Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Dinner

"What are you ordering?" John asked, rather to be sure Sherlock was going to eat than to know what meal he had picked.

"For the last time, John, I don't eat when I'm on a case."

John averted his eyes from the menu to look at Sherlock. The detective's penetrating blue eyes rested on dark under eye circles, his cheekbones were more prominent than before, and his arms, though hidden by his sleeves, appeared to be thinner.

"Would you like something to drink, then?"

"No."

"Wine? Champagne?"

"No."

"Water?"

"No."

"You don't sleep. You don't eat. You don't drink. You smoke and take unregulated drugs. For how long have you been doing this?"

"You've been asking questions since we've arrived here. It's getting quite wearisome."

"I'll stop when you offer answers."

"Continue your monologue, then. Do you mind if I check some police records on my phone?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Don't you dare leave this restaurant without eating. I can wait for the answers, but your body can't do the same with food!" John had raised his voice, and now half of the room was risking glances in their direction to see what had caused the sudden clamor.

    "It's my body."

    "Right, but I am—"

     "My therapist. Yes, yes, I know. Though what I don't know is how it has anything to do with my body, since it's supposed to be all about psychology."

     John released the gulp of air he had been holding. What could have been mistaken for a sigh of frustration was actually one of relief, and Sherlock immediately picked up on that.

   "John?"

   "Hmm?"

    "What were you about to say before I cut you off?"

    "Exactly what you said, that I'm your therapist." John replied quickly, suddenly so fascinated by the menu.

    "You're lying."

    "No I'm not."

    "John. Tell me what you were about to say. Tell me why you were so relieved you didn't get to finish your sentence."

     John shut the menu. "Why on earth should I answer your questions, while you refuse to answer mine? Give me one reason, Sherlock, one, and I'll do it."

     Sherlock searched every corner of his brilliant mind where he usually could find ripostes and comebacks that insured him the last word, but this evening, sitting in front of a morose and lugubrious John, he found none.

   John waited. They stared at each other intensely. Neither of them moved, afraid that the barest motion would break the oblique intimacy displayed in this moment where everyone and everything in the room seemed so distant. This time, John forgot about the troubles. He forgot about this mysterious Eleanor Fernsby who wanted to harm Sherlock, his beloved blue-eyed angel. He forgot about the other mysterious woman who came to return the riding crop. He forgot about Sherlock's drug addiction, eating disorder, and sleeping disorder. All that mattered to him was that Sherlock was alive now, and he could stare right into his dazzling ocean eyes in which the flame of the candle placed on their table flickered, mesmerized by the fact that their lips were inches apart. They were like two statues of lovers, completely engrossed by each other yet too afraid of their feelings to make any move.

    Sherlock's body felt electric. This new sensation for which he couldn't pinpoint the cause was deeply disorienting. He felt his heart beat against his chest cage, the pulsation of his veins accelerating the same way as they did when he was at the verge of solving a case. The only thing differing from the usual was his lack of ability to control himself. His mind wasn't in an immaculate order like it always was. His thoughts were flying around without him being able to organize them. Much to his horror, the one about John's naked back constantly stood out of this absolute nonsense happening in his brain, occasionally dissipated by the image of John's lips. Sherlock couldn't decide which one of them was worse. He tried to suffocate this newborn desire burning inside him, but the hunger boiling in his entire body was about to erupt, like the lava exploding out of a dormant volcano awoken by an earthquake. John was the only earthquake that had been able to shatter the barriers Sherlock had built around his heart, so afraid of letting someone in, so afraid of how vulnerable these feelings made him, so afraid that instead of the barriers, it would be his heart they would break.

John saw fear in Sherlock's eyes. Slowly, he placed his hand on top of his, pressing slightly in what he hoped was a comforting way. Sherlock's gaze followed John's movement and stayed glued to their overlapping hands.

   A waiter cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, are you ready to order?"

   John's blinked twice. It took him a second to come back down to earth and another to comprehend his words.

  "Yes. I'd like the Shepherd's pie, thank you."

  The waiter scribbled John's order on his pad, then turned to Sherlock, who hadn't even acknowledged his presence.

   "And for you?"

   Sherlock jumped in his seat. "Uh, that will be all."

   John gripped Sherlock's hand. "Eat something. Please." Releasing the pressure, he brushed his hand with his thumb. "For me."

   Sherlock averted his eyes. "Fine. I'll have the same thing."

   The waiter nodded and left.

   After an interminable silence filled with awkward side glances, John was the first one to speak.

   "So you like Shepherd's pies too?"

   Sherlock abandoned the side glances and decided that since John was speaking to him, it was perfectly acceptable to openly look at him.

   "Is that what we're having?"

   "Did you just copy my orders blindly? I thought you were picky about food."

   "I am, but I trust you."

    This was the sentence that made John realize sometimes it was harder not to smile.