Three Is Company

No Woman Likes Competition

Sherlock stayed stone still, understanding that he would be caught. Though would there be a punishment, or even a reaction? Out of the entire population of the world, Sherlock was happy that John would now serve as the judge and jury. Sherlock shuffled around to face the entrance, trying to ensure that his face was the first thing to be revealed. Feet might be suspicious, or the long dark torso that he had twisted along the dirt. No, he needed to be recognized immediately, or perhaps John would make an unintended reaction. Perhaps the man already knew what to expect when he crouched down. Sherlock had to ease his fears, confirm his suspicions. Sherlock had to hope that John remained logical, that he remained loyal. The footsteps were crunching along in the grass, the flashlight scanning the rest of the yard in a quick sweep for formality's sake. Mary's footsteps trembled above, as if she was too hesitant to follow but too curious to retreat to the safety of the home. Sherlock had to wonder where the child was in all of this. Perhaps asleep, ignorant of the threat to her parent's safety. John's flashlight shone as a warning, first bouncing across the wooden siding to demonstrate his exact position in the yard. The beam hesitated, then it ducked underneath, squatting with its carrier, to beam directly under the porch into Sherlock's well-chosen hiding spot. At first it was blinding, though as soon as John recognized the intruder the beam lowered courteously down towards the dirt, allowing them to see each other without the overwhelming blindness that came with a direct beam. John's face was set, his eyes understanding, his mouth silent. Sherlock lay equally entranced, his mouth hanging slightly open, demonstrating each of his quick breaths with a puff of fog. John might have said something; he might have opened his lips for a remark. Yes, there was an utterance. The smallest plea.
"Stay here, Sherlock." was the whisper, so slight that Sherlock might have owed it to a remarkably charismatic gust of wind. No matter the source, it was a direct command. And even if John didn't intend to suggest it, Sherlock already had it in his mind to obey.
"It's nothing." John announced, all the while his eyes remained locked with his neighbor's. "Probably a stray cat, or more likely your imagination."
"Calling me hysterical, are you?" Mary wondered. John chuckled, rising to his feet and switching off the light as he made his way back onto the porch.
"Only in thought." John muttered. Sherlock took a breath of relief, sinking calmly down into the warm darkness. He would wait, yes, he would wait. He would wait until either John or time itself came to collect him. He would wait until the spring thawed his frozen bones, he would wait until the worms dug into his corpse. Hopefully that would not be necessary, though even if John hadn't intended to return, Sherlock would follow through all the same. The screen door snapped shut, with the heavier door closing firmly and quietly behind it. The cold was blocked from the house; the intruders forced behind the locked door, and for now Sherlock had no choice but to roll onto his back, puffing a visible breath of relief into the air around him. If he stayed quite still he could imagine the feeling that Buttons had, all of those years ago. He could remember her soft fur, the way her warm body would vibrate and purr, wandering around and brushing upon against his back so as to remind him of her presence whenever his eyes began to gloss over. How they would fall asleep together, in the safe confines of the Watson's home. It was astounding how familiar a safe haven could be, no matter how different life on the surface had become. Even though the cat was dead, even though his father was dead, Sherlock was just as afraid now as he was back then. He was afraid that his father would find him, that he would be dragged away by the hair. And he could still feel the pressure of the cat, still indented onto his stomach from all those years ago. Though today he had something else to fear, and something else to look forward to. It was not his father but his neighbor's wife who posed the biggest threat to his existence. If Mary were to discover his lingering underneath the porch then he would be shunned with the greatest dishonor. However if he waited this out, if he allowed time to tick, if he allowed the cold to settle in, then perhaps he would be offered a prize worth his while. Once the night came to pass, or perhaps even the earlier hours of the morning, John would be able to escape. And so, Sherlock waited. He waited on command. He stared up at the cracks of the porch, studying the stars where he could see them through the thin layers of grey clouds. He rubbed his fingers into the course dirt, breathed his plumes of smoke, and shivered against the cold, unforgiving ground. It was a miserable situation, though the hope made it worth his while. The hope that it was not all in vain was enough to make this porch dwelling preferable to anything he had done in a long, long time. Sherlock didn't have a watch, though he kept track of the hours in his mind. He guessed that the screen door had opened around midnight. He could hear the hinges creaking, though there was some method of stealth, for the thing did not slam against the frame as it had done in the more public hours of the night. Someone was coming to collect him. Sherlock shivered, though not with the cold. He felt a strange sensation, as if someone had lit a match atop of his head, as if the fire had spread in an instant all the way down to his feet. With those steps above his head his entire body glowed with warmth, each one of his muscles tensed and promptly relaxed. Here came John Watson.
