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"Explain yourself, now!" John ordered as he and Sherlock stepped out of a cab and headed to their 221B Baker Street apartment.
"Pollen, John," Sherlock remarked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. John despised that tone, as it always made him feel foolish in comparison to his bright partner. Now, it has only added fuel to the flames.
"Pollen?" John raised an eyebrow, his voice dangerously calm.
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "As usual, John, you see, but you don’t observe..."
And he began to describe the specifics of their current case: "Pollen is eloquent, John. Each district has its own specific pollen diversity and – "
John reached into his pocket for his keys and unlocked the front door, only half listening to what Sherlock was explaining. His ears were ringing, and the blood throbbing in his temples made a noise so loud that he could hear every fourth word. The adrenaline still coursing through his veins made him dizzy.
"So he accepted her advice and headed to the library to – "
"Alright, alright, you great show-off! Brilliant as ever, but I believe you owe me a different kind of explanation…" John interrupted Sherlock’s enthusiastic stream of deductions with a harsh chuckle.
Just a few people could compete with Sherlock’s intelligence, and John was not one of them; he knew that and accepted it as a fact. He’d never grasp how his extraordinary mind worked. But when it came to matters concerning empathy, the detective could be spectacularly ignorant sometimes.
John strolled in, kicked off his shoes, and hung his jacket on the peg. Sherlock followed him, confused.
"I don’t understand, John!"
John turned to him with a mock surprise on his face. "Say that again? I think I’ll record it on my phone…" he retorted.
"Don’t be silly," Sherlock waved it off with his hand, then grasped the mug with his cold, unfinished coffee from breakfast, drinking it off in one massive gulp.
John leaned into the kitchen unit, feeling the three-day-old case taking its toll. "Silly? Me? I’m not the one who had nearly run into murderer’s arms!"
Sherlock pressed his fingertips against his temples as if John’s words were giving him a migraine. "You’re exaggerating, John. I had everything under control!"
"Bollocks!" John exclaimed, his frayed nerves snapping. "We’ve talked about this, Sherlock! No dashing after criminals on your own!"
He didn’t want to scream, but would it kill Sherlock to at least pretend that he understood how John felt? Or just to keep his comments to himself?!
"Christ, I can’t do this... This is pointless; I could just as well be talking to a brick wall…"
John shook his head and rubbed his forehead. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, close his eyes, and drift off with his boyfriend wrapped around him like a clingy octopus, but that was no longer an option tonight.
"I’m going to bed."
Sherlock cursed as the fifth wooden stair creaked under his foot but continued to sneak upstairs, heading towards John’s bedroom. The last thing he wanted to do was to wake John up.
Ah, finally, there he was.
The detective crept towards the door and pressed his ear to the white wood, listening for any movement that would suggest John was still inside.
The room appeared to be silent.
Sherlock held back a moan of frustration, slumped against the wall, and sank down to the floor. Hugging his knees, he was sitting in the dark hall, staring into the space, unable to shake off the strange, importunate feeling that he'd done something wrong.
‘I can’t do this; this is pointless…’ John had said. Irrational terror grabbed his gut once more. At first, Sherlock assumed John was referring to their argument, but the more he thought about it, the clearer it seemed that it was their relationship that felt pointless to him.
He should have expected something like that would eventually happen. After all, he wasn’t exactly boyfriend material... Way too pale, gangly, rude, and obnoxious, and far too independent in some matters, yet so dependent in everyday life actions. Who could possibly want him for a partner?
Suddenly, the door opened, and the hall became flooded by the onslaught of light coming from the room.
Before Sherlock had time to dodge away, he found himself in an entanglement of limbs and pyjamas with sleepy and very grumpy John Watson.
"Christ, Sherlock, what the hell…?!"
"John, could you just watch where you’re going the next time? Really, what’s the use of turning on the light if you’re not paying attention to your surroundings anyway?" Sherlock reprimanded his drowsy friend, despite the fact that it was his fault.
"Well, maybe if you weren’t sitting in the doorway, I wouldn’t have run into you, you know," John snapped, gasping for air and placing his hand to his heart as he attempted to recover from the initial shock. "What are you doing here, anyway? Go to sleep!"
"I can’t sleep," Sherlock admitted with reluctance.
"Maybe if you’d actually gone into bed, you’d be asleep by now..." John pointed out sarcastically.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can’t go to bed, John…" he insisted in his 'keep up, John’ tone.
John raised an eyebrow at him, but decided not to pursue the matter any further. But God knew for how long… "Stay here, I’ll just pop out to the loo. Then you can tell me why you decided to sleep in front of my bedroom door, alright?" he offered and headed downstairs.
Sherlock realised that this could be his last chance to mend their relationship. Any hasty or nasty remark might shatter their entire life dynamics. He listened to the sound coming from the restroom, and tried not to imagine his existence without them, as well as without the joyful whistling when cooking, the ridiculous typing rhythm, and the way his name sounded when John pronounced it…
His days would be coated with ordinariness, boredom, and loneliness, just as they had been before John waltzed into his life.
