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

Comments

[couldbdangerous]

"So I am," Sherlock responds, opting to ignore it for the time being. "And you're exaggerating. That's a hyperbolic promise if I've ever heard one. Stairs, John; use your legs

[couldbdangerous]

"If I wanted your undivided attention, giving you something else to do wouldn't make much sense," Sherlock points out, amusement in his voice. He prefers to remain silent on the subject of what he thinks might actually work, mostly because he rather suspects they won't work if he informs John as to the procedure

[substituteskull]

If John notices, and there's really no reason to suspect he does, he says nothing at all and just allows Sherlock to read over his shoulder while he alternates between manual and device and back again. John's app choices are both in bright, colourful, well ranked silly games and medical applications. The heart monitor and breath meter seem to be specifically aimed at his enjoyment and he may have giggled here or there when he realizes how well something works

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock straightens in silence and lays his hand atop John's head, expression vaguely thoughtful as he gives John's hair a gentle, fond ruffle. "Good," he murmurs as he steps away, letting his hand fall. "I'm glad

[substituteskull]

It's Mrs. Hudson that breaks the silence, only because she is surprised by Lestrade's quick flight up the stairs to stir her tenants when they've been so very good and quiet lately. No police, no searches, no worry about her herbal soothers-- It's been excellent for everyone, she figures, so the sight of the silver fox of the Yard does not make her pleased

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock isn't certain he really wins. He certainly doesn't appreciate having been interrupted alone in his flat and wrapped haphazardly in a sheet after the brief shower he'd taken after John's departure. He doesn't need to bathe, generally, but he finds the process pleasing. The sensory isolation helps him to think. He might have to alter his opinion of them, though, if this is something that's going to be happening often

[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