igrab
in
grabi_hands
Swimming with a Raincoat (1/3)
Sherlock/John . 3,044 words . PG-13 . It isn't that he can't love, he simply hasn't, until now.
He knew, intellectually, what love was. He knew how powerful it was, what it made people do, and he'd watched people his entire life, watched them do the stupidest things (and, truly, some of the smartest) all for this one composite force of nature.
He knew he had the capacity to feel emotions. It was different than the way most people did, and there were times - embarrassing times, if he had a sense of remorse, which he didn't - that he would say the wrong thing, despite all his precautions. Despite what people said, he knew what he could get away with and what he couldn't.
He could get away with insinuating that Anderson and Donovan were sleeping together. He could get away with leaping onto a crime scene, grinning from ear to ear, broadcasting his enjoyment in every line of his body. He could not get away with questioning why Lestrade was here at all, since it was the second Sunday of the month, and that Sunday was the day he was supposed to spend with his kids.
He understood lust, and he understood love, and he understood the different kinds of both and their complicated interrelation. But it was like any other emotion - easily conquered, and dealt with, and put aside.
He was very good at it. Mycroft could attest to that. He hadn't actually felt his love for his brother in years.
So he'd known, intellectually, that it could happen to him. He had a set of very intricate plans for what would happen when it did. They involved distancing himself (literally) as fast as possible, and doing everything in his very considerable power to lock those feelings away.
But he should have known. There was always something he missed, some minor detail that of course turned out to be vital, and it would have driven him crazy if not for the obvious logical reason for it - to remind him that, despite everything, he was still human.
He should have known.
+
There's something about this man, something Sherlock can't quite put his finger on.
They race up the stairs and he's impatient - impatient for John to get over his ridiculous limp already, because it's stupid and John is better than that. He can almost see the potential in him, under his tired, terrified skin, and he wants -
He wants to -
He doesn't know, precisely, what he wants.
It's like he blinks and they're crouching over the body, and John's voice changes all of a sudden.
"What am I doing here?"
It takes Sherlock the barest fraction of a second - much too long - to understand the change, and the irrational way his own heart jumps at it.
John Watson speaks to him no different than he speaks to anyone else. That is to say, he speaks to him as if he's just another person.
No one has ever spoken to Sherlock Holmes like that.
There's something about this man, something Sherlock can't quite put his finger on. Something that rubs at him, the social equivalent of sandpaper, except sometimes it was more like velvet and sometimes it was silk.
"That's brilliant," John says, and Sherlock stares.
He blinks again and they're standing, and John teases an explanation out of him with nothing more than his eyes, though the words that follow are a nice bonus. Sherlock tells him - him and only him, if he's honest with himself, which is exactly why he says the entire monologue in the direction of Lestrade's face.
"That's fantastic," John breathes, and this time Sherlock feels it like clean cotton, soft and perfect and sliding over his skin.
"Did you really do that out loud?" he mutters on instinct, his brain clicking as he ignores the feeling, analyzes the feeling, notices that he's feeling - everything happens out-of-order and it's distressing and John's smile fades.
"Sorry, I'll shut up."
"No, it's - " There's a price, you know, for speaking before thinking. Sherlock has never made a habit of it and suddenly there are words falling out of his mouth and - "...fine."
Fine.
Fine.
He could not have used a less precise word if he tried.
The case moves on and, like so many other things he notices and deems unimportant, he shoves it away, but he knows better than to delete it. This is more than a problem, this is becoming dangerous, but there's other things to think about, isn't there?
He rushes off down the stairs, babbling about the bloody suitcase, because he knows John's pride will keep him up there, believing strongly in its own pain, until he can hobble himself down on his own steam.
Sherlock, by then, will be long gone.
+
This is a three-patch problem.
He sinks into himself, shifts on the couch until he gets comfortable (the cotton of his t-shirt scrapes at his stomach and he bites his lip, thinking of the light in John's eyes, the honest appreciation, the joy) and steeples his fingers under his chin.
It doesn't take long to reach his inevitable conclusion.
I'm in love with John Watson.
His eyes snap open and his breath freezes in his chest, every circuit of his finely-tuned brain frying to an automatic halt.
I have a plan for this.
He has a plan for this. A very good plan, foolproof in fact, absolutely guaranteed to remove himself from this most powerful of all emotions. Sherlock scrambles off the bed and grabs for his phone, checking his bank account, transportation schedules, ignores a text from Mycroft because they'd talked about this. Once upon a time, when they'd still talked like brothers. Mycroft knows better than anyone that Sherlock cannot allow this to ruin his life.
