Johnlock: Tulips for the detective

It's perfect. So what's wrong?

(A/N: Story will switch perspective every chapter or so. This is all for fun so pardon any inconsistencies :P Tbh started writing this before I actually finished watching Sherlock. This story takes place immediately after John and Mary's wedding. No cheating in this story, they're fruity, not monsters)

(—John—)

Things with Mary had been great up until recently. John had transitioned to domestic life quite well. Something just wasn't right. A nagging feeling in the back of John's head that he couldn't quite pinpoint.

It'd been eight months now since the wedding. And for those eight months things couldn't have been better. John resumed his 'normal' job at the clinic with Mary. Their flat had been decorated to both of their tastes. Date nights every Saturday and occasional evenings in watching the telly and ordering takeaway after work. It was domestic bliss. Textbook.

Mary was attentive, loving, kind, intelligent; everything John could've asked for in a partner. Certainly now his life was perfect. What could be better than this? Still, something was wrong.

Despite their obvious compatibility, John could feel himself slipping from Mary, and he was sure she could feel it too. Their wedding night was a blur. A montage of sentimental and sensual images were all he could conjure. In the beginning, the pair almost couldn't keep their hands off of each other. A fiery connection, passionate intimacy, slowly mellowed into quick exchanges; marital dues. Sex became a second thought, almost an obligation for John.

Wasn't that normal, though? Eventually the puppy love faze ends, you settle in. But John couldn't even get himself to kiss Mary for long. It wasn't that John wasn't attracted to Mary, no. The problem lay way, way deeper than that. Deep in the depths of johns mind where he dared not go.

It was early one morning, a Saturday. John awoke to the sound of the kettle boiling. The curtains drawn, letting the early-morning sun in. He laid there for a moment, listening to the sounds of Mary messing about in the kitchen. She was humming something, a soft tune that echoed through the flat. The smell of breakfast and tea wafting into the bedroom.

Johns phone buzzed. For a moment he prayed it was Sherlock. Prayed for an excuse to get out of another dreadful date night. He couldn't bear to turn down Mary's attempts at intimacy again. He winced and cursed himself for having the thought. He sat up groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and picked up his mobile.

"Which of us would you choose? Sexy brunettes and alluring blondes. Sign up for ChattingTulips! We're burning to meet you. X"

Spam text. Bugger. Sex was the last thing John needed on his mind right now. He glanced down at the wedding band sitting on his nightstand and an overwhelming sense of shame washed over him. Before he could wish again for a message from Sherlock, Mary leaned into their bedroom and knocked. "Breakfast is ready, love." He smiled, he was still happy to see that face. Still felt warmth in her presence. That much reassured him, maybe all wasn't lost. But that made his nagging feelings even more confusing.

After getting dressed John headed out and chatted with his wife. Attempting to reach the normalcy their marriage started out with. He enjoyed these mornings with her. They sat across the table from one another. She'd talk on and on about what was on the telly, what she'd been reading recently. John listened intently, occasionally sipping his tea or taking a bite of his toast. He loved this woman. Loved the time they spent together. And yet- an ache in the back of the doctors chest- Mary leaned back and laughed, amused by something John hadn't quite caught in the conversation. She placed her hand on his. Almost instinctively, he recoiled.

It was a quick movement, a simple retreating of the hand. Unconscious. They both recognized it though. And neither of them seemed willing to confront it. Mary sat, still smiling, but John could see something dawning on her. Her eyes flickered before meeting his again. Clearing her throat she picked up her tea cup.

"Heard anything from Sherlock?"

"Hm? What?" John straightened in his chair. The detectives name alone waking him up quicker than a cup of coffee.

"No, why? Why would I be waiting for anything from Sherlock?"

Mary sipped from her cup. "I mean, about a case."

"Ah, yes." John nodded, glancing down at the ground. He shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. "I mean, no. No, nothing yet."

"You haven't taken any cases with him in awhile."Mary shrugged and moved to place her cup back down. "It's been a few days since you spoke, hasn't it?"

"A week and two days." John says flatly.

They both paused. The words hung unsurely in the air. Mary nodded.
"Right" she stood and grabbed Johns empty plate. A week and two days. John thought a lump catching in his throat as he recalled the events. A week and two days since...

"You know" Mary called, interrupting his thought and taking the dirty dishes to the kitchen. "You're allowed to contact him first." Her tone is sarcastic and teasing, but she meant it. The two men seeming to be painfully aware of their deep friendship, but neither willing to admit or accept when they crave each other's company.

"I know that." John fidgeted with his hands.

"Just haven't had a reason to."

Mary came back and kissed him on the head. "Don't need a reason to message a friend." She smiled and headed for the coat rack. John turned in his chair, watching as Mary dawned her scarf and coat. "You're going somewhere?"

"Meeting with some girl friends." She smiled as she slipped on her boots. "Don't worry, I'll be back for our night out." John winced. He couldn't let her know of his doubts. She'd been there with him through so much. Stuck with him despite his previously treacherous line of work. Consoled him when Sherlock pulled his disappearing act. To imply doubts now would surly be an insult. An act of ungratefulness. He couldn't fathom losing Mary. Instead, he smiled. "Have fun, dear."

"Love you!" The front door clicked shut.

And now, John Watson was alone. Alone with his thoughts. Unlike Sherlock, his mind wasn't a palace. It was a horrible pit. Filled with things he'd rather not think about. Feelings he'd rather not have. Immediately he was restless. A deep, low pit began to form in his stomach.

Desperate for any distraction, he picked up the morning paper. Nothing interesting enough to keep his mind occupied. The words became illegible, John couldn't keep his thoughts straight. It didn't take long before he picked up his mobile and dialed Sherlock's number.