Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes (3/6)
Sep. 1st, 2012 07:50 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluetears07Title: Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes (3/6)
Paring: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock encounters a young boy with no name, an appetite and a bit of a temper. Now, he finally meets the man his young friend has become. But how does this man know John Watson?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction.
AN: Potentially disturbing, some mentions of violence and a non-con kiss.
“John,” Sherlock calls out the second he hears the John’s footfalls coming down the stairs. The footsteps pause; one particularly old floorboard creaks as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other—patient but wary. Rightfully so, Sherlock thinks to himself, a wry smile curling up the corners of his lips. “Could you send a text before you scurry off to work?”
“Honestly,” John sighs loud enough for Sherlock to hear—which is rather the point—as he jogs down the remaining stairs. He glances around the kitchen briefly, scanning the table where Sherlock sits conducting some bizarre experiment, before giving up and opening his mouth to inquire where the man’s mobile is hiding this time. “Left,” Sherlock answers tersely, nodding to his trouser pockets.
Reluctant but always loyal, John crosses the small room to assist his flatmate. He stares pointedly at the kitchen sink with a longsuffering expression as he blindly fishes Sherlock’s mobile out of the front pocket.
“Did you happen to notice if…?” John begins, struggling to find the precise tenor that might register as ‘casual’ before trailing off as he scrolls through a longwinded text from Sebastian Wilkes. The man has the nerve to ask once more for Sherlock’s help with some inane security matter—though the price is more than worth the meagre amount of time it would most likely take Sherlock to solve the case. “No,” John tosses the mobile onto the table; it skidders across the linoleum surface and bumps into Sherlock’s elbow. Mildly puzzled by John’s reaction, Sherlock glances up to examine the other man’s face. There is a faint flush creeping up John’s throat, pulse slightly accelerated, lips twisted down in a familiar frown, clearly he is rather agitated and full of unchecked disapproval. “He’s a prick,” John says, putting it plainly.
“Obviously,” Sherlock responds, voice flat and bored with what he has deemed a serious overreaction on John’s behalf. He turns back to his work, gently nudging the mobile in John’s direction with a sharp elbow.
“We don’t need the money,” John explains while he starts banging around the kitchen, shoving two slices of bread into the toaster and grabbing the nearly empty jar of strawberry jam. “Especially with all the extra shifts I’ve been putting in.” The glass bottom thunks against the countertop, followed by the clatter of a knife and plate.
“It’s an interesting case.”
“What about that double homicide yesterday?” John counters through a mouthful of toast as he paces in tight circles behind Sherlock. “What happened to that?” A few crumb spill down his front as he stops cold for a few moments.
“Jealous boyfriend, murder—suicide. Basic.” The word comes out short and clipped, hitting each consonant hard over the head. “I need something a bit more challenging than a cheating lover to get the blood going.” Sherlock pauses, carefully peeling off one surgical glove before finally picking up his own mobile. He starts to type out a response to Wilkes. John makes a grab for the device.
“It’s just an excuse for him to tease you,” John blurts out as Sherlock nimbly outmanoeuvres him, switching the mobile to his other hand and continues texting. “You know that, Sherlock.” The words register and Sherlock’s head whirls around, levelling John with a painfully blank stare. Awkwardly attempting to salvage the moment, he opens and closes his mouth several times before giving up with a heavy sigh. “I have to go.”
He slips out of the kitchen.
“We’re out of tea.”
He hears John pause on the staircase; it groans as he shuffles around for a moment before pressing on.
“I won’t be back until late.”
A harsh banging at the front door breaks Sherlock’s concentration just as he is about to begin his third and final titration. With an exasperated sigh, he abandons his experiment in favour of answering the door. The pounding sound continues, unrelenting and mounting in severity. Subjectively, he should be apprehensive of what lies on the other side instead of the tantalising beginnings of mild intrigue.
John leans against the doorframe with a wicked grin—or rather, a man who is the mirror image of John Watson as he must have been several years ago, perhaps in his early twenties, before Afghanistan.