Ruin his life.
The phrase bounces around his head, sticking in places it shouldn't and attaching itself to things it has no right fraternizing with. Life makes off with this flat and Lestrade's hangdog look and that new microscope and John Watson. He thinks of the long and lonely relocation ahead, and the word that comes to mind is ruin.
He paces around the apartment. He kicks at Jennifer Wilson's obnoxious, pink, cell-phone-less case and swears loudly when his toe inevitably smarts from it.
"Is everything all right, dear?"
Wonderful. This is precisely what he needs, isn't it? An audience in his immature though entirely rational tantrum. "I'm in love with John," he hisses, sounding testy and not at all enamored in the slightest.
"I know that," Mrs. Hudson says, reasonably. She goes to plump the cushions; she is, like Sherlock in a way, incapable of doing nothing.
But he doesn't have time for comparisons. He sputters instead, throwing an arm out to one side. "How do you know? I've only just deduced it myself!"
She smiles at him like he's very dull but she's very fond anyway, which is criminally insulting but he lets it slide. "Some things aren't about deduction, Sherlock."
Nonsense. Everything is.
"Or maybe it's just a little more obvious from the outside."
That's not what he wants to hear, not at all. "When," he manages somehow, his voice hoarse. "When did you realize?"
She simply shakes her head. "You wouldn't've taken him on a case so soon if you didn't love him."
He finds, to his astonishment, that she's right. Damn and double damn, she's right, why couldn't he see it before? The skull, the constant arguments with Anderson who was always like sandpaper, except when he was velcro, and his damn irrational insistence that he couldn't, wouldn't work alone and no, Lestrade, you damn well don't count because you treat me like a complicated explosive that could detonate at any time.
It's obvious now, now that he steps back and looks at it from a perspective outside the caging influence of his self-convinced needs. It all seems so transparent now, so pitiful - a child crying out for reassurance, a desperate plea, a terrible fear of being alone and unloved and unnoticed.
"Damn," he whispers, and sinks onto the sofa, phone clutched in his hand. "Damn. Damn."
Mrs. Hudson is uncharacteristically silent for a moment (concern, obviously) and then she says, "Can I - "
"No," he snaps. "I require nothing."
More silence. Gentle reproach, because he shouldn't do that, that's on the 'socially unacceptable' list but he isn't in any mood to care. "...Is he coming back tonight, then?"
Obviously. He'd run off like a -
He'd left John at the crime scene. Without transportation, and he was still laboring under that stupid impression -
Damn! There was always something, wasn't there?
He frantically slams his fingers on the phone keys, texting faster than he ever has before.
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.
SH
+
By the time John actually arrives, Sherlock has gotten mostly distracted by the criminal case - and the pink one, yes, that too. But then he hears the uneven step on the staircase; the weight of all that imagined pain, and suddenly something in his brain snaps. He hadn't known, before. He'd felt but he hadn't known. He'd seen the heavy cloak of John's deep-set self-loathing, expressing itself in many varied and alarming ways, of course, and he hadn't known what he wanted but he understands, now. He sees his own wish - outwardly a selfless act, perhaps, but intrinsically selfish as all human motivation inevitably is - and he knows what he must do.
He's still putting the pieces together as John enters the room; his mind isn't even a quarter there and he doesn't even try to figure out where John's been.
"You asked me to come, I assume it's important."
His voice is the perfect catalyst. It all comes together.
Sherlock has never met anyone like John. That goes without saying, yes, after all no two people in the world are alike and even with the similarities, John would stand out in a crowd to anyone's eyes, anyone with half a brain and any decent amount of curiosity. But this new, specific wonder comes from the incredible fact that Sherlock is actually able to get him to do anything, even something as stupid and insipid as to send a text for him when he's perfectly capable of doing it himself. And though John grumbles and complains and is certainly not happy about it, he does it, without even demanding an explanation.
Not that most people demand an explanation. Most people don't even consider putting up with any of Sherlock's bullshit.
So. The stage has been set, and conveniently enough, the killer decides to play along. Sherlock had been almost completely certain that he would, but people are occasionally unpredictable. There's always something.
He lets John think he has a choice in the matter. He lets John think he equates him to an inanimate object, to pander to the ridiculous deprecation the man makes of himself. He lets a decidedly flirtatious tone creep into his voice, just to see if John even notices. Of course he doesn't.
