Time Strips the Gears Till You Forget What They Were For

[doctorsoldier]

Continued from here.

The trip home from New Zealand is simply not as pleasant as one should be.  John stares up at the ceiling of the plane, studying the grooves in the walls as they fit together with the rest of the fuselage.  Sarah's very quiet beside him, and not the sort of quiet that happens when one is content and sore from too much holiday

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[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock and Annie exchange the usual pleasantries, the faint nodding of the head in acknowledgement, the lingering eye contact in recognition of one another, and then the silent parting. He wonders when John is going to notice that it's almost exclusively the human waiters who bother to ask him if he wants anything, or who wait for his order when he declines to make one.

Though that could just be written off as reputation, he supposes. John has blogged fussily about his eating habits often enough.

"So," he says finally, once they've been left alone, food and drink on the table between them. Sherlock will pick at the fries to keep up the illusion of eating, perhaps take a mostly harmless few sips of John's drink as the night progresses, but no more. "You're not going to tell me why we're here, then?"

He waves his hand to pre-empt the answer. "To eat and drink, yes, obviously; don't be smart, that's my job. Really, though, John; you can talk to me. I'll listen. That's what friends do, isn't it

[substituteskull]

The sheer magnitude of sibling rivalry that afternoon has John laughing well into the early evening as Sherlock does his preliminary work and they head out before dark to canvas the neighborhood. John's been living in London for over a year now but he's never wandered into Belgravia, not even on a case with Sherlock. The posh neighbourhood is quite intimidating. The coffee shops are doubly expensive and everything is so clean. John doesn't like it.

He doesn't actually like being goaded into hitting Sherlock, which he realizes after he's given the man a nice bruise. He feels guilty almost immediately after, a spasm in his stomach a little harder to identity. John doesn't try. John doesn't want to try. The thought it disturbing. Everything seems to lead him right to this very idea that Sherlock

[couldbdangerous]

Of course she knows. Clever. She is clever. She can see the colouration of the bruise, slightly darker than it ought to be, and for all of Sherlock's skill he can't tell a thing about her. And it's not that she's naked, not that he's never seen a living, naked woman in the flesh before. That doesn't distract him. Nor does her sudden, forced intimacy. It's the look in her eyes that does it. This woman, this human woman who knows and who wants into his head.

Who wants to know what it's like, being him. An android. That is novel. That is... revelatory. And confusing.

Reality slides back into place once it all goes to Hell, though. The gun pressed to John's head makes his brain light up with all sorts of things, overrides and imperatives and the sum result is that he wants to tear that smug American bastard limb from limb for daring even to suggest such a thing, the fool. Someday if he's very lucky he'll get to do it, too

[doctorsoldier]

She knows. She knows and John, who has slept upstairs and taken tea with him and put up with three in the morning violin concertos does not. Oh, he'd be upset if he knew how Irene Adler, high class prostitute and fantasy maker, could see right through Sherlock Holmes' brilliant disguise in less than a month and John, who has watched him for over a year like his favourite television program, has not noticed a thing out of place other than Sherlock being wildly eccentric

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock can't move. He's mostly aware, mostly awake but he can't move. His systems registered the shock before his brain could work out what happened. It had been far too occupied with Irene's closeness. With the way she'd taken the opportunity to touch his skin, to see what it was like and he'd let her until he'd felt the edge of her fingernail pressing against it where it had grown fragile, the bruise on his cheek. He'd caught her hand and pulled it away before she revealed what it wasn't hers to reveal. It's his secret, to tell as he wishes

[doctorsoldier]

John isn't apt to notice anything. He's just not like that. Even so, when Sherlock started rattling around like an idiot, flailing and yelling and acting up, John was there in a moment. He could just about make out what he was saying... Asking after Irene. Really? He set his hands on his hips, annoyed. Not that he should ever be annoyed, not at this. He has to calm himself with a steady breath.

"She got away," he explains softly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but we found no trace of her. You really should go back to bed." And that sentence brings up the worst emotions. John pushed them down because they're entirely too ugly.

He grumbles to himself and leaves the room.

"Just go to bed." And when Sherlock insists on looking under his bed rather than getting into it, it's all John can do to toss the man, literally, back into the quilts. "And stay or I'm calling your brother."

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock doesn't want to stay in bed. It doesn't feel safe anymore. His bedroom has been compromised and he'd much rather be elsewhere. John doesn't seem to be keen on letting him, though, even though his systems are nearly done resetting, and Sherlock isn't desperate enough to ask him to stay. His stubbornness and need for self-sufficiency demands that he doesn't.

So it isn't mentioned just yet, that bout of cuddling. That's fine. He can ask about it later. The fact that he probably oughtn't bring it up at all doesn't occur to him. He didn't mind, still doesn't mind, and assumes that John knows that he doesn't mind. They had, after all, spent much of the morning teasing one another about being married; permitting oneself to be snuggled in bed is just one small aspect of the duties of a spouse.

But not now. Now he'll lay sullenly in bed, still save when he reaches down to pick up his power cord again. Silent. Sulking.