“John?” It slips out of Sherlock’s mouth despite the impossibility that it is in fact a young John standing before him.
“Please,” the man rolls his eye; the other is swollen shut.
Everything about him is wrong.
This man, this man who wears a face so similar to John’s, only younger, brighter, is impossible to read. Sherlock searches his odd face, his clothes, his posture but can only piece together the most basic facts.
Who is he?
“Are you a relative?” Sherlock prompts, extending an arm across the doorway to block the man’s entrance. The man is taller than John, by at least a few inches, practically on level with Sherlock. He cannot figure it out, he’s grasping at thin straws trying to fit each scattered observation together into something coherent and workable. But it is merely a jumbled mess of data that does not make sense.
“A friend,” the man responds after a thoughtful pause, smiling again as he licks at the blood smeared around his mouth. “Oh, sorry, ‘colleague’,” he corrects himself, emphasising the word with exaggerated air quotes. A wide smirk engulfs his features, twisting them into something strange and almost inhuman. He takes a step inside the flat, easily pushing Sherlock’s arm out of the way. Each finger clenches tight around his thin wrist with the force to bruise or break, if only Sherlock flinched at the wrong moment. The man heads straight for the kitchen. “You got any wine—you look like the type to drink wine, yeah?”
Sherlock is one step behind him, eyes narrowed. He moves carefully, cautiously, trying to gauge the wild animal of a man.
“Who was he?”
Wine bottle uncorked and halfway to his pursed lips, the man grunts in mild confusion.
“The man you nearly killed.” Sherlock supplies as the man continues to drink straight from the bottle of red wine. “Obviously you were in a fight, but you won.” Despite the copious amount of blood splattered up his front and smeared over his face there are very few open wounds visible on his body—he was the superior fighter. “Someone taller, large hands, according to the bruising, probably male.” Sherlock gestures to the black eye forming on the man’s face, pantomiming the angle of the punch. He glances down to the man’s hands, blood and most likely skin beneath each of the blunt fingernails. Impassioned. Nasty and vindictive. “It was personal, very personal.” His eyes flick back up to the man’s mouth smeared with blood, but find no split lip or excessive bruising around the area. “You don’t bite into someone’s flesh during a rational dispute.” The man’s eyes darken, lowering the bottle as he truly examines Sherlock for the first time. “He threatened someone you care about, deeply.”
“Brilliant.” He drops the empty wine bottle in the sink. The bottom shatters, splintering into four large pieces of jagged green glass. Pushing off from the counter, the man closes the space between himself and Sherlock. “I see why he fancies you.” He knocks his hip against Sherlock’s with a salacious wink.
“Pardon?” Sherlock remains calm as the other man turns back to the cabinets, presumably searching for more wine.
“John,” he tosses over his shoulder.
“So you do know John.”
“Oh, perfection,” the man moans, enraptured with his discovery. In the same cabinet where the little boy found his package of biscuits sits an unopened bottle of red wine and a box of Jaffa cakes. “So predictable, our John.” He pulls down the new box of sweets and viciously tears it open.
Sherlock has never once seen John eat a Jaffa cake.
“How do you know John?”
“We go way back.” The man laughs but it is a dark and deep sound buried within his chest—completely devoid of any mirth. “You want one?” He offers the tattered box but snatches it back before Sherlock has the chance to respond. “No? Good.” Stuffing another cake into his mouth, he takes a swig of wine, twin streams running down his chin to stain his white button down.
“You went to school together.” Sherlock states emphatically, finally coming to some concrete conclusion about the odd man guzzling down his flatmate’s wine and calling him a ‘colleague.’
“Oh,” he sighs happily, sucking melted chocolate off his thumb, nibbling a bit at the flesh with a knowing smile that makes Sherlock’s blood run cold. “He’s told me loads about you.” The man is clearly avoiding confirming or denying Sherlock’s statement and taking delight in toying with him. “Well, when I say told…” he laughs to himself, enjoying whatever inside joke Sherlock is not privy to understanding fully.
“When did you last speak with John Watson?” Sherlock asks, maintaining his air of calm while defensively folding his arms over his chest.
“This evening, just a few hours ago, actually.” The man corners Sherlock, gripping the counter on either side of his hips with an unmovable strength. “You know, he really disapproves of your old mate Sebastian.” He slowly licks his lips, the one undamaged eye roaming appreciatively over Sherlock’s body. “I think he was going to go give him a piece of his mind. Make him leave you alone. For good.”
“Wilkes?”
“That’s the one,” he drawls, his eye zeroing in on the slight part of Sherlock’s lips. The countertop creaks behind him, bending under the pressure of the man’s firm grasp. “Hope it didn’t get too physical.” He leans in closer, breathing deeply through his nose. Sherlock stiffens as a slick tongue flicks out to slide along the pale stretch of skin beneath his jaw.
“Get off of me.” He tries to wrench himself free but the man barely moves, impossible strength hidden in the coiled muscles of his limbs. Lips press against the cartilage of Sherlock’s ear.
“Your excited by this,” he whispers, a grin obvious in his voice as he faintly sniffs the air. Another dark laugh bubbles up in his throat, the sound tumbling around in Sherlock’s head. “Why? Cause I look like him?” He feels completely paralysed, a thousand cutting remarks spring to the top of his head but none make it past his clenched teeth. Arching back, the man presses his narrow hips flush against Sherlock’s. The man tilts his head, blue eyes narrowed as he considers the preposterous idea. “What a laugh. He’d love to hear that one…” Trailing off, voice dripping with lascivious sarcasm, he catches Sherlock’s lips in a biting kiss. Sherlock remains unresponsive and the man draws back when there is no greatly anticipated struggle. “Aww,” he reaches up to run the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lower lip, smearing their saliva over the abused flesh. “But there is no fun in it if he doesn’t know.” Plucking up the bottle of wine and sweets, he turns and leaves Sherlock behind to totter off in the direction of the flat’s common room.
After a few minutes, a thud and a moan, Sherlock ventures out to find the man passed out on the couch clutching the now empty bottle.
Sherlock sits at the worktable in the common room the whole night through, quietly observing, taking notes about the subtle differences between the man and John. He watches as the figure curls up into a tight ball, drawing his knees up to his chest. A textbook foetal position. When he unfurls over an hour later the body seems smaller, shorter, more compact and distinctly more John-shaped.
Fascinating.
There is a low, pained groan from the couch, muffled faintly by the cushions. It draws Sherlock’s attention away from updating his notes. He snaps the laptop closed, staring at John, the real John, collapsed on the sofa across the room.
“John,” Sherlock calls out, fingers hooking around the handcuffs resting beside the laptop, just in case. The body rolls away from the sound of Sherlock’s voice, burying his head further in to the cushions. Obviously hung over. Another groan of pain comes from John’s vicinity as he slowly reaches up to gently examine the swelling around his eye and cheek. “When did you get back last night?” Sherlock presses, watching John twists around to lie on his back, taking pressure off the inflamed area.
“Late,” he mumbles, eyes still closed with his hands covering them. He slowly draws himself up into a sitting position, back to the armrest.
“Do you remember?” Sherlock crosses the room to stand over John, staring down as the other man struggles to piece together his memories of the previous night. He reaches down to examine the black eye and is a little surprised when John does not protest, merely hissing through his teeth in pain.
“I—I”
“What about the night before?” He prompts, pressing on as he takes a step back to better scrutinize John’s reaction. Perhaps there is some tell he has overlooked, something obscured by the brutish man. “Have there been any gaps in your memory over the last couple nights. Anything strange?” A look flickers across John’s face, a split second of fleeting resemblance. It quickly disappears.