But he says 'dangerous', and John follows him as surely as if he were chained.
+
Over the course of 'dinner' they establish two things -
First - John really cannot take a hint. Nor several of them. Very large ones, even. Sherlock puts this down to that damnable self-esteem issue, and stops trying.
Second - John is not nearly as heterosexual as he hypothetically claims. Sherlock could have deduced this earlier, but he hadn't actually thought about it until this very moment, and now of course it's blatantly obvious. Whether his reticence on the subject is a result of the underlying issues or the cause of them, Sherlock has yet to determine.
This new data doesn't help him any, not yet at least, but he's reached a point where any data about John is automatically deemed vital.
He reels him in, or in this case, out.
+
They're running.
In the forefront of his mind there's a map, with snaking red and green lines, but to be perfectly honest he doesn't care, at this point, whether they catch the man or not. It's a damn fool's chance, any idiot could tell you that, but they run and run and run because Sherlock doesn't give John any other option.
It's perfect.
The wind whips in their coats and Sherlock can hear the sound of their feet, out of rhythm with each other but John's steps, oh, they pound like the sweetest of music to the frantic rhythm of Sherlock's heart. He loves, in this moment, he loves so harshly and deeply that he's hard-pressed not a let out an exhilarated laugh - but that would give the game away, save it, save it.
He cannot wait to see the look on his face. He burns with the sheer excitement of it.
And that's it, really, that's the only reason why he lets the cab drive off and writes it off as a mistake. It's the only explanation, yes he's human but he can only be so human in one day and he has to have filled his quota. It's John's fault, then. John's smile and the way he laughs, the way he seems to think that the ridiculous bullshit that comes out of Sherlock's mouth sometimes is actually funny.
Later, he'll look back on this moment and his thoughts will go like this:
How could I have been so stupid? I wanted to be perfect for him. He's a liability. He ran on his own legs all the way back to Baker Street. I could have solved this so much quicker. It was worth it.
After all, humans are selfish creatures, and Sherlock never claims altruism when he takes a case. That settles it, then. There's nothing wrong with a selfish motive.
He presses his back against the wall and tries, unsuccessfully, to keep from beaming.
It all goes to hell, then.
+
Sherlock rushes into a payphone and smacks it, hard, because he damn well doesn't want to go through the rigamrole of paying and dialing when-
It rings, and he snatches the phone off of its hook.
"You're a bastard," he hisses.
"He's in love with you," Mycroft feels the vicious need to point out, for some reason.
"Obviously. Hasn't the slightest idea, though."
They don't have normal conversations. Oh, when other people are around, they attempt to - they make a bit of a game of it, coyly snarking and deducing at each other and showing off their sharp, pretty minds. Alone, however, they can do away with all that.
"I could have him relocated if that would make things easier for you."
"He saved my life."
There's a pause, an actual pause, as Mycroft works out where, when, and how, which tells Sherlock in turn that he hadn't, actually, known about it before this very moment, though he'd certainly pored over every official and mostly-official detail of the case. He was annoyingly nosy when it came to threats on Sherlock's life.
It's less than a second, though. "You wouldn't have died."
"I might have." That statement is like a weight off his chest, relieving because he knows that Mycroft knows how he thinks. "God, Mycroft, he tracked me down and killed a man and we laughed about it afterwards." He followed me, the words between words say. He picked up where I fell short.
"I see. You've made him indispensible in, what, three days? Well done, Sherlock, when you do a thing you do it right." There is no pride in his tone, not even a shred of sincerity.
Sherlock grits his teeth. "Leave him alone."
"I won't move him, if that's what you mean. You've obviously made your choice. But think carefully about what you're doing."
He's been thinking. He's thought plenty in the last three days and the adrenaline's leaving him now, he's about ready to go home (well, that's a new and different thought, and unexpectedly pleasing), spread his orange blanket over the couch as a reminder to wear it in Lestrade's presence as often as possible, then fall gracelessly into bed and sleep so deeply that John has to check to make sure he's alive. Yes, he likes this plan, it's a good plan and it doesn't involve thinking, which is even better.
He hangs up without a word. He doesn't say goodbye, he doesn't tell his brother to stuff it, and he definitely doesn't say I have no idea what I'm doing, but he assumes that Mycroft hears it all anyway.
He gets a text as he's taking his coat off.
I think your brother thinks I love you.
JW
Doesn't everyone?
SH
He knew, intellectually, what love was. He knew how powerful it was, what it made people do, and he'd watched people his entire life, watched them do the stupidest things (and, truly, some of the smartest) all for this one composite force of nature.
He knew he had the capacity to feel emotions. It was different than the way most people did, and there were times - embarrassing times, if he had a sense of remorse, which he didn't - that he would say the wrong thing, despite all his precautions. Despite what people said, he knew what he could get away with and what he couldn't.
He could get away with insinuating that Anderson and Donovan were sleeping together. He could get away with leaping onto a crime scene, grinning from ear to ear, broadcasting his enjoyment in every line of his body. He could not get away with questioning why Lestrade was here at all, since it was the second Sunday of the month, and that Sunday was the day he was supposed to spend with his kids.
He understood lust, and he understood love, and he understood the different kinds of both and their complicated interrelation. But it was like any other emotion - easily conquered, and dealt with, and put aside.
He was very good at it. Mycroft could attest to that. He hadn't actually felt his love for his brother in years.
So he'd known, intellectually, that it could happen to him. He had a set of very intricate plans for what would happen when it did. They involved distancing himself (literally) as fast as possible, and doing everything in his very considerable power to lock those feelings away.
But he should have known. There was always something he missed, some minor detail that of course turned out to be vital, and it would have driven him crazy if not for the obvious logical reason for it - to remind him that, despite everything, he was still human.
He should have known.
+
There's something about this man, something Sherlock can't quite put his finger on.
They race up the stairs and he's impatient - impatient for John to get over his ridiculous limp already, because it's stupid and John is better than that. He can almost see the potential in him, under his tired, terrified skin, and he wants -
He wants to -
He doesn't know, precisely, what he wants.
It's like he blinks and they're crouching over the body, and John's voice changes all of a sudden.
"What am I doing here?"
It takes Sherlock the barest fraction of a second - much too long - to understand the change, and the irrational way his own heart jumps at it.
John Watson speaks to him no different than he speaks to anyone else. That is to say, he speaks to him as if he's just another person.
No one has ever spoken to Sherlock Holmes like that.
There's something about this man, something Sherlock can't quite put his finger on. Something that rubs at him, the social equivalent of sandpaper, except sometimes it was more like velvet and sometimes it was silk.
"That's brilliant," John says, and Sherlock stares.
He blinks again and they're standing, and John teases an explanation out of him with nothing more than his eyes, though the words that follow are a nice bonus. Sherlock tells him - him and only him, if he's honest with himself, which is exactly why he says the entire monologue in the direction of Lestrade's face.
"That's fantastic," John breathes, and this time Sherlock feels it like clean cotton, soft and perfect and sliding over his skin.
"Did you really do that out loud?" he mutters on instinct, his brain clicking as he ignores the feeling, analyzes the feeling, notices that he's feeling - everything happens out-of-order and it's distressing and John's smile fades.
"Sorry, I'll shut up."
"No, it's - " There's a price, you know, for speaking before thinking. Sherlock has never made a habit of it and suddenly there are words falling out of his mouth and - "...fine."
Fine.
Fine.
He could not have used a less precise word if he tried.
The case moves on and, like so many other things he notices and deems unimportant, he shoves it away, but he knows better than to delete it. This is more than a problem, this is becoming dangerous, but there's other things to think about, isn't there?
He rushes off down the stairs, babbling about the bloody suitcase, because he knows John's pride will keep him up there, believing strongly in its own pain, until he can hobble himself down on his own steam.
Sherlock, by then, will be long gone.
+
This is a three-patch problem.
He sinks into himself, shifts on the couch until he gets comfortable (the cotton of his t-shirt scrapes at his stomach and he bites his lip, thinking of the light in John's eyes, the honest appreciation, the joy) and steeples his fingers under his chin.
It doesn't take long to reach his inevitable conclusion.
I'm in love with John Watson.
His eyes snap open and his breath freezes in his chest, every circuit of his finely-tuned brain frying to an automatic halt.
I have a plan for this.
He has a plan for this. A very good plan, foolproof in fact, absolutely guaranteed to remove himself from this most powerful of all emotions. Sherlock scrambles off the bed and grabs for his phone, checking his bank account, transportation schedules, ignores a text from Mycroft because they'd talked about this. Once upon a time, when they'd still talked like brothers. Mycroft knows better than anyone that Sherlock cannot allow this to ruin his life.
