Chapter Text
The silence in 221B was punctuated only by the rain pounding against the window, thunder rumbling like distant gunfire, and the heavy footsteps of his friend and flatmate, who paced in boredom. John Watson didn't mind the noise. He absentmindedly watched raindrops race down the glass, his thoughts drifting back to two weeks earlier.
Life with Sherlock Holmes had never been easy; his brilliant mind often felt like a curse. He could drive even a saint to drink with his rudeness and preference for solitude. At times, John questioned whether Sherlock was even human, but the truth was that Sherlock was more human than anyone he had ever known.
From their first meeting to their last, Sherlock had been John's world; he only realized this when he witnessed his best friend fall, his black coat fluttering like a raven's wing. Even two years later, John couldn't shake the memory of Sherlock's body hitting the ground. His best friend had lay lifeless, those once-bright blue eyes full of intelligence now closed forever. John had mourned the loss of the man who could read a person at a glance and who would never again call someone an idiot.
John hadn't moved on, even when the receptionist, Mary, showed every sign of being interested in him. He was too busy grappling with the fact that his feelings for Sherlock were anything but platonic, especially since Sherlock was dead and never coming back. So, he was taken aback two years later when that ass strolled back in, entering with his usual flourish as if nothing had happened.
John would be the first to admit he hadn't handled it very well. He punched Sherlock, and only then did he start demanding answers, only to discover it was all part of a plan. Of course it was; logically, it made sense. Still, that didn't change the fact that the anger he felt in that moment was all-consuming. It faded only slightly when Sherlock told him about the bomb. He and Sherlock were perhaps the only two people in the entire world who could discuss things so clearly while facing the threat of an impending explosion.
But they hadn’t fully resolved their issues, had they? Sherlock may have apologized for pretending to be dead, and John may have forgiven him, but many things remained unsettled. For instance, John’s complicated feelings for Sherlock and Sherlock’s dismissive attitude toward Mary, John’s new friend. If John didn’t know better, he might even think Sherlock was jealous when he believed John and Mary were dating. Which of course they weren't, and Sherlock had looked strangely relieved when that was revealed. But John told himself it was his imagination.
John believed he would never have to confront his feelings, convinced that Sherlock was dead. After a few months of denial, he leaned on his friends Molly and his therapist, without whom he might have been consumed by that denial. Just as he began to accept the truth, Sherlock returned to his life, bringing with him the urgency of saving lives and defusing a bomb. Now, John kept his true feelings hidden, fortunate that Sherlock seemed unaware. If Sherlock did notice, he wasn’t mentioning it, leaving John uncertain about how to feel regarding that possibility.
Sherlock Holmes was back, and they were solving cases together once more. John was determined not to let anything jeopardize that; he couldn't bear to lose Sherlock again.
Sherlock stomped over to the couch and flung himself down, pulling John back to the present. A bored Sherlock was usually a dangerous one. John glanced at him: Sherlock's robe slipped down one shoulder, and his black, curly hair was ruffled from running his fingers through it. He stared up at the ceiling, as if willing the plaster to fall and end his suffering.
A roll of thunder rumbled in the distance, prompting John to let out a soft snort. If Sherlock didn't find something to occupy his brilliant mind, he would surely drive everyone nearby mad.
John reached for his laptop, and though Sherlock glanced over, he remained motionless. As John opened the laptop, he began searching for something—anything—to keep them both engaged.
After half an hour of silence, John finally broke the stillness. “There’s a—”
“Robberies are dull and predictable,” the detective interrupted grumpily.
John dismissed the comment. “A missing person.”
“I’ve already looked into it. She’s not missing; she ran away with her yoga instructor.”
John sighed, trying to contain his frustration. “What about this one? A break-in with no signs of forced entry—”
“An inside job involving one of the residents. Boring.” Sherlock abruptly sat up and stepped onto the coffee table. “All too boring.” He jumped down, and began pacing.
John's eyes tracked the movement, and he licked his lips. Even in his frustration, he had to admit that Sherlock was undeniably attractive, with his striking blue eyes and those skilled violinist hands. Yes, Sherlock wasn't perfect—far from it. Moments like this made that painfully clear, even though John wanted to sit him down in a chair and tie him up to halt the incessant pacing.
