When Sherlock gazed up at him like that, John felt his breath catch in his throat, swallowing it back and quickly rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "No, only accidentally drugged ones ... which is to say, only you
( ... )
Well, that was that. Case closed. John pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. After another few moments he stood to leave the sitting room, but stopped only two steps away from the chair. Just because Sherlock had changed his mind didn't mean John was ready for it. Perhaps what was hanging him up the most was something Donovan had said. He is 'as asexual as they come.' How she'd found out, or even if she was right was beyond John at the time. But it had stuck, and now he wanted to ask
( ... )
Sherlock groaned irritably, definitely regretting his, at best, offhanded proposition at this point. "Yes. I had noticed. You don't have to be a master of deduction to see it after all the time you've wasted with that woman." he replied, still abjectly refusing to spare John a glance.
"For the love of-I don't care, alright? The matter has been resolved. I'm sick of going on about it, so just let it alone so we can move on with our bloody lives." he grumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest to further retreat into himself. He told himself that he had to have imagined whatever glimpse he saw into a life where he got to sleep in John's bed every night. He thought John was similarly affected, but it was becoming painfully obvious that he severely misjudged that. He supposed he really didn't know anything about how human relationships beyond friendship worked, so it's not a big leap to realize he had been wrong. He wasn't happy about it, of course, which had him leaping up suddenly (still not looking at John) to snatch his
( ... )
That was it. John stepped too far and actually jumped slightly when Sherlock blew up. John's raised brow stare was possibly not what Sherlock was expecting from him, because then the real sulking came about. These were the moments were he escaped to Sarah's, because he had nowhere else to go. The pubs were too dangerous, the clubs were not his scene anymore
( ... )
Sherlock didn't watch for John's reaction, though he didn't really have to when he heard him turn around and take off up the stairs. He dragged the bow across the strings to make louder screeching sounds as he heard John go back to his bedroom. He huffed and stopped playing, wishing that they could just go back to the happy bubble from earlier that day when they were sleepy and laughing and comfortable with each other, rather than the fighting and storming out they were doing now. How had he misjudged everything so severely? He decided he must've been tired and mistook John doing his job as a doctor for something more. He set his violin aside and buried his hands in his hair with a groan of frustration, hating how even doing that reminded him of when John had massaged his scalp to calm him down
( ... )
It was a certain circumstance that made John care too much. It was enough to scare the piss out of him, hence that flight. John closed his eyes and dropped his head to rest it against his chin. Before he turned away from the doorway to the sitting room, John remembered Sherlock explaining his 'desperate times call for desperate measures' speech from before. He wouldn't be daft enough to relapse
( ... )
Sherlock flicked his eyes up to John for the first time during this ordeal, gaze narrowed into a perturbed glare. He definitely heard that, and it cut way deeper than it rightly should have to know that John was only staying because he didn't trust him and not because he wanted to. For all of his intellectual prowess, he couldn't understand how things had changed so drastically from this morning. He should have guessed that any inclination he ever had towards an actual relationship with someone would blow up in his face like this. Maybe if he never said anything they'd still be upstairs
( ... )
He felt like a rolling snowball down a hill, gaining not only the weight of the snow like a heavy set feeling in his shoulders, but also that it was racing faster than he could catch up to it and stop it from getting any more debilitating. John made it to the Tesco and went straight for the tabacco counter, getting a pack of his old friends, and a new bic. Immediately upon leaving the shop, John had already pounded the pack, taken the wrappers off and was fishing for the first one. He didn't notice the tremble in his hand when he raised it to his lips and felt the familiar flick of a brand new lighter. The spike of heat from that tiny flame was felt against his palm as the wind caught it on its way to lighting the tip of the fag. The first inhale erased nearly ten years of being tobacco free. Way to go, John
( ... )
After a few moments of silent brooding, Sherlock fished in his nightstand for his nicotine patches. He slapped two on his arm and gave it a second for them to kick in. He felt slightly better once the nicotine got into his system, finally able to relax and come down from the frustration from earlier. It had always been so easy for him not to care about people, so why should John be any different? Good riddance to that irritating sensation approaching actual emotion. He had gotten along just fine until now keeping people at arm's length, and just because he had a fleeting fancy for sleeping in John's bed didn't mean that had to change. He was out of his head on detox symptoms, that had to have been it. Attaching that logic to it was comforting, and made him feel like somewhat less of an emotional mess
( ... )
When he returned to 221b Baker, he was still a bit self conscious about the smell of smoke on his jacket and actually left it on the downstairs hook for the time being. He returned to the sitting room to see Sherlock right there on the couch. John gave a mental sigh of relief at that. If his footsteps weren't enough, John cleared his throat as he entered the sitting room just to kick off his shoes.