Ruin his life.
The phrase bounces around his head, sticking in places it shouldn't and attaching itself to things it has no right fraternizing with. Life makes off with this flat and Lestrade's hangdog look and that new microscope and John Watson. He thinks of the long and lonely relocation ahead, and the word that comes to mind is ruin.
He paces around the apartment. He kicks at Jennifer Wilson's obnoxious, pink, cell-phone-less case and swears loudly when his toe inevitably smarts from it.
"Is everything all right, dear?"
Wonderful. This is precisely what he needs, isn't it? An audience in his immature though entirely rational tantrum. "I'm in love with John," he hisses, sounding testy and not at all enamored in the slightest.
"I know that," Mrs. Hudson says, reasonably. She goes to plump the cushions; she is, like Sherlock in a way, incapable of doing nothing.
But he doesn't have time for comparisons. He sputters instead, throwing an arm out to one side. "How do you know? I've only just deduced it myself!"
She smiles at him like he's very dull but she's very fond anyway, which is criminally insulting but he lets it slide. "Some things aren't about deduction, Sherlock."
Nonsense. Everything is.
"Or maybe it's just a little more obvious from the outside."
That's not what he wants to hear, not at all. "When," he manages somehow, his voice hoarse. "When did you realize?"
She simply shakes her head. "You wouldn't've taken him on a case so soon if you didn't love him."
He finds, to his astonishment, that she's right. Damn and double damn, she's right, why couldn't he see it before? The skull, the constant arguments with Anderson who was always like sandpaper, except when he was velcro, and his damn irrational insistence that he couldn't, wouldn't work alone and no, Lestrade, you damn well don't count because you treat me like a complicated explosive that could detonate at any time.
It's obvious now, now that he steps back and looks at it from a perspective outside the caging influence of his self-convinced needs. It all seems so transparent now, so pitiful - a child crying out for reassurance, a desperate plea, a terrible fear of being alone and unloved and unnoticed.
"Damn," he whispers, and sinks onto the sofa, phone clutched in his hand. "Damn. Damn."
Mrs. Hudson is uncharacteristically silent for a moment (concern, obviously) and then she says, "Can I - "
"No," he snaps. "I require nothing."
More silence. Gentle reproach, because he shouldn't do that, that's on the 'socially unacceptable' list but he isn't in any mood to care. "...Is he coming back tonight, then?"
Obviously. He'd run off like a -
He'd left John at the crime scene. Without transportation, and he was still laboring under that stupid impression -
Damn! There was always something, wasn't there?
He frantically slams his fingers on the phone keys, texting faster than he ever has before.
Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.
SH
+
By the time John actually arrives, Sherlock has gotten mostly distracted by the criminal case - and the pink one, yes, that too. But then he hears the uneven step on the staircase; the weight of all that imagined pain, and suddenly something in his brain snaps. He hadn't known, before. He'd felt but he hadn't known. He'd seen the heavy cloak of John's deep-set self-loathing, expressing itself in many varied and alarming ways, of course, and he hadn't known what he wanted but he understands, now. He sees his own wish - outwardly a selfless act, perhaps, but intrinsically selfish as all human motivation inevitably is - and he knows what he must do.
He's still putting the pieces together as John enters the room; his mind isn't even a quarter there and he doesn't even try to figure out where John's been.
"You asked me to come, I assume it's important."
His voice is the perfect catalyst. It all comes together.
Sherlock has never met anyone like John. That goes without saying, yes, after all no two people in the world are alike and even with the similarities, John would stand out in a crowd to anyone's eyes, anyone with half a brain and any decent amount of curiosity. But this new, specific wonder comes from the incredible fact that Sherlock is actually able to get him to do anything, even something as stupid and insipid as to send a text for him when he's perfectly capable of doing it himself. And though John grumbles and complains and is certainly not happy about it, he does it, without even demanding an explanation.
Not that most people demand an explanation. Most people don't even consider putting up with any of Sherlock's bullshit.
So. The stage has been set, and conveniently enough, the killer decides to play along. Sherlock had been almost completely certain that he would, but people are occasionally unpredictable. There's always something.
He lets John think he has a choice in the matter. He lets John think he equates him to an inanimate object, to pander to the ridiculous deprecation the man makes of himself. He lets a decidedly flirtatious tone creep into his voice, just to see if John even notices. Of course he doesn't.
