Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 11

SHERLOCK

John was gone by the time I woke up. A brief moment of confusion and just a hint of panic flooded my mind before I remembered that John had work today. Filled with a longing for the warmth and comfort of lying next to him and a hollow disappointment, I slumped against the headboard and sat there for quite some time.

It was a shame, how ramped all these feelings of mine had been. But ever since I was young, whenever depression was closing in I would always be emotional before and after the incidents. It had been awhile, but at least I had an idea of what was happening.

At this point I had accepted that I loved my blogger more than anything. More than clues, more than intellectual property, even more than work. I felt like I was cheating on a spouse, thinking about John the way I was. But when I thought of his face inches from mine, peaceful and just as lovely as ever in sleep, the short little puffs of breath he exhaled, the slight parting of his lips as he breathed, uhg. I was going mad with all these emotions.

It was so odd. Ever since John had found me in that bathroom that nagging voice in my head had stopped and been replaced with a sweeter, kinder one. It was John's voice, telling me that I was brilliant and that he cared about me. It was soothing, it allowed me to think, but I had to be sure. I had to be positive.

Did John Watson love me?

I sighed, not wanting to get up from my bed. I would be bored for the next eight hours, what was the use of movement? But I supposed I at least had to make myself presentable for when John returned. I showered, dressed in a simple work suit and threw myself on the sofa once I'd started some tea. Boooored, my mind complained. I'm working on it, my consciousness responded. Liieees, my brain accused. Shhh, my consciousness whispered.

I sat there for some time, waiting for the kettle to squeak and wondering what I should do. I couldn't go outside often, as to most of the world I was still quite dead. Being stuck in the flat all day was a bore, a mind-numbing bore. I groaned to no one in particular, returning with my tea and texting Lestrade.

Case?
-SH

No go

BORED
-SH

Not my problem -.-

I sighed, tossing my phone across the room and caring not a bit if it broke. It didn't, though, as I could tell. Sitting up, I snatched up my violin case and music folder. I flipped through the works until I found what I was looking for. It was a series of small pieces I'd put together for John when he did simple things like wash dishes or take out the trash. Little theme songs, just for him. I wondered if he noticed.

They were titled simply, according to their activities. I turned them over, absorbing the titles slowly. I could recall the exact images I based the music off of, but none matched how I felt at the moment. So, I pulled out a pen and a blank sheet, filling in the staffs and lines accordingly. It would be a longer piece, the last of the collection. I smiled to myself as I wrote the title, that ended the others perfectly.

Blogging

Washing the Dishes

Making a Call

Taking Out Rubbish

Yelling at the Telly

And the last, and what I hoped would be the most perfect;

Stealing My Heart

JOHN

I waited impatiently outside the clinic, grumbling to myself for no cab would stop for me. They never did. Gina, the nurse, walked passed me with a little wave and a "I'm glad you're better!" I didn't respond, except for a small nod in her direction. She was a nice girl.

Eventually I gave up and settled on walking home. It would take longer, but at least I had time to think.

The first thing that came to mind was Sherlock. What were we now? We had kissed, he had rejected me, he had self-harmed for unknown reasons, we spent an entire happy day together, and he took it all back in his sleep. Even an idiot could connect the dots. It raised my spirits, though a little bit guiltily, to think Sherlock hadn't meant what he said. Oh, but how stubborn that man could be! How was I to know how he felt at times, if in fact he did? Maybe I should ask him. He seemed to be expressing himself more and more around me, which while I admit was progress, was also very worrying. Was there something wrong? Was it like this before or because of the kiss? Was he still trying to apologize? Was it all just a test? Did he really have feelings for me? These questions swirled so violently in my head that before I even knew I was walking, I was at my front door. I chuckled to myself at this. I should think about Sherlock more often.

I heard a loud ruffle of papers from upstairs when I walked through the door. The flat smelled of something slightly flowery, as opposed to its usual signature scent. I climbed the steps slowly, alerting Sherlock that I was home. "You're late," he responded dryly. I nodded, seeing him stooped over his music stand and shoving a bundle of papers into a folder below it. "I walked," I informed him. Once I reached him, I grabbed his arm and checked his wrists. He didn't complain, but he looked quite uncomfortable. "Mrs.Hudson got milk," he muttered. I hummed a short response, still examining the cuts. Finally, I sighed and turned him loose. "They should be healed in a few days time, even without a doctor." He chuckled. "I thought you were a doctor." I rolled my eyes at him. "Yes, but I have very specific skills, I'm not too experienced in this...department." I waved dismissively towards his arms. He rubbed his wrists self-consciously. "I see," he mumbled.
The source of the smell was a candle on the counter top, along with a fire extinguisher and a crusty pan. Around the stove, a faint waft of burning paper drifted. I gestured to the odd collection questioningly. Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa. "What?" I raised an eyebrow wordlessly. He did not catch my eye. "I made breakfast earlier," he drawled, looking away. I laughed, because I knew Sherlock couldn't cook to save his life.

**********

I yawned loudly. "I think I'll be going to bed, Sherlock. Can you make do?" I called from the kitchen. Sherlock mulled over this, and for a millