PARA/DOX

Cats and Christmas Cards

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Sherlock suggested, getting up from his swivel chair and letting it roll unceremoniously backwards.
"Tea? You think you can make tea?" John chuckled, hardly looking up from the screw he was fastening, his wrist hitting off the table with every turn.
"I'm blind, I'm not helpless." Sherlock protested. John sighed heavily, setting down his tools and giving Sherlock an apologetic sigh. The Doctor was tired tonight; Sherlock could sense it in his behavior. John wasn't overly talkative on a good day, though when his battery had drained to zero he hardly even made the effort of introduction. He was on autopilot, and Sherlock had a mind to help the man reprioritize this evening.
"That's not what I meant. I just mean there's no kettle, not even a microwave around here." John pointed out, his voice suffering from that small manifesting guilt. Sherlock didn't know whether this was a legitimate excuse or if the man was just expertly covering up his original claim. Either way his feelings would not have been hurt. John was right; Sherlock would undoubtedly drop a packet of silica gel into the water and poison them both.
"I can use hot water from the bathroom sink?" Sherlock suggested weakly.
"I think I'll pass." John chuckled. He bent down over the table, squinting in the low light as he took his screwdriver up once more.
"I thought you were more of a brain, not necessarily a mechanic." Sherlock muttered, wandering towards the other side of the table and extending his hand to stop himself from crashing into it prematurely. His fingers touched upon cold metal, heated by what must have been a lamp, and he stopped short.
"I've learned to be both lately. My degree is in physics, but I dabbled in engineering a little." John admitted, the sound of the screwdriver beginning once more.
"That sounds dreadful." Sherlock murmured. "Lucky I didn't have to pick."
"They're not letting you go to college?" John wondered, his voice bouncing off of the table as if he hadn't bothered to look up at his companion.
"They won't even let me go outside." Sherlock chuckled. "I doubt they'd trust me living alone for four years, in the presence of bad influences."
"I wouldn't think you're so susceptible to bad influences."
"I'd beg to differ. I don't know a thing about the real world anymore. I'd probably get drugged, or robbed, or worse." Sherlock chuckled.
"I guess that's why they keep you here then."
"Well it's not fair, it's really not! I'd have more street smarts if I could even look at one through a window! I don't understand why they let you go home and not me. Right now you're the most valuable member of this agency, and you're flaunting around downtown in that sketchy apartment, just asking to be shot."
"Way to put it gently!" John chuckled. "My apartment's not sketchy. It's a very nice building. Besides, I don't have any more chances to get outside than you do."
"Sometimes you go home." Sherlock pointed out. John chuckled, the screwdriver falling into the table as he busied himself with some other aspect of his strange machine. Sherlock couldn't see what the man was up to, whether it was another time travel machine or a god awful contact device.
"Sometimes. Not in the last...two weeks. Maybe more." John admitted with a shrug.
"Two weeks! If you're not going home where on earth are you going? We've left around two o'clock every night for the last week!"
"Just...well I just wander I guess. Sometimes the lounges are open, so I'll go over there and sleep on the couch. Or I'll go to the other labs, work on some more while I've got the energy."
"John, you're a maniac." Sherlock grumbled. "All that brain and you still can't figure out how to take care of yourself."
"Don't say it like that." John defended weakly. He dropped another tool, this time so loudly that Sherlock jumped, holding his heart as if he was suddenly taking lessons of shock from his grandmother. For a moment the Doctor was silent, studying his creation and mumbling congratulations to himself.
"I think I've got the frame done." He admitted at last.
"The frame for what, exactly?" Sherlock wondered.
"It's uh...well I fitted it into a sort of headband." John admitted. "It'll have screens falling down, as a visor. They'll be able to program into all sorts of frequencies, picking up only specific particles of light. Sort of like changing the filter on a photo, except you'll be doing it to your whole perspective."
"that sounds terribly complicated." Sherlock admitted fearfully.
"For me, yes. For you, not so much. All you'll have to do is wear it." John pointed out.
"Can I feel it?" Sherlock wondered hopefully, holding out his hands so that he could get a better idea of this miracle contraption.
"Certainly." John agreed. Suddenly his fingers were hoisting a heavy weight, and Sherlock had to curl them just to make sure the thing wouldn't slip from his grasp. For a while he messaged his fingers across the band, a thick metal circle with exposed wires running along the back of it. Sherlock couldn't feel where the wires were connecting, and there certainly weren't any screens attached. For the moment it felt like nothing fancier than the frame for a car's tire, though he knew this was the culmination of weeks of hard work.
"Have you done the math already?" Sherlock presumed.