His fingers twitched at the unwanted thought of running them through Sherlock’s hair. Would it be as soft as it looked? Would Sherlock allow him to? Aside from The Woman, John hadn’t seen Sherlock interested in anyone. Once again, their very first conversation replayed in his mind. Sherlock was a mystery unto himself, and John wondered if the detective was aware of that—or if he knew and simply didn’t care.
With another sigh, John realized he wasn't finding anything of interest for Mr. Big Brain on his blog. He snatched up the nearest newspaper and began to search through it.
Sherlock stopped by the window, dazing out almost sadly. “It's so horribly peaceful.” He said, a shout of thunder causing the window pain to rattle. “So quiet.” He said as if it was the most horrifying thing in the world.
John shook his head, partially amused by his friend. “There's a good one. Two masked man broke into a bank.”
Sherlock sighed in exasperation as he stomped to his chair and flung himself down like a toddler having a tantrum. “Most likely another inside job. Boring. Predictable.” He began to fidget, bouncing his legs. “It's like a train, John, speeding out of control; my mind feels like it's about to derail. I NEED A CASE!”
“You keep turning down everyone!” John finally snapped.
“Oh, how I envy you.”
John rolled his eyes. “Not this again. Sherlock, just choose something.”
Sherlock got up in a flourish. “Your mind is so simple that barely any thought–”
“Sherlock, choose something or I am.”
Sherlock snatched the newspaper with a huff. “None of them is worth my time.”
“You're driving me mad.”
Sherlock paused, blinking at John for a few seconds, and John knew what was coming next. When Sherlock was bored, he became difficult to handle, like a spoiled child who had his favorite toy taken away. “Earlier, you were staring out the window for 36 minutes and 4 seconds. Whatever you were thinking consumed most of your thoughts. That’s a new shirt—first time wearing it today. Did you just get a new toothbrush? Lost the old one? You recently switched detergents, looking for something softer? And you’re using a different shampoo,” he said, sniffing the air. John thought he had become accustomed to Sherlock's quirks, but being sniffed was still jarring. “Papaya and lavender. You didn’t strike me as the type.”
John knew exactly what Sherlock was trying to get him to do. And it wasn't going to work. “Sherlock.” John sighed, standing. “I'm not going to get you cigarettes.”
Sherlock let out a frustrated moan. “You haven't shaved yet today, which is only two possibilities. Your mind is too occupied with your trivial thoughts, or you're planning on regrowing that horrible–”
“Yes! I got it! You hated the mustache!”
“Everyone did, they were just too polite and simple minded too say it to your face.”
“I was trying something new.”
“I'm just thankful that you came to your senses and shaved it off.” Sherlock said, with a dramatic flourish of his hand.
A flash of lightning darted across the sky, and only a clearing of a throat broke both men out of their argument. A very large guy stood in the doorway, chest heaving from exertion, his eyes wide.
“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked sharply. “We were in the middle of a very important discussion.”
“Sherlock.” John said, shooting his friend a glare. Sherlock dismissed him with a flourish of his hand.
The man stepped inside, wheezing heavily. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as John observed the man, who was drenched and dripping with sweat, his cheeks flushed. He wore a brown suit and a black tie over a button-up white shirt. His messy sandy blonde hair clung to his forehead, and his bright blue eyes looked feverish, with dark circles resembling half moons beneath them. The corners of his eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man whispered hoarsely, as of every word was a struggle to say. “Find who killed me.”
Suddenly, he collapsed onto the floor. John stood in stunned disbelief for a moment before rushing over to check for the man's pulse, but he couldn't find one. Drool dripped from the corner of his mouth, his skin felt hot to the touch.
The doctor in him instinctively began to examine the man's body for injuries, but found none. As John studied the man's eyes more closely, he concluded that he might be under the influence of something. With this in mind, he gently rolled up the sleeve of the man's suit, revealing arms free of any needle marks.
“Now this could be interesting,” Sherlock said, walking around behind John. He paused briefly before walking to the other side of the body, kneeling down, and beginning to examine the man. “Oh yes. This is very interesting,” he said again with almost glee.
John sighed. “Sherlock, a man just died in our flat.”
“Yes, he did,” Sherlock replied, a pleased smile beginning to form on his lips. “Because he was poisoned.”