Until his mobile goes off, anyhow. And he's beyond certain that it's never made that sound before. Nor would he

[doctorsoldier]

What the--  John sucks in a breath and glances at the device making the noise.   Really?  Really...  "Is that a moan--?  Did your mobile just moan at you?"

He has no idea what's going on and decides not to ask any further. He just picks up his plate and heads into the kitchen.  Leave it to Sherlock to get a dominatrix girlfriend who somehow has managed to make her texts into moans!  Who would that be?  Who else would do that?

John has to still himself. Before he fumes. His fingers tighten around the edge of the sink. Right. Nothing about this is right. At all.

Emotions are fine. He's human. He understands them, but he's having a really hard time figuring out why they're so strong. He just won't let himself understand is the real trouble.

"Are you feeling all right now?" he asks from the kitchen. "I've some errands...  Just don't want to leave you alone if you're not well.  Still dont know what she gave you."

[couldbdangerous]

"I'm fine," Sherlock responds, glancing at the text and proceeding to ignore it like the others. What's she playing at? She must know she's not likely to get a response out of him via this method. It doesn't occur to him that it might not be him she's trying to get a response out of at all

[doctorsoldier]

John stiffens for a moment, but that's a very human and very normal reaction for a person not expecting another's touch. He swallows a bit and glances first at the hand on his shoulder and then up at the taller man that had, just yesterday, said it was a benefit to have such a short friend. John can see why. All he needs to do is lean back and-- And that's just why he needs time away from Sherlock.

"That's exactly why you should stay," he says cryptically before swallowing and turning his attention back towards his friend. "Mycroft. Your brother is going to want a debriefing. I really do not want to be around for that." John laughs and it's genuine. The Holmes together do terrify him.

And, likely, they terrify everyone else as well. It's really only natural for John to want to head out for a bit.

He did almost die yesterday.

"Stay and rest until your brother comes over...and text me when he's gone, all right?"

[couldbdangerous]

"I hardly see why I can't 'debrief' him from a distance," Sherlock complains, though he's smiling. "You're more important anyhow

[doctorsoldier]

He's been sitting in the sandwich shop downstairs for the last hour. He watched Mycroft arrive and Anthea, sitting in the back seat, doesn't even look up at him but John is still sure that she knows he's there. Her eyes never leave her blackberry however. And John's eyes never leave her, willing her not to make eye contact. Twenty minutes later and Mycroft leaves the flat as well before stopping at the door to wave back over his shoulder at him. Busted. John, sheepishly, waves right on back and shrinks away from his coffee and the half of ham and swiss he's not been really eating at all

[couldbdangerous]

"Not a one. I'm off the Adler case, though, it seems," Sherlock responds from where he's sprawled himself out on the sofa, glancing over to where his mobile sits on the table. "Bit of a shame. I'm certain I could've retrieved the mobile, given more time

[doctorsoldier]

Cue the timid chuckle. "Last night? What, almost dying?" Any relief that John might have had about Sherlock being taken from the Adler case has since been dashed to pieces. He's going to play dumb in hopes that Sherlock really hadn't been awake for that hair petting or-- And God forbid it! -- the way John had crawled into bed with him--

John's already thinking the worse. Sherlock hadn't been awake for it, no. Hadn't needed to be. John's cologne was on the sheets, shampoo on the pillow next to him. A mark from John's boot was on the mattress. The shuffle of fabric had been consistent with John's body and-- It just drives him mad. So he chuckles a little and confesses.

"Or that I napped a bit in your bed with you? Sorry. I wanted to be sure you didn't stop breathing."

Lies. And Sherlock can unwrap them, each of them. Does that mean that he knows what John won't let himself know?

He's just going to hyperventilate here, all right?

[couldbdangerous]

Oh, what's with the panic? Sherlock's on his feet in a moment, frowning concernedly and dragging John to the sofa by the wrist.

"It's alright," he says, pressing John back until he sits and seating himself a polite distance away, fussing over John a bit worriedly. Pulse. Pupil dilation. Respiratory rate. "Really, John, it's alright. What's wrong?"

It's alright, he supposes, if John doesn't want to tell him but it would be much easier to work out a solution to the problem if he knew what it was. John seems confused, and Sherlock has always had a hard time working out what confused means other than just that. The fact that he's not upset can't be confusing, can it?

"It was nice," he clarifies. "Really, I'd not have minded if you'd stayed."

If such a thing had really been possible, anyway. It might work odd nights but when he needs to charge, well, bed-sharing isn't very feasible.

"I'm really not upset; look."

[doctorsoldier]

Deer in headlights was about all that can describe John Watson at the moment. He sort of stares at Sherlock and his strange eyes and the cut on his cheek and that flouncy bit of hair that hangs down wrong that needs to be pushed away but John just can't because really falling for your roommate is not something that can be allowed in real life. That stuff happens in films or terrible serials and never to John Watson who is...well. Not normal, not even slightly normal, but who really, terribly wants this to stop stinging.

Sherlock is pulling off the bandage from his arm slowly and it's caught every hair on the way and ripped them out. One by one in a row. And yes, he knows where the next pinching sensation will come from, but that makes it worse and he keeps flinching which makes it even more terrible. Without meaning to, he gives Sherlock a pleading, almost imploring look