“I think I’ve just developed a bit of sleepwalking.” John confesses as if the matter was of no consequence, completely commonplace. “With all the added stress and long hours…” He fidgets uncomfortably, continuously prodding the swollen flesh around his eye with a strange fascination unbecoming of a medical doctor. Swallowing thickly, he licks his lips repeatedly, an odd taste lingering in his mouth.
“Sleepwalking?” Sherlock stares pointedly at John’s rather spectacular black eye and the dried blood.
“Yeah,” John mutters half-heartedly as he stand, wiping his mouth with the back of a sleeve. He brushes past Sherlock, gradually shuffling into the kitchen to pour himself a tall glass of water. If Sherlock’s theory is correct then John must be experiencing one hell of a hangover. “I’ve been sleeping quite a lot actually,” he says before draining the glass. “But I never feel rested and all of my joints ache.” Glancing down at himself, he pulls up his shirt to sniff the stained fabric. “Did you bathe me in wine?” He asks with a grimace. “I must have fallen asleep at work last night.”
“Call in sick.” Sherlock orders tersely, snatching the drinking glass away. “I want to observe you.”
“Sherlock, I can’t.” It comes out weak and tired as John slumps against the countertop—still sleepy and confused. “You know I’m th—“
“You are ill,” he counters, cutting John off, “and exhausted and were clearly in a fight last night. You cannot go into work in such a state.” For the first time, John really examines his own bedraggled appearance. A strange sound of disgust escapes his lips. He almost folds in on himself, knees buckling slightly. “I need to monitor this new ‘habit’ of yours.” Sherlock grabs him by the wrist, tugging him back into the common room. “If it is related to your PTSD then we must make sure you are not endangering yourself anymore than you already have.”
“We?” John asks, plopping back down onto the couch.
“Yes, we, John.” He holds the other man’s gaze for a half second longer than necessary. “My blogger can’t be wandering around all night in a daze, drinking and getting into ‘sleepwalking’ brawls.”
“Right,” he agrees, sleepily nodding his head and not really registering Sherlock’s words. “But first, I think I’d like to just take a bit of a nap…”
All Sherlock can think about is who he is going to meet this time?
Paring: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock encounters a young boy with no name, an appetite and a bit of a temper. Now, he finally meets the man his young friend has become. But how does this man know John Watson?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction.
AN: Potentially disturbing, some mentions of violence and a non-con kiss.
Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes
“John,” Sherlock calls out the second he hears the John’s footfalls coming down the stairs. The footsteps pause; one particularly old floorboard creaks as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other—patient but wary. Rightfully so, Sherlock thinks to himself, a wry smile curling up the corners of his lips. “Could you send a text before you scurry off to work?”
“Honestly,” John sighs loud enough for Sherlock to hear—which is rather the point—as he jogs down the remaining stairs. He glances around the kitchen briefly, scanning the table where Sherlock sits conducting some bizarre experiment, before giving up and opening his mouth to inquire where the man’s mobile is hiding this time. “Left,” Sherlock answers tersely, nodding to his trouser pockets.
Reluctant but always loyal, John crosses the small room to assist his flatmate. He stares pointedly at the kitchen sink with a longsuffering expression as he blindly fishes Sherlock’s mobile out of the front pocket.
“Did you happen to notice if…?” John begins, struggling to find the precise tenor that might register as ‘casual’ before trailing off as he scrolls through a longwinded text from Sebastian Wilkes. The man has the nerve to ask once more for Sherlock’s help with some inane security matter—though the price is more than worth the meagre amount of time it would most likely take Sherlock to solve the case. “No,” John tosses the mobile onto the table; it skidders across the linoleum surface and bumps into Sherlock’s elbow. Mildly puzzled by John’s reaction, Sherlock glances up to examine the other man’s face. There is a faint flush creeping up John’s throat, pulse slightly accelerated, lips twisted down in a familiar frown, clearly he is rather agitated and full of unchecked disapproval. “He’s a prick,” John says, putting it plainly.