"All the thinking is done. All the tinkering is basically yet to start." John agreed. Sherlock nodded, carefully settling the headband within his palms and extending it back to John for safe keeping. The doctor eased it safely out of Sherlock's grip, their hands brushing gently together. Sherlock smiled softly, at times forgetting that John could see him much better than he could anticipate. His little smiles must be terribly telling, he must be hiding his desires as well as a bear hiding behind a telephone pole. Oh but that's all they were, childish little fantasies. There may not be any harm in them, so long as he did not begin to take them seriously.
"I think it's fantastic." Sherlock assured, wiping his hands across his pant legs to clear them of any of the machine grease that had gotten caught up in the lines of his palms.
"I hope it works. For your sake I hope it works." John agreed.
"I wonder if we'll get to a point where it all works." Sherlock muttered. "I mean, three years alone is breakneck speed. But when do you think we'll be done? When do you think we'll travel time?"
"Sooner than you think." John assured, chuckling to himself as if he was growing ever more accomplished. "The flash drive spells out the exact directions, and in the day time I've been figuring them out slowly. It's all about figuring out how to make the particles claim a human as their own."
"that sounds a little dangerous." Sherlock admitted.
"It is dangerous, terribly so. He's written a lot of warnings, insisting that no one should do this without proper preparation. He says long term exposure to degraded sunlight can cause some serious issues, genetic malfunctions, DNA destruction." John admitted.
"Really? Even though I've been traveling through it my whole life?" Sherlock wondered.
"Well you're different, somehow you're different. I'm not an expert on DNA, but I'd be willing to bet you're naturally resistant."
"Naturally resistant, what an absurdly simple title to give to such a complicated idea." Sherlock mumbled. "What are the chances I'd be 'naturally resistant' to something the human race didn't even understand?"
"You know better than me." John presumed.
"Of course I don't. I can hardly tell time as it is, don't expect me to understand it!" Sherlock pointed out.
"Not the science, but the lineage. Somehow you must've received a gene for it. Perhaps your grandfather worked at some nuclear power plant...or maybe you've got alien blood somewhere." John suggested. Sherlock couldn't read his face, he couldn't determine if that was a joke or if there was some truth in that assumption.
"Well no, I don't think so. To tell you the truth I hardly knew my family. My father left when I was young. Mycroft knew him better, but I hardly remember him at all." Sherlock admitted.
"I'm sorry." John murmured. "Fathers are changeable things, I guess."
"Mother said it wasn't his fault. He didn't want to go."
"Was he taken?" John wondered.
"No idea." Sherlock sighed. "As a kid I always just thought the earth had swallowed him whole."
"Maybe he was the alien then?" John suggested. "Came down to earth for a little visit only to get beamed back up."
"That's a terrible theory." Sherlock scoffed. "He wasn't an alien, he was a man. A nice man, from what I've been told."
"Perhaps he was a time traveler?" John suggested, this time without that underlying humor. For a moment the words processed, hanging around in the air long enough for Sherlock's ears to absorb them completely. The longer he took to respond the longer he began to ponder the truth.
"I uh...I don't think I could say." Sherlock admitted nervously. He didn't want to think any more on the matter, dare he begin to come upon a conclusion that was only too conceivable.
"Ya well, just a theory. We'll figure all that out in due time." John assured.
"I don't think the agency will care much for my lineage, not when they've got their funding to worry about." Sherlock pointed out. John shrugged; making a little sound of boredom to make sure Sherlock knew exactly the state of mind he was in. If he was anymore awake John might've followed that conversation until the very end, though the doctor settled his elbows down upon the table, leaning heavily into it for a quick break.
"John, you sound exhausted." Sherlock pointed out.
"I'm fine, really." He insisted. "Just uh...just resting my arms."
"You can't keep working yourself this hard. Come on, it seems as if you've at least found a good place to pause." Sherlock pointed out. He could feel the Doctor's dissatisfaction; he could hear all the ways John began to fold his arms. The lab coat ruffled audibly, at least three times before he settled his arms comfortably within themselves.
"It's about midnight. I might as well keep going; the landlady doesn't like it when we come home any later than this."
"What does she care about your coming and going?" Sherlock sniggered, imagining John getting yelled at by a ghoulish woman in curlers.
"She says her cats don't like the noise. They're light sleepers." John scoffed. Sherlock nodded, figuring that was as good as any reason. As good as anything else the Doctor could have made up. There were some brains in that skull of his, though they were very obviously centered on time travel and mechanics. All other mental space was exhausted or nonexistent, rendering his ability to flirt minimal if present at all.
"A plausible theory." Sherlock chuckled. "And you know, I heard the janitors here don't like it when people sleep on their couches. I heard their mops don't like it."
"Right..." John murmured. Sherlock had never wished for sight more than in that moment, for he should have enjoyed watching John's face contort in all levels of comprehension. "Right." He said again, this time a bit louder, a bit more excited.
"Put away your toys, Doctor Watson." Sherlock insisted, his face staring blankly through his cheap sunglasses, staring at everything and nothing in particular. Perhaps he looked ghostly, a smile sprouting on a face that was unable to make eye contact. Perhaps more than one shiver went spiraling down John's spine.