And if—although Sherlock hoped they could still find the solution—John actually came to his senses and realised he no longer wanted Sherlock in his life, where would he go, given his modest resources? Indeed, he worked at the medical clinic, but living in London is costly, and Sherlock didn’t want John to live in another mouldy, crowded hostel. But perhaps Mycroft could help? The very idea of asking his brother for a favour made his hair stand on end, but for John, he’d will himself to make an agreement with his pompous sibling.
"Sherlock, are you with me?"
Sherlock blinked out of his pensive state and raised his head. John was standing above him, watching him with a worried frown on his lips. "Hm? Sorry, you were saying?"
"I was asking if you’re okay? It’s highly unusual for you to be murmuring your brother’s name in the middle of the night," John repeated his question, then reached for Sherlock’s hands and helped him to his feet, pulling him into his bedroom.
Sherlock watched him sit on the side of the bed, unsure what to do or say so as not to wreck it altogether. "Alright, what is it? Are you hurt? Did I miss some injury?" John asked, ever the dutiful doctor.
Sherlock shook his head. "No, I’m fine."
The blond rubbed his face and wiped off the traces of eye mucus from the corners of his eyes. "Have you tried taking sleeping pills?" he suggested. "Was that why you came upstairs? So I’d find you some?"
"Pfff, sleeping pills are boring... I’m going to be sluggish and ordinarily obtuse all day tomorrow..." Sherlock mumbled in exasperation, but wished he hadn’t since John flashed him a glare.
He parted his lips in an attempt to change the subject, but John wouldn’t have it. "Then what on earth were you doing at my door in the middle of the night?"
Sherlock’s demeanour crumbled once again, and his defiance evaporated. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling sweat droplets form on his nape. "You know, they say it’s better to be safe than sorry… I wanted to be awake… in case you – " he looked away, and his voice trailed off.
"In case I what?" John inquired.
Sherlock avoided John’s inquisitive gaze and lowered his eyes.
John’s facial features smoothed in understanding, and Sherlock wanted to curl up into a ball and hide. What a sentimental wuss he’s turned into!
"Oh, Sherlock…" the doctor breathed out, watching his boyfriend with a sad smile.
Sherlock shut his eyelids and felt his cheeks redden in shame. "It wouldn’t be the first time. I know I’m difficult to live with, but believe me when I say I don’t take you for granted. I… It’s not like I’m not thinking about you... My focus switches to the case, and I just get distracted –"
Christ, he was rambling like an idiot! Since when is he incapable of finishing a decent sentence without embarrassing himself?
"Come here, you little bugger…"
The detective peeked at John through his dense lashes. John was smiling at him, but not that ‘run while you still have a chance’ smile. The corners of his eyes wrinkled from the genuine expression of amusement and utter devotion.
Sherlock found himself unable to disobey and approached John’s bed with the apprehension of a giant, uncertain cat. His posture oozed with stress, his muscles as taut as the string of his beloved violin, ready to bolt.
John rolled his eyes, reached out for his hand, and quickly drew him closer, causing Sherlock to wobble and tumble down next to him, the mattress sagging under his weight a bit.
"Sherlock, I would never leave you like that. I will never leave unless it’s you who wants me to go," he said and leaned towards his boyfriend, ruffling those luxuriant dark curls.
Sherlock yielded to the affectionate gesture, snorting at the foolish suggestion that he would ever want John to go. As if it were ever possible...
"Yes, I was angry; and for the record, I still am, a bit. I was worried sick about you. In one second, I was talking to you, and then I turned around, and you were gone… But I never wanted to imply that I see our relationship as pointless. You could never be pointless. You give my life meaning and I love you... "
A twinge of remorse settled in Sherlock’s belly, and he realised that if their positions had been reversed, he would have been just as terrified as John. "I love you too, John," he whispered and rested his head on John’s good shoulder so he could sniff at that familiar scent. "I'm sorry."
The corners of John’s mouth tugged at the beginning of another smile. He let his hand slide from Sherlock’s hair and cupped his prominent cheekbone in his palm.
"I know you are... Just… never do that again, please. For me…" he pleaded, and leaned closer to press a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s temple.
"For you," agreed Sherlock. "Does that mean I can sleep here?" he murmured carefully, giving his partner his best puppy-eyes expression, knowing that John could seldom say no to such a look. "I can’t sleep without you..." he admitted coyly.
John huffed at the ridiculousness of his flatmate. "As if I could ever deny you something…" he stated, then lifted the sheet and patted the mattress, defeated. "C’mon, before I change my mind!"
Sherlock couldn’t resist a small smile of victory and slipped under the duvet. With satisfaction, he laid down next to his companion, his head on his heart, his hand possessively stroking his chest. A warm palm covered the back of Sherlock’s hand, exploring his long and delicate digits with its short and calloused ones.
Sherlock sighed in contentment, snuggled closer to John, and curled around his short frame. Then he finally closed his eyes.
"If you’ll steal my blanket, you’re sleeping on the floor..." John spoke into the nocturnal silence after a few minutes of domestic serenity.
His threat was met with a silent, peaceful snore.