“Obviously,” Sherlock responds, voice flat and bored with what he has deemed a serious overreaction on John’s behalf. He turns back to his work, gently nudging the mobile in John’s direction with a sharp elbow.
“We don’t need the money,” John explains while he starts banging around the kitchen, shoving two slices of bread into the toaster and grabbing the nearly empty jar of strawberry jam. “Especially with all the extra shifts I’ve been putting in.” The glass bottom thunks against the countertop, followed by the clatter of a knife and plate.
“It’s an interesting case.”
“What about that double homicide yesterday?” John counters through a mouthful of toast as he paces in tight circles behind Sherlock. “What happened to that?” A few crumb spill down his front as he stops cold for a few moments.
“Jealous boyfriend, murder—suicide. Basic.” The word comes out short and clipped, hitting each consonant hard over the head. “I need something a bit more challenging than a cheating lover to get the blood going.” Sherlock pauses, carefully peeling off one surgical glove before finally picking up his own mobile. He starts to type out a response to Wilkes. John makes a grab for the device.
“It’s just an excuse for him to tease you,” John blurts out as Sherlock nimbly outmanoeuvres him, switching the mobile to his other hand and continues texting. “You know that, Sherlock.” The words register and Sherlock’s head whirls around, levelling John with a painfully blank stare. Awkwardly attempting to salvage the moment, he opens and closes his mouth several times before giving up with a heavy sigh. “I have to go.”
He slips out of the kitchen.
“We’re out of tea.”
He hears John pause on the staircase; it groans as he shuffles around for a moment before pressing on.
“I won’t be back until late.”
A harsh banging at the front door breaks Sherlock’s concentration just as he is about to begin his third and final titration. With an exasperated sigh, he abandons his experiment in favour of answering the door. The pounding sound continues, unrelenting and mounting in severity. Subjectively, he should be apprehensive of what lies on the other side instead of the tantalising beginnings of mild intrigue.
John leans against the doorframe with a wicked grin—or rather, a man who is the mirror image of John Watson as he must have been several years ago, perhaps in his early twenties, before Afghanistan.
“John?” It slips out of Sherlock’s mouth despite the impossibility that it is in fact a young John standing before him.
“Please,” the man rolls his eye; the other is swollen shut.
Everything about him is wrong.
This man, this man who wears a face so similar to John’s, only younger, brighter, is impossible to read. Sherlock searches his odd face, his clothes, his posture but can only piece together the most basic facts.
Who is he?
“Are you a relative?” Sherlock prompts, extending an arm across the doorway to block the man’s entrance. The man is taller than John, by at least a few inches, practically on level with Sherlock. He cannot figure it out, he’s grasping at thin straws trying to fit each scattered observation together into something coherent and workable. But it is merely a jumbled mess of data that does not make sense.
“A friend,” the man responds after a thoughtful pause, smiling again as he licks at the blood smeared around his mouth. “Oh, sorry, ‘colleague’,” he corrects himself, emphasising the word with exaggerated air quotes. A wide smirk engulfs his features, twisting them into something strange and almost inhuman. He takes a step inside the flat, easily pushing Sherlock’s arm out of the way. Each finger clenches tight around his thin wrist with the force to bruise or break, if only Sherlock flinched at the wrong moment. The man heads straight for the kitchen. “You got any wine—you look like the type to drink wine, yeah?”
Sherlock is one step behind him, eyes narrowed. He moves carefully, cautiously, trying to gauge the wild animal of a man.
“Who was he?”
Wine bottle uncorked and halfway to his pursed lips, the man grunts in mild confusion.
“The man you nearly killed.” Sherlock supplies as the man continues to drink straight from the bottle of red wine. “Obviously you were in a fight, but you won.” Despite the copious amount of blood splattered up his front and smeared over his face there are very few open wounds visible on his body—he was the superior fighter. “Someone taller, large hands, according to the bruising, probably male.” Sherlock gestures to the black eye forming on the man’s face, pantomiming the angle of the punch. He glances down to the man’s hands, blood and most likely skin beneath each of the blunt fingernails. Impassioned. Nasty and vindictive. “It was personal, very personal.” His eyes flick back up to the man’s mouth smeared with blood, but find no split lip or excessive bruising around the area. “You don’t bite into someone’s flesh during a rational dispute.” The man’s eyes darken, lowering the bottle as he truly examines Sherlock for the first time. “He threatened someone you care about, deeply.”
