He's not ready, John thought, the psychological connoisseur in him speaking up to plead Sherlock's cause, sensibly taking the detective's emotional instability into account. That's why he's avoiding you.
Behind all that sagacity, John was a boiling kettle. He had to unplug himself from his exasperation so he wouldn't do anything stupid like yelling tempestuously at Sherlock. Or smashing his fist against the mattress. Or kicking the bed frame until only splinters we're left of it.
Slowly, as he mentally pictured the temperature of the water in the kettle dropping, John's temper cooled. He didn't study psychology for nothing, after all.
Knowing Sherlock's ears were perfectly in working order, John accentuated his sigh before dawdling out of the quiet room.
He then reached for the concrete kettle on the kitchen counter and poured himself a cup of tea, sipping the warm beverage periodically.
He stuffed some tasteless breakfast into his mouth, just to stick with the principal he had insisted Sherlock should follow during his previous lecture. John absolutely loathed double standards.
He returned to his room to fetch a shirt and a pair of trousers, but changed in the bathroom. Sherlock must have presumed John knew he was conscious, and deliberately exposing himself would give the detective access to information John wasn't sure even he wanted to face. Living with a genius can sometimes prove to be mightily difficult. Especially when said genius is a brilliant detective possessing almost-preternatural detection skills.
A simple but nutritious breakfast was left on the kitchen counter adjacent to a note. John had scribbled it, pouring all the fury he had disallowed himself from phrasing on the paper upon the poor pencil, which he had sharpened and resharpened after breaking the lead twice.
Good morning, I shall say anyway, though I wouldn't be surprised if you're morning isn't very enjoyable, having in mind yesterday's overdose.
I'll be home late today. There's breakfast on the counter, have it for breakfast, or lunch , or dinner, I don't care, but it better be stomached before I'm home.
*
Sherlock's eyelids flung open. Ten minutes precisely had passed since John left. The detective pessimistically checked his phone, doubting any texts from Lestrade had been received. In this state of mind, all types of cases were eagerly welcomed, even ones of the most tedious sort, yet no alteration had occurred to their chat history. Sherlock was starting to seriously consider the possibility that his phone was dysfunctional.
On seeing the note John wrote, the suspicion that his day was about to be decidedly miserable upgraded into a fact.
I'll be home late tonight.
Of course John should go out at night as he pleases. Of course John should come home tardily if he wants to spend the night out. Of course John will, because what is there to do anyway in a boring flat with a deranged sociopath?
Only yesterday, Sherlock was the first to hope for John to come home late. Now he still didn't want John around early, since he'd have to face the doctor's scolding, which he had scarcely escaped this morning, but he didn't want John out either. He despised the concept of John chatting in a bar, John and someone who isn't Sherlock promenading along the Thames, John holding hands and cuddling with that person, John's lip dancing sweetly on their lips, his tongue performing glissades and rond de jambes, the two of them like the starring dancers of a ballet, John's hands coasting down their waist—
Morphine.
It sounded like a fountain in the middle of the desert, and Sherlock was a creature enfeebled by the heat, hankering after the iridescent droplets of water pumped high in the air, the precious molecules reflecting and refracting light into a divine arch of colors.
Dust began tickling Sherlock's cornea, and in the blink of an eye a sandstorm fogged the heavenly Sahara. It swirled and formed tornados, swallowing the cloudless azure sky with golden earth particles that disappeared as the wind fell.
John stood in lieu of the exotic scenery.
One John and yet at the same time so many versions of him. All of John.
John with his thin-lipped smile; John with his brows knitted closely together; John with his slow blinks he always resumed to perform when he processed overly complex inform-ation; John with his laughter which could melt cynicism; John with his eyes wide in shock; John with his face rigidified by wrath; John with overflowing tear ducts; John—
Sherlock jabbed himself with his nail.
Morphine to forget.
Suddenly, Sherlock became very much aware that although he adored seeing John everyday, it was getting quite problematic, the chemical defect he suffered whenever the doctor was within earshot. Plus whenever the doctor wasn't around, too. Especially when he wasn't around.
Morphine would assit the regain of control. Morphine would cure.
YOU ARE READING
Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}
Fanfiction"Detective Holmes, does your job ever cause you troubles that might lead to consuming drugs?" "I never have troubles with my job." Sherlock said, holding John's penetrating gaze without flinching. "Neither family issues, nor anything related...
