Three Patch Problem

Another case was solved, proving once again that the world always underestimated my brilliance. Even my most rapid fire deductions could sometimes get quite dull, especially considering how few people stood by my side to nod and acknowledge that I actually have something of import to say. Of course my techniques are a little unorthodox, but it is relentlessly irritating that the cockroaches skittering around Scotland Yard look at me as though I eat small children for supper every night when nine times out of ten I manage to save them.

Of course John doesn't, he bounces on the balls of his feet and says brilliant as he does every time in his ratty thrift store sweater. He has settled in for the night now; I click through his blog quietly as I hear his clothes hit the floor and the springs on his mattress depressing. An edit here and there. Sherlock Holmes is NOT an idiot. Delete the bit about not knowing who Sandra Bollocks… oh, Bullock… is. Who pays attention to ridiculous nonsense like movie stars, really? I'm not a bloody talk show host.

After fiddling with the blog (I'm sure he'll either blow up at me or thank me later) I close my eyes. The case was a bit of a strain, all that getting shot at. Fun, but I'm a little weary. About five minutes is what I need… I start to doze off in my chair as the silence of the flat anesthetizes my brain temporarily like a reset button. Five minutes, and my eyes flick open again. Now I'm starting to get bored. My mind needs work! It needs a case! But it's highly unlikely that Lestrade is going to call me again tonight with something to keep my mind occupied.

I check on an experiment in the freezer. No progress. It stares back at me. The corner of my mouth flicks up slightly. I rotate it 180 degrees. There's a chance that the electricity is on the fritz a bit, and while it would be amusing even Mrs. Hudson's temper might be frayed if a workman saw a head in the freezer. I stack a tub of ice cream and some ground chicken in front of it.

My stomach is starting to tie itself in knots, and it's not from the experiment in the freezer. I ignore the sensation, even though I know that eventually I'm going to act on my somewhat perverse instincts. A book that John insists is halfway decent is on the coffee table. I skim the back cover. Fool author. Turn on the telly. I am entertained for half an hour by a poorly filmed unsolved mystery. Consider calling the police precinct in New York telling them I've solved it, and they're all fools, but distracted by a slow exhale of breath from John's room that indicates that he's settled into deep REM.

I know where to step on each step so it doesn't make a sound. John's room is fresh and clean compared to mine, A pile of dirty laundry in a corner, a stack of medical journals on the nightstand, and John himself burrowed under the covers. I settle down in a chair in the corner and watch him. Somewhere deep in that primitive brain John understands that he should adore me. He is so attracted to the heady danger that follows me like a shadow that he is conscious of it, and has rationalized it with god knows what superstition. He probably likes to think he's a hero and I'm an avenging angel or some nonsense. I see it in his eyes whenever he looks at me. That resolve to guard me with such steadfast loyalty is almost palpable.

Steepling my fingers I smile to myself. He wants me physically. I knew it since our first dinner together at the diner, him asking me so many absurd questions about being attached. He is so confused though, he is not sure what part of the attraction is for the danger and what part is for me. I have seen him as I have walked towards him when he is being held at gunpoint. He stared over some perpetrator's shoulder at me with that quiet army resolve. He understands my abilities and my limitations. He knows that I can walk as silently as a cat behind another person, and apply the pressure necessary to break the gunman's arm within seconds, but he knows I can't always predict when the trigger will be squeezed. Nonetheless, I saw him flick his tongue across his lips, almost in anticipation right before I grabbed the gunman's arm. He laughed, not in relief but in real humor as he staggered, clutching my jacket as the perpetrator fell screaming to the ground, looking at us, but particularly at him, as if he was some kind of monster. I'm sure John thought that gaze was meant for me.

While he was laughing at that adrenaline rush, I was half tempted to pull the gun up to his temple and order him to kiss me. In that state, with that buzz in his brain he would have, still laughing. I could imagine bending over him, his mouth slightly rough against mine. I could imaging clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer and feeling his lust and worship for me in his arms, still shaking from adrenaline and amusement.

The next day he would leave, however. Dr. John Watson, always aware of propriety and societal constraints. I would push you to your brink, and you would love it, but when you looked over the edge and saw exactly what you wanted it would terrify you.

"Sherlock?" I glance up quickly.

"What is it John?"

"This is the fourth time you've sat in my room like this. Your breathing wakes me up. It's a little disconcerting."

I am momentarily surprised that my light breathing could wake him. But I think of his army training and his experience in Afganistan and it makes sense. "Humor me. It helps me think."

"I thought we already solved the case."

"I'm thinking about something else."

There is a brief silence. "I mean, I don't mind really. I mean…" John yawned. "You could kill me but you don't."

There was something Mummy used to say about love being expressed differently by different people. Mycroft would probably remember it better than I. "That's the same way I think about you John. You could kill me, or at least run away screaming. But you don't."

I considered going over to the bed, taking off my suit, and pressing up against his body, hot with blanket warmth. A few times before I had tried with other people; for research and experiments, sometimes for cases; sometimes with men, sometimes with women. Their bodies were always hot and sticky, mine cool and dry. I never could do more than lie there, watching the ridiculous display of human emotion and exertion play across their faces. Once in the middle of it I said to a woman "Really, is this fun for you?" as she attempted something described as "reverse cowboy". Apparently that wasn't the appropriate response. In this moment, I realize, I would try again for John.

"John…" I hesitate, unsure how to continue. "…I need a case."

"Don't be daft! We just...finished…"

There is a brief pause accompanied the creak of the springs as he sat up in bed. I realize that I am still looking down at my hands and John Watson's eyes have had plenty of time to adjust to the dark. Looking down could indicate depression, or heaven forbid, embarrassment. I look up briskly. There was a rustle as John got out of bed and padded over to the chair. A warm hand rested on my shoulder. I look up into his slightly craggy face which is not-boring but in a familiar sort of way. "You should go to bed Sherlock."

Our eyes connected. I looked at him calmly until he flinched and looked down, removing his hand. Conversational dominance regained. Good. "John, I know what kinds of situations you love to be in. And adrenaline is the only emotional response I can't remove from my hard-drive for any length of time."

His face spasmed in something that looked like a fearful grin. "Okay creepy flatmate, off to bed. I can bear you going on and on about your expansive hard-drive and mind-palace in the sitting room, but we're not doing this while I'm trying to fall asleep. Out!"

The door clicked shut behind me. The corner of my mouth twitches upwards. Perhaps I have, at least temporarily found a solution to my boredom. This could possibly become a three patch problem.