“Brilliant.” He drops the empty wine bottle in the sink. The bottom shatters, splintering into four large pieces of jagged green glass. Pushing off from the counter, the man closes the space between himself and Sherlock. “I see why he fancies you.” He knocks his hip against Sherlock’s with a salacious wink.
“Pardon?” Sherlock remains calm as the other man turns back to the cabinets, presumably searching for more wine.
“John,” he tosses over his shoulder.
“So you do know John.”
“Oh, perfection,” the man moans, enraptured with his discovery. In the same cabinet where the little boy found his package of biscuits sits an unopened bottle of red wine and a box of Jaffa cakes. “So predictable, our John.” He pulls down the new box of sweets and viciously tears it open.
Sherlock has never once seen John eat a Jaffa cake.
“How do you know John?”
“We go way back.” The man laughs but it is a dark and deep sound buried within his chest—completely devoid of any mirth. “You want one?” He offers the tattered box but snatches it back before Sherlock has the chance to respond. “No? Good.” Stuffing another cake into his mouth, he takes a swig of wine, twin streams running down his chin to stain his white button down.
“You went to school together.” Sherlock states emphatically, finally coming to some concrete conclusion about the odd man guzzling down his flatmate’s wine and calling him a ‘colleague.’
“Oh,” he sighs happily, sucking melted chocolate off his thumb, nibbling a bit at the flesh with a knowing smile that makes Sherlock’s blood run cold. “He’s told me loads about you.” The man is clearly avoiding confirming or denying Sherlock’s statement and taking delight in toying with him. “Well, when I say told…” he laughs to himself, enjoying whatever inside joke Sherlock is not privy to understanding fully.
“When did you last speak with John Watson?” Sherlock asks, maintaining his air of calm while defensively folding his arms over his chest.
“This evening, just a few hours ago, actually.” The man corners Sherlock, gripping the counter on either side of his hips with an unmovable strength. “You know, he really disapproves of your old mate Sebastian.” He slowly licks his lips, the one undamaged eye roaming appreciatively over Sherlock’s body. “I think he was going to go give him a piece of his mind. Make him leave you alone. For good.”
“Wilkes?”
“That’s the one,” he drawls, his eye zeroing in on the slight part of Sherlock’s lips. The countertop creaks behind him, bending under the pressure of the man’s firm grasp. “Hope it didn’t get too physical.” He leans in closer, breathing deeply through his nose. Sherlock stiffens as a slick tongue flicks out to slide along the pale stretch of skin beneath his jaw.
“Get off of me.” He tries to wrench himself free but the man barely moves, impossible strength hidden in the coiled muscles of his limbs. Lips press against the cartilage of Sherlock’s ear.
“Your excited by this,” he whispers, a grin obvious in his voice as he faintly sniffs the air. Another dark laugh bubbles up in his throat, the sound tumbling around in Sherlock’s head. “Why? Cause I look like him?” He feels completely paralysed, a thousand cutting remarks spring to the top of his head but none make it past his clenched teeth. Arching back, the man presses his narrow hips flush against Sherlock’s. The man tilts his head, blue eyes narrowed as he considers the preposterous idea. “What a laugh. He’d love to hear that one…” Trailing off, voice dripping with lascivious sarcasm, he catches Sherlock’s lips in a biting kiss. Sherlock remains unresponsive and the man draws back when there is no greatly anticipated struggle. “Aww,” he reaches up to run the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lower lip, smearing their saliva over the abused flesh. “But there is no fun in it if he doesn’t know.” Plucking up the bottle of wine and sweets, he turns and leaves Sherlock behind to totter off in the direction of the flat’s common room.
