Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

The Lying Doctor

"I can't lose you."

Four simple words that costed John much to pronounce with clarity and frankness were now on the table.  Their own breaths blending with the plash of rain, the quiet room hosted a silence which grew more and more oppressing.

In Sherlock pleated frown lines, John could read his perplexity, and for once he grasped the detective's urge to say shut up, you're thinking, it's annoying. He could almost make out Sherlock's thought process, and the quote was at the tip of his tongue. He didn't mean it in a rude way, it was just altogether stressful, and his stomach was a troupe of dancers executing strange acrobatics encircled by a swarm of butterflies, whirling in multicolored sparkling spirals. He drew in a deep breath to dispel his nerviness.

"Sherlock, the thing is, if I explain to you why I can't lose you, I might just lose you." John moistened his lips, "but you're a detective, and you won't stop until you've shed light upon every question mark." A smile quirked into life on John's face, but it faded when he carried on with his speech. "I've lost someone before," John avowed in a murmur. "At war."

Sherlock blinked, dumbfounded.

Then John watched as his witted eyes, ash grey radiating from his pupils embracing outer rings of marine blue, like waves of the Atlantic Ocean washing ashore on volcanic islands, widened in understanding.

   "Oh," Sherlock breathed.

    "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.

"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.

"Now, give it to me."

"No."

John exhaled loudly. "Sherlock. Please."

"There's no use to insist, John. I said no."

    John seized his wrist and twisted it skillfully.

   "Stop letting emotions get the best of you. If you continue down this road, you're going to be the one needing a therapist."

    John flinched.

    "You did med school?"

    "Yeah. Before going into psychology."

   John's scream slashed through the peaceful night.

   Coming back in the living room with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some gauze pads and surgical tape in hand, he sat on the couch, facing Sherlock. John removed the bandage then cleaned the healing wound with much dexterity and care.

"Oh!"

A love-hate relationship —love because of how flawless their wavelengths were, hate because it was indecent they made him feel this way— was how John would view his bond with the sounds Sherlock exhaled to express surprise. Regardless, they were the only things left to water down the catastrophe this conversation had become, the last solution, the final buoy to hold and keep him afloat while Sherlock the opened the door to his past, unraveling his secrets like turning the pages of a dusted old grimoire.