"They're not toys." John mumbled, though his words were overlapping with noises of collision, metal tools being shoved into drawers and headband frames being stowed away in cabinets. The Doctor was moving quickly, the quickest Sherlock had ever witnessed. Perhaps he was excited, more likely he was just worried to keep Sherlock waiting another moment. He was a polite man, worried more about other people's time than his own. When the Doctor's footfalls slowed Sherlock assumed he was ready, and so, taking up his stick to help navigate, Sherlock began to tap his way towards the door. Of course the door was opened by the time his meandering feet arrived, opened by the generous hands of his loyal doctor.
"You don't need that stick, I can lead you there." John offered.
"No, not here." Sherlock muttered, glancing at the floor and keeping his words as minimal as possible. "Not now."
"What do you mean? I'm trustworthy."
"I mean they're watching us. It's one thing to be leading you to my room; it's another to be arm in arm. Mr. Trevor won't like it." Sherlock pointed out.
"You're blind, Sherlock. It's common courtesy."
"It's damning." Sherlock warned. John gave a little noise of understanding, his shoes scuffing nonchalantly as he made his way down the tile maze. By now Sherlock had memorized his way back to his room, even without trying he seemed to be able to do it blind. He had never understood the halls in his vision, though there was something a bit more trustworthy in counting the steps he took to arrive. Under his breath he began to count upwards, arriving at one hundred thirteen before he turned left abruptly. Tapping his stick in front of him he heard a telling thunk, having arrived at a door that must have been his own.
"Fantastic." John muttered impressively. Sherlock smirked, feeling his hand across the door until at last he could wrench it open and enter carefully inside. The doctor took the liberty of closing the door behind him, though with the snap of the lock Sherlock's confidence began to drain in apprehension. He wasn't sure what he had invited John to do; he wasn't even sure what he was preparing himself to do. It wasn't long ago that his advances towards Victor were shot down, owing entirely to his misperception of the situation. Could it be that he was misreading the Doctor as well?
"I'll um...I guess I'll camp out on the futon if you don't mind." John murmured, his voice echoing the same nervousness that Sherlock felt bubbling up within his throat. He knew both of them had the same questions on their minds, but how could Sherlock tell which angle John was approaching this with? Was he trying to avoid the situation or wade deeper in? Sight would have been helpful in determining that. Body language sometimes spoke a lot more than the mouth ever could.
"It's comfortable." Sherlock agreed quickly.
"That's good." John muttered. "I uh...I've known a couple of futons that are anything but."
"Stayed over many places, then?"
"My fair share." John agreed. "You know...in college. Not like...not like I'm sleeping around or anything."
"I shouldn't expect you to." Sherlock whispered, his body growing rigid on the brink of a conversation that he was not yet prepared to have. "I'll get you a blanket, and you can have one of the throw pillows."
"That'll be great." John agreed. His feet were shifting, his ankles clicking together as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sherlock tore around on his bed, trying to find the appropriate materials for his guest. Of course he couldn't determine anything, though he was much too scared to ask John for his help. He wanted to get closer of course, though the idea of actually approaching the man began to render his muscles useless.
"Sherlock, can I help?" John suggested.
"Please." Sherlock agreed in frustration. He untangled his fingers from the fabric and stepped aside in defeat, wondering if being blind would be hurting him in more ways than one. How was he supposed to make the first move if he couldn't see where John was? It would be rather awkward to drape his arms around thin air, only to have them fall pathetically to his side. The Doctor approached from behind, touching Sherlock's side as he eased him carefully out of the way. Sherlock's entire body trembled, perhaps so aggressively that John took notice. That one simple touch, an unexpected firing of his nerves, brought on a feeling not unlike paralysis.
"This fluffy one ought to do." John decided, disrupting the blankets and pulling fabric against fabric.
"It's never cold in here, so it'll work alright." Sherlock agreed.
"I appreciate this Sherlock, really I do." John muttered. Sherlock smiled, dropping his head down to his toes out of instinct, not out of necessity. There was no need to avoid eye contact when he might have been staring way off to the left of his companion.
"It's the least I can do. Futons are better than couches, and at this hour we shouldn't wake your landladies cats."
"It's really rude, really it is. She hates it. And they start howling and...and well it's a terrible fright." John admitted with a huff. Sherlock nodded, still not sure if he believed the story or not. It was fanciful, and obviously it was convenient enough to land John where he wanted to be for the night. Sherlock wandered towards his dresser, pushing his palms against the door handles until he could pull the topmost drawer open and fish out his pajamas. This was, in his mind, the last straw. If tonight wasn't mean to be this would prove it straight away.