"Are you still down here?" John called, his voice coming from the darkness which had surrounded the entire area. In fact neither of them had the advantage of light, for even while the street lamps shone they did not make it around this side of the house. The lawn and the porch were pitch black, and it was up to voice alone that the two men could determine their position in the world.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed quietly, staying still in the dirt and wondering if John was intending to join him. It would be just like when they were children, hiding under the porch from the frightening parts of the world. Though Sherlock could imagine that John wouldn't be as entertained by silly little games anymore, they would not pass the evening playing soldier, that was for sure.
"Sherlock, it's freezing out here. Come on, I'll get you a blanket. A cup of tea." John offered, his voice sounding strangely entrancing, as if he was trying to use all of his powers of manipulation to summon Sherlock from the icy depths of the foundations. Sherlock hesitated, scrounging his fingers within the dirt and wondering if such an offer had a deeper connotation. He didn't know what John felt, other than the expected amount of guilt. Even though their eyes could not meet in this shade of blackness Sherlock still thought he could make out those glistening hazels, though he didn't have the chance to read them so clearly. This was the first time since the kiss that they were meeting in person. This was the first time to either redeem themselves or descend deeper into their special pit of hell.
"I...well I sort of wanted to stay down here." Sherlock whispered. "I don't think Mary likes me."
"Mary's asleep." John assured, as if he had already checked that fact twice over before he dared sneak into the backyard. Sherlock blinked, though his nonverbal communication was wasted within these conditions. He had to speak, or else his intentions and preferences would be left entirely unfulfilled.
"She could wake up."
"I know. But I'm prepared for that. The hinges of the door shriek quite loudly. They'll give us plenty of time." John assured.
"Are you ashamed of me, John?" Sherlock whispered. There was silence, accompanied by what sounded to be knees scraping across cold grass. Even if he couldn't see where he was going, somehow John tried to get closer.
"It's not the person I'm ashamed of. It's the connotation of having a strange man in the house."
"I'm not strange."
"Either way, you won't be appreciated. No woman likes competition." John warned. Sherlock bit down hard upon his tongue; in fact he could almost taste blood. There was much to take from that sentence, and for the first time most all of its connotations were positive. Positive...and pointing in the direction Sherlock wanted to go. Could it be that John's flight from their first kiss had been prompted entirely by shame? Could it be that, with the proper mental preparation, he was allowing himself to go one step farther? To set aside his ring for the night and focus on what really seemed to matter? With such a promise Sherlock could not help himself. He didn't like to be considered spontaneous, even worse he hated to make poor decisions. He felt like a fool as he crawled out on someone else's orders, though at this point he felt as if someone else was controlling his body. It was as if his brain had given up control to the much more agile heart, the one who was only able to move forward, not back. A suggestive thing, who could be summoned at the mere idea of receiving love. Nevertheless, Sherlock began to move. He got up upon his hands and knees, his back brushing against the low hanging beams as he shuffled his way out from the frozen earth. The wind caught him at many angles, breaking through the wooden siding and sliding up the gaps in his clothing, the bunches of fabric which hung untidily around his waist. Sherlock shivered madly, only realizing that he had been creating his personal sphere of body heat, a cozy pocket of warmth that had been protecting him from the harsh conditions of the falling sun. John was shivering when Sherlock arrived, his hands frozen as he settled them upon Sherlock's emerging shoulders, as if trying to summon him out and maintain contact the entire way. Sherlock squeezed through the opening with difficulty, finding that his body had all but immobilized during his time underneath the porch. His joints were stiff, and with hardly any strength left in his fingers Sherlock was forced to try to wrench himself through the siding, hooking his arms around the edge of the house and pull. John's hands, while maintaining their careful grasp, did not offer assistance. Instead they acted as a collection, as Sherlock emerged he found an immediate place within John's arms. Even before his feet had kicked out from the dirt Sherlock was already tangled into his neighbor's chest, lying strenuously across the ground only to be hoisted up against John's shoulders, his face falling into the warm nook of his neighbor's neck. While John stiffened Sherlock finally began to relax, to ease heavy breaths into the fragrant skin, to pull his fingers around John's back and pulling with the strength he could not collect.
