ached in a way that made him think of someone tightening the bones of his ribs, forcing the discs of his spine simultaneously closer together and further apart. His shoulder seared with pain that ended with a hot sizzle in the fingertips of his left hand that made most day to day activities virtually impossible - just that morning, opening the door to the living room had made his hand feel like it was burning from the inside out.
Gemel was scarily fit. When he saw John limping into the studio he frowned, looked behind him briefly and then scowled deeper when he noted the absence of Sherlock.
“Giving up already, is he?”
John didn’t want to say too much about the state he’d left Sherlock in back at the flat, so he shrugged then bristled as pain shot from his hip to his knee and he almost collapsed from the shock of the ferocity of it.
“He’s a bit…” John moved his fingers about at his side and Gemel narrowed his eyes. “He’s in withdrawal.”
Gemel’s eyebrows rose up his forehead and John had to look away.
“So you chucked out your meds, too?” John nodded and he could hear Gemel’s huff out breath. “That’s insane, John. Have you been to a doctor to see about alternative treatment?”
“I am a doctor,” John barked and Gemel stared at him again.
“Yes but you’re not an expert in pain management. I’m not continuing until you’ve been to a doctor to see about alternative treatment. The stuff we’ve been doing is bad enough when you’re on pain killers, never mind when you’re not. Have you taken anything?”
John grumbled under his breath, bristling at Gemel’s tone because damn it to hell he’s a doctor and he knows this and he hated the tone that Gemel had taken on. It was condescending because the stupid, gym-lover isn’t even a doctor and John is.
“Some co-codamol I had, some ibuprofen and paracetamol. Sherlock’s refusing all of it.”
“Get yourself to a doctor, and take Sherlock with you. If it’s as bad as all that, he needs to be in a hospital.” John moved to protest but Gemel raised his hand to silence him. “I’ve been doing this for nine years, John. I know what I’m talking about. Keep up the basic exercises I gave you until you come back and we’ll start back up from there.”
When John left the studio, there was a familiar black car waiting for him. It didn’t take him to Baker Street and John fell asleep long before they even made it out of central London. It’d been a long few days.
--
John is at the surgery (not Sarah’s, God, no) when he gets a text from Sherlock asking for his debit card back. John huffs slightly and leaves it at the front desk for Sherlock to pick up and he ignores the way the old Mrs Griffin’s eyebrows ride up her forehead.
“You’ll know him when you see him,” John says just for something to say and Mrs Griffin smiles at him indulgently.
“You say that like I’ve never seen him before. He’s a dear, coming to walk you home at night.”
John smiles tightly even as he agrees with her; he’s under no illusions as to why Sherlock comes to the surgery to walk him home (he knows it’s either that or have Mycroft send a car and neither John nor Sherlock want that, really) but it’s… nice, in a way.
“If he’s not in before lunchtime buzz me through and let me know and I’ll nip out and get it to him at home.”
“No problem, dear.” She hands him a small bundle of files. “There you go, save me a trip up the hall if you would?”
John smiles and takes the folders and distributes them to the doctors as he goes back to him own office at the end of the hall.
-
When he gets home just after six, the flat is quiet except for the low rumble of Mrs Hudson’s television coming up through the floorboards. He sighs tiredly and slips into the kitchen from the hall, flipping on the light when he finds the sliding doors closed. He fills the kettle, readies a cup of tea and checks his phone again for messages he may have missed from Sherlock. There’s none and he contemplates sending him one asking his whereabouts before pocketing the phone with the mental reassurance that Sherlock is a big boy and can take care of himself.
He makes a slice of toast because he’s hungry and can’t be bothered making anything else. The cheese slices are a little dry around the edges and he peels them off and drops them into the bin before popping the toast in his mouth, picking up his tea and making his way into the living room.
The toast drops from his mouth, butter-and-cheese-side down on the dusty crumby carpet and he can’t help but let out a startled “Fuck!” at the sight of Sherlock illuminated by the tall lamp next to the square armchair, hunched over a book.
“You could have let me know you were in!” John manages as he picks up his toast, inspects it then discards it as a lost cause.
“Mm? Oh, I thought you would have seen the light.”
“No,” he says somewhat dumbly and he drops into the chair opposite Sherlock. “What are you reading?” It’s then that John looks around the floor at Sherlock’s feet and it is littered with books (brand new, of course) and there’s a bag that looks packed, the corner of some more books straining the plastic to the point of almost bursting. “Christ, what did you do - buy the whole of Waterstone’s?”
Sherlock hums in the back of his throat again, barely glancing up from the book (Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, John notes, the title almost familiar to him (he thinks he might have seen it on the Amazon front page a few months ago - he’s not sure)).
“Only the feminist section,” Sherlock replies and John can see the hint of a smirk and he rolls his eyes.
“Do I even want to know how much money you spent there today?”
“Probably not.”
“Right,” John murmurs and nods, glancing again at the books. “Need a hand with anything?”
Sherlock looks over to him for a moment then down to the gaggle of books at his feet. Grabbing one at random, he tosses it at John.
“Read through this and take notes of the most striking characteristics or features of the main female characters in it, if you would.”
John looks at the cover. ‘Girl Reading’.
It’s going to be a long night.
--
John wakes up with Sherlock looming over him, a blanket held hesitantly over John’s body. He looks flustered and John smiles, blinking into the dimness of their sitting room at Baker Street.
“I didn’t know whether to wake you or…” He jiggles the blanket and John smiles, remembering a conversation (well, a Sherlock-monologue that still managed to feel like a conversation) where Sherlock had articulated how much better John slept when it was warm, as observed over a two week period when the central heating was acting up. (John should perhaps have known then. But Sherlock is… well, Sherlock and random observations were the norm rather than an indicator of interest and besides he’s been with Lestrade and rather (John thought, at least) happy being with Lestrade (the sex sounded happy enough (good enough)) at least).
John shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts, stretches his back and shoulders and Sherlock drops the blanket on the coffee table.
“I’m up now. Going to bed.” He yawns again, stretching and his back protests. He really should know better than to fall asleep sitting up in chairs. “Coming?”
Sherlock looks up at him, startled and glances at the Wall of Notes and John knows the answer before Sherlock turns back to him and shakes his head.
“Not yet.” He settles his hand briefly on John’s knee, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm before rubbing idly against the material of John’s work trousers. “I will soon, though.” He raises himself up, looms over John again and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to John’s forehead. John’s eyelids flutter for a moment, and he can feel a smile tug at his lips.
There’s this, at least, as proof.
He doesn’t sleep well and he’s too aware of the creak of Sherlock moving about in the living room. The world floats in and out of focus, orange streetlight vibrating slightly as the wind buffets the lamppost and shudders against the windowpanes. He wakes fully again as Sherlock slips into bed behind him, warm and solid and John settles against him fully. Sleep’s not far off after that.