"John could you make sure these are in the right order? Sometimes I pull the sleeves inside out, or they're on backwards." Sherlock suggested, handing the pair of flannel pajamas for John for inspection.
"You sleep in these? Looking like a Christmas card?" John chuckled, freeing the clothes from Sherlock's hands and examining them as best he could.
"My mother made them for me." Sherlock defended.
"Right. Sorry." John cleared his throat, doing his job to make sure the pajamas were ready to wear. Of course Victor always made sure that Sherlock's clothes were set right before he put them in the drawer, for this was one task that Sherlock did not trust Victor with. For some reason he felt exposed around the man, even if he was within his legal limits. He never let the bodyguard stand in the room when he was changing, nor ever when he was in the shower. There was something embarrassing about the idea, as if Victor would begin to judge his body against his brother's. But there was a certain respect with John, a comfort threshold that could be tested. Besides, their first meeting had occurred when Sherlock was wearing nothing but underwear. As such, Sherlock began to strip. He heard John's startled reaction, the way the man's feet shifted backwards, a little gurgle emitting from the back of his throat. Though from what Sherlock could tell he didn't leave. Perhaps his eyes were averted, like any gentleman's, though Sherlock could not hear the retreating footfalls.
"Help me, would you?" Sherlock muttered, pulling his tee shirt up and over his head. He could feel his long black curls get caught up in the fabric, tangled and falling in odd places around his head just as soon as gravity regained control. For a moment he tried to push them away, running his fingers across his head and pulling all the loose strands up and over his forehead. His hair was long, getting to be too unruly to bother with much longer. As he stood he could feel the ends of it touching against his bare shoulders, tickling his exposed skin and providing some warmth against the stale air. Sherlock lifted his arms, trying to make it clear that he wanted his flannel shirt pulled around and buttoned appropriately. John cleared his throat, perhaps startled after a moment's observation. Anyone who was not enjoying the situation would have cracked some sort of joke, as Sherlock's bare chest was an easy target for comic relief. John could have counted his rib bones; he could have stuck a finger between them in jest. Sherlock was skeletal, in fact any self-respecting doctor might have commented on his need for a more balanced diet. Though it would seem as John wasn't looking for a joke, not even a lecture. Sherlock wished he could have watched the man's face in that long pause, the moment of time it took for him to finally jump into action and clothe the bare chest that was standing exposed before him. Sherlock kept his mouth shut; he kept his hands to himself. He felt the Doctor pull the sleeves across his arms; he felt the buttoning begin at the bottom and work up. There was a damning apprehension, the sort that kept him from making any moves, no matter how well received they may have been. The process was silent, but not the good type. It was not the silence that preceded any intimacy; it was the silence that preceded a long, deep night of sleep. Even as John's fingers worked at the buttons he began to slow, a loud yawn erupting into the silence and almost deafening Sherlock by the proximity.
"Thank you, John." Sherlock muttered, feeling rather stupid now that he knew the act of dressing him was exhausting, rather than exhilarating. He felt the man's fingers brushing up against the bottom of his chin, the topmost button fastened and in a proper position of strangulation. Sherlock would have to undo that one after the Doctor had fallen asleep, which at this rate would be a good thirty seconds at best. Sherlock didn't require the same level of care for his pants; in fact he waited until he could hear John tending to the futon before he quickly changed out of his trousers into the comfortable flannel. As Sherlock hid himself under his blankets he heard the futon accept the weight of its companion, the springs sinking under the thin frame of John Watson.
"Comfortable?" Sherlock wondered quietly.
"So long as my weight is not on my feet I'm satisfied." John agreed. Sherlock nodded, snuggling deeper into his own blankets and pulling them up to his chin.
"Well then, goodnight." He decided at last, huffing a deep sigh of frustration as he turned over in the bed. It was as good as a first attempt could have been, especially when Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted anything yet or not. A kiss would have been nice, even a cuddle under the blankets would have been more appreciated than this gaping space between them. Though in all reality Sherlock knew it would have been too soon. He had known John for three years now, though it still felt as if they weren't even close to the first step of their relationship. Perhaps this was that first step after all, in a progression that was much longer and much more complicated than he first imagined. The first step was trust, trust and habit. And tonight they might have made a good habit, one that might shift and evolve for the better.
"Sherlock, do you mind telling me where the light switch is?" John asked after about a minute, as if he had been waiting in the brightness wondering when Sherlock might address the issue. Sherlock chuckled, realizing that not everyone on this earth was blind. From his bed he could reach the switch, and with a press of his finger he could imagine the room went dark. Even if the world was permanently dark for Sherlock, this newfound lighting would have done wonders for John Watson.
"Good night, Sherlock." John muttered, turning over in the futon and sighing heavily, thankfully, into the silly little throw pillow. Sherlock smiled to himself, feeling as though his response would have been wasted breath. John would have been asleep by now. The moment his eyes had the chance to close they would be so until the morning.