Sherlock was blankly staring at the telly and John was reminded of the other night he'd watched Sherlock engrossed in shite programing. It was a rather dismal scene, but it was a safe one.
Sherlock watched the tv in vague interest, hearing John's footsteps after a moment to announce his return. He didn't look up until John cleared his throat in an effort to get him to acknowledge him.
"Welcome back." was his simple and unaffected reply, immediately turning his attention back to the telly after he did so. There were no remains of anger from the fight in his demeanor, and he was just fine with pretending nothing happened and that he didn't almost-but-not-quite profess his something-resembling-romantic-affection less than an hour ago. He just wanted things to get back to something approaching normal (or, normal for them, anyway), and ignoring the incident completely seemed to be the best way to go about that. He certainly wouldn't be bringing it up again. He felt like enough of an idiot as it was, and he didn't take well to that feeling at all. He continued to contentedly watch telly, wondering if John would say anything or take to casting the incident out of his memory as Sherlock had.
A physical sigh left his lips then, realizing that a) Sherlock hadn't ruined his detox by cooking up another hit or leaving the flat to find anything and b) Sherlock wanted to forget about the fight as much as John had. It didn't mean that his shields were put away just yet. That had been too close to watching it all spiral out of control. Breaking his ten year hiatus on smoking wasn't exactly the best decision, but it was just momentary relief. He'd most likely pitch them in the morning and not have another one for ten more years
( ... )
Sherlock just stretched languidly and slumped against the couch once again, hearing John take off up the stairs without watching him. He sighed, disappointed that things were still different, despite his best efforts to forget the incident completely. He waited until he heard John shut himself in his room before standing to move to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. He paused where John had just stood, catching a faint but unmistakable hint of cigarette smoke in the air. It hit him in that moment that he had damaged things more than he'd anticipated; possibly irreparably. John was afraid that Sherlock was so desperate that he would badger him with more unwanted advances, enough that it drove him to nicotine when Sherlock had never seen him smoke
( ... )
He'd been laying down with his eyes closed for about ten minutes before he could smell the waft of smoke through the crack in his door. It was faint, but distinctively his B&H's. Giving an exasperated sigh, he realized then that just the smell made him want one even more. Sherlock had found his smokes and was downstairs, in the sitting room, smoking them. The anger of the moment swelled and then immediately died down
( ... )
Sherlock spared a quick glance when John entered, immediately flicking his eyes back to watch the street below when he was sure John wasn't about to throttle him for stealing a cigarette. He was prepared for at least some chastising about it, and he was distantly surprised that all John did was light up as well and sit next to him. He self-consciously pulled his legs in closer, wanting to keep a safe distance so he wouldn't be tempted to try to touch him again. He didn't know why the urge was still there after it had blown up so spectacularly in his face the first time. He was sure it would go away eventually if he just ignored it, having never craved touch in his entire life up to that point. He hummed softly around the cigarette, exhaling the smoke out the window after John spoke
( ... )
Now that it appeared they were on speaking terms again, John finding that distance was sometimes the best way to deal with something, he couldn't help the tiniest of smiles at his attempt at a joke. He was about to say that he could borrow one, like he did just about everything else of John's, but that was too-- something
( ... )
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"For the love of-I don't care, alright? The matter has been resolved. I'm sick of going on about it, so just let it alone so we can move on with our bloody lives." he grumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest to further retreat into himself. He told himself that he had to have imagined whatever glimpse he saw into a life where he got to sleep in John's bed every night. He thought John was similarly affected, but it was becoming painfully obvious that he severely misjudged that. He supposed he really didn't know anything about how human relationships beyond friendship worked, so it's not a big leap to realize he had been wrong. He wasn't happy about it, of course, which had him leaping up suddenly (still not looking at John) to snatch his ( ... )
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Sherlock was blankly staring at the telly and John was reminded of the other night he'd watched Sherlock engrossed in shite programing. It was a rather dismal scene, but it was a safe one.
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"Welcome back." was his simple and unaffected reply, immediately turning his attention back to the telly after he did so. There were no remains of anger from the fight in his demeanor, and he was just fine with pretending nothing happened and that he didn't almost-but-not-quite profess his something-resembling-romantic-affection less than an hour ago. He just wanted things to get back to something approaching normal (or, normal for them, anyway), and ignoring the incident completely seemed to be the best way to go about that. He certainly wouldn't be bringing it up again. He felt like enough of an idiot as it was, and he didn't take well to that feeling at all. He continued to contentedly watch telly, wondering if John would say anything or take to casting the incident out of his memory as Sherlock had.
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