After a few minutes, a thud and a moan, Sherlock ventures out to find the man passed out on the couch clutching the now empty bottle.
Sherlock sits at the worktable in the common room the whole night through, quietly observing, taking notes about the subtle differences between the man and John. He watches as the figure curls up into a tight ball, drawing his knees up to his chest. A textbook foetal position. When he unfurls over an hour later the body seems smaller, shorter, more compact and distinctly more John-shaped.
Fascinating.
There is a low, pained groan from the couch, muffled faintly by the cushions. It draws Sherlock’s attention away from updating his notes. He snaps the laptop closed, staring at John, the real John, collapsed on the sofa across the room.
“John,” Sherlock calls out, fingers hooking around the handcuffs resting beside the laptop, just in case. The body rolls away from the sound of Sherlock’s voice, burying his head further in to the cushions. Obviously hung over. Another groan of pain comes from John’s vicinity as he slowly reaches up to gently examine the swelling around his eye and cheek. “When did you get back last night?” Sherlock presses, watching John twists around to lie on his back, taking pressure off the inflamed area.
“Late,” he mumbles, eyes still closed with his hands covering them. He slowly draws himself up into a sitting position, back to the armrest.
“Do you remember?” Sherlock crosses the room to stand over John, staring down as the other man struggles to piece together his memories of the previous night. He reaches down to examine the black eye and is a little surprised when John does not protest, merely hissing through his teeth in pain.
“I—I”
“What about the night before?” He prompts, pressing on as he takes a step back to better scrutinize John’s reaction. Perhaps there is some tell he has overlooked, something obscured by the brutish man. “Have there been any gaps in your memory over the last couple nights. Anything strange?” A look flickers across John’s face, a split second of fleeting resemblance. It quickly disappears.
“I think I’ve just developed a bit of sleepwalking.” John confesses as if the matter was of no consequence, completely commonplace. “With all the added stress and long hours…” He fidgets uncomfortably, continuously prodding the swollen flesh around his eye with a strange fascination unbecoming of a medical doctor. Swallowing thickly, he licks his lips repeatedly, an odd taste lingering in his mouth.
“Sleepwalking?” Sherlock stares pointedly at John’s rather spectacular black eye and the dried blood.
“Yeah,” John mutters half-heartedly as he stand, wiping his mouth with the back of a sleeve. He brushes past Sherlock, gradually shuffling into the kitchen to pour himself a tall glass of water. If Sherlock’s theory is correct then John must be experiencing one hell of a hangover. “I’ve been sleeping quite a lot actually,” he says before draining the glass. “But I never feel rested and all of my joints ache.” Glancing down at himself, he pulls up his shirt to sniff the stained fabric. “Did you bathe me in wine?” He asks with a grimace. “I must have fallen asleep at work last night.”
“Call in sick.” Sherlock orders tersely, snatching the drinking glass away. “I want to observe you.”
“Sherlock, I can’t.” It comes out weak and tired as John slumps against the countertop—still sleepy and confused. “You know I’m th—“
“You are ill,” he counters, cutting John off, “and exhausted and were clearly in a fight last night. You cannot go into work in such a state.” For the first time, John really examines his own bedraggled appearance. A strange sound of disgust escapes his lips. He almost folds in on himself, knees buckling slightly. “I need to monitor this new ‘habit’ of yours.” Sherlock grabs him by the wrist, tugging him back into the common room. “If it is related to your PTSD then we must make sure you are not endangering yourself anymore than you already have.”
“We?” John asks, plopping back down onto the couch.
“Yes, we, John.” He holds the other man’s gaze for a half second longer than necessary. “My blogger can’t be wandering around all night in a daze, drinking and getting into ‘sleepwalking’ brawls.”
“Right,” he agrees, sleepily nodding his head and not really registering Sherlock’s words. “But first, I think I’d like to just take a bit of a nap…”
All Sherlock can think about is who he is going to meet this time?