"You're shivering." John commented gently, his warm hands cradling Sherlock's neck as his fingers tangled with the lowest hanging curls.
"I'm not cold." Sherlock defended, unable to tell if that was the truth or not. In all reality he had been overwhelmed with an influx of emotions, each spectrum of the human understanding bombarding his head at once. His body could do nothing but spasm, trying to find space for each and every feeling to be processed and stored. The guilt must go somewhere, the love somewhere else, the passion had to stall, and the tears had to be held back. Perhaps he was cold, though such a frozen sensation could not be contemplated right now. Something so basic was lost within the more complicated spectrum, and at the moment all Sherlock could think about was John.
"We'll go inside." John insisted, rubbing his hand once more across the back of Sherlock's neck before trying to hoist the man to his feet. Sherlock scrambled to meet him, hooking his arms around John's shoulders and allowing himself to be pulled up off of the ground. His legs were stiff, though they could at least hold his weight. Sherlock stumbled for just a moment, though he kept his arms wrapped tightly, falling into John's chest and folding over him in an eloquent display of dependency. In all reality Sherlock didn't want to give up his time for the walk inside. He didn't want to be parted from the breaths he could feel upon his skin, he didn't want to lose track of the heartbeat which was now drumming against his own. Sherlock worried that if he parted with John now he would never get him back, and as their distance increased on the way to the back door he would ultimately be left behind. John catered to the idea for a moment, he didn't seem too determined to leave just yet. Each move he made was an enigma, though Sherlock hoped there was something more between them. He hoped he was not being entertained, he hoped he would not be treated like a child instead of a proper consenting adult. Sherlock did not know what would come of this night, though he could conclude that it would be coming quickly, or not at all. It was this fear that finally made him pull away, unfolding his arms and allowing his weight to be supported wholly on his two feet. If he stayed here all night the two would stagnate, perhaps freeze where they stood for the neighbors to find in the morning. And that wouldn't be so bad, no. But there were better options. There was more to come from this evening. John caught Sherlock's hand within his own, he laced their fingers together and gave a reassuring squeeze, silent but for the glistens in his eyes that could be read like music. There was an invitation, an intimacy. Sherlock could still feel the heartbeat; he could feel it throbbing through his fingers and his wrist. A pulse which was strong, almost strong enough to match his own. John turned, stepping off towards the stairs while Sherlock lingered for just a moment, allowing their arms to extend before finally getting tugged in the same direction. His feet shuffled across the frozen ground, crunching quietly as he followed the trail left by his predecessor's slippers. Up the stairs, where their tracks were made upon the thin layer of ice left from the freezing of the evening dew. Through the screen door, which John held open with his free hand, the warmth of the house already leaking into the outside and bringing life back to Sherlock's frozen limbs. He stepped into the threshold, his fingers cold and clammy within his host's hand, allowing himself to be lead into the dark kitchen. Carefully he latched the backdoor, allowing each of the doors to fit silently into their frames. By now noise was impossible. Any wrong move would summon the woman of the house, and with that they would be forced to offer an explanation. That is, if their situation did not already speak for itself. The only light was a small lamp in the living room, casting a vague orange outline of the rest of the furniture as the two navigated. Sherlock had been in this house before, and even as a child the layout had remained the same. He knew where the table would stand; he knew where the coffee table should be avoided. Even though he had been inside since they had grown Sherlock still navigated the place from the viewpoint of a child, marveling at how low the furniture now stood compared to his most accurate memories of the place. John stopped, he halted their small parade on the edge of the kitchen, turning so that his heels were dangling upon hardwood and his toes were still settled upon the tiles. There he finally let their hands drop free, allowing Sherlock to collide into his chest as he raised his fingers towards Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock shuttered to feel the cold hands envelop his face, tracing lines of frost along his bone structure and feeling for the most intimate divots hidden inside of his tight pale skin. It was as if he was being examined, not just for his face value, but for something deeper, more beautiful within. Sherlock allowed his lips to part, allowed his eyes to shut, relishing in the feeling of those fingers, feeling sparks of static spring from the indentations. He was being admired, cradled with the most gentle of palms. It was a sort of touch he had never gotten used to, something he had never experienced before.