But he says 'dangerous', and John follows him as surely as if he were chained.
+
Over the course of 'dinner' they establish two things -
First - John really cannot take a hint. Nor several of them. Very large ones, even. Sherlock puts this down to that damnable self-esteem issue, and stops trying.
Second - John is not nearly as heterosexual as he hypothetically claims. Sherlock could have deduced this earlier, but he hadn't actually thought about it until this very moment, and now of course it's blatantly obvious. Whether his reticence on the subject is a result of the underlying issues or the cause of them, Sherlock has yet to determine.
This new data doesn't help him any, not yet at least, but he's reached a point where any data about John is automatically deemed vital.
He reels him in, or in this case, out.
+
They're running.
In the forefront of his mind there's a map, with snaking red and green lines, but to be perfectly honest he doesn't care, at this point, whether they catch the man or not. It's a damn fool's chance, any idiot could tell you that, but they run and run and run because Sherlock doesn't give John any other option.
It's perfect.
The wind whips in their coats and Sherlock can hear the sound of their feet, out of rhythm with each other but John's steps, oh, they pound like the sweetest of music to the frantic rhythm of Sherlock's heart. He loves, in this moment, he loves so harshly and deeply that he's hard-pressed not a let out an exhilarated laugh - but that would give the game away, save it, save it.
He cannot wait to see the look on his face. He burns with the sheer excitement of it.
And that's it, really, that's the only reason why he lets the cab drive off and writes it off as a mistake. It's the only explanation, yes he's human but he can only be so human in one day and he has to have filled his quota. It's John's fault, then. John's smile and the way he laughs, the way he seems to think that the ridiculous bullshit that comes out of Sherlock's mouth sometimes is actually funny.
Later, he'll look back on this moment and his thoughts will go like this:
How could I have been so stupid? I wanted to be perfect for him. He's a liability. He ran on his own legs all the way back to Baker Street. I could have solved this so much quicker. It was worth it.
After all, humans are selfish creatures, and Sherlock never claims altruism when he takes a case. That settles it, then. There's nothing wrong with a selfish motive.
He presses his back against the wall and tries, unsuccessfully, to keep from beaming.
It all goes to hell, then.
+
Sherlock rushes into a payphone and smacks it, hard, because he damn well doesn't want to go through the rigamrole of paying and dialing when-
It rings, and he snatches the phone off of its hook.
"You're a bastard," he hisses.
"He's in love with you," Mycroft feels the vicious need to point out, for some reason.
"Obviously. Hasn't the slightest idea, though."
They don't have normal conversations. Oh, when other people are around, they attempt to - they make a bit of a game of it, coyly snarking and deducing at each other and showing off their sharp, pretty minds. Alone, however, they can do away with all that.
"I could have him relocated if that would make things easier for you."
"He saved my life."
There's a pause, an actual pause, as Mycroft works out where, when, and how, which tells Sherlock in turn that he hadn't, actually, known about it before this very moment, though he'd certainly pored over every official and mostly-official detail of the case. He was annoyingly nosy when it came to threats on Sherlock's life.
It's less than a second, though. "You wouldn't have died."
"I might have." That statement is like a weight off his chest, relieving because he knows that Mycroft knows how he thinks. "God, Mycroft, he tracked me down and killed a man and we laughed about it afterwards." He followed me, the words between words say. He picked up where I fell short.
"I see. You've made him indispensible in, what, three days? Well done, Sherlock, when you do a thing you do it right." There is no pride in his tone, not even a shred of sincerity.
Sherlock grits his teeth. "Leave him alone."
"I won't move him, if that's what you mean. You've obviously made your choice. But think carefully about what you're doing."
He's been thinking. He's thought plenty in the last three days and the adrenaline's leaving him now, he's about ready to go home (well, that's a new and different thought, and unexpectedly pleasing), spread his orange blanket over the couch as a reminder to wear it in Lestrade's presence as often as possible, then fall gracelessly into bed and sleep so deeply that John has to check to make sure he's alive. Yes, he likes this plan, it's a good plan and it doesn't involve thinking, which is even better.
He hangs up without a word. He doesn't say goodbye, he doesn't tell his brother to stuff it, and he definitely doesn't say I have no idea what I'm doing, but he assumes that Mycroft hears it all anyway.
He gets a text as he's taking his coat off.
I think your brother thinks I love you.
JW
Doesn't everyone?
SH