"I'll make you a cup of tea." John offered at last, pulling his hands finally through Sherlock's hair before stepping away and moving over towards the cabinets. Sherlock stood stock still, wondering if he was expected to wait here for the man to return. When John busied himself with the mugs Sherlock was finally forced to turn to attention, watching as warm water was poured nearly to the brim of two white, undecorated cups.
"Won't it wake her?" Sherlock warned, watching as John settled both cups into the microwave and shut the door quietly.
"No." John assured, assigning one minute and allowing the microwave to hum, staring to glow a warm yellow as the cups revolved within. "Even if it did, she would go back to sleep. We need to warm Rosie's formula, even at these times of night." Sherlock nodded, casting his gaze down to his shoes to see that he was leaving prints along the house, prints of frozen dirt that was beginning to melt into mud. John stared as well, though he didn't seem bothered. Instead he settled himself upon the counter, pressing his palms against the sharp edges of the linoleum. They didn't speak, which was unusual. John always had something to say, some sort of anecdote to ease the tension. Tonight there didn't seem to be any need to stifle it. In fact the tension was better if it was risen, it was preferable if they could feel it pressing down upon them, pulling them together like a magnetic pulse. Tonight Sherlock only stared, carefully hooking his fingers along his arms and folding into himself. There didn't seem to be a reason to speak, there didn't seem to be a need. John waited at the microwave, pulling the door as soon as the one second mark hit, so as to avoid the beeping it might cause. From there he dropped two tea bags into the hot liquid, stirring in a dollop of honey to each cup and wrapping his fingers around the warm handles, carefully balancing them within his hands and offering one to his nervous guest. Sherlock accepted the tea, nodding his thanks as he wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic, gaining all the strength he needed from the radiation of heat that was collecting in the palms of his hands. John stood rather close, keeping his cup tangled within his fingers as he stroked the palm of his hand across the edge, basking in the rising steam and staring Sherlock right in the eyes. Sherlock raised his cup to his lips, trembling so much that the water (he dared not call it tea, as the bag had only been sitting inside for about thirty seconds) began to brim over the edge, splattering upon his hands with an unrelenting burn. Nevertheless he curled his mouth around the edge of the ceramic, pressing his bottom lip tightly while he allowed the top to dangle, easing a stream of cool air from his mouth so that the steam rising from the liquid was interrupted, its path changed in John's direction. A small ripple erupted, the water beginning to darken, to sweeten. Sherlock, too, did not let up on his eye contact. There seemed to be no other place to look than into his neighbor's eyes. He recognized the color, the irises merging with the dark surface of his tea, though the sparkle was much more genuine. Much more human. Sherlock trembled as he took a sip, the scalding liquid burning down his throat. He had no choice but to drink, though he could feel it on the way down, the pain that erupted down his windpipe and warmed his stomach as it settled within him. John still hadn't taken a sip. He seemed to have forgotten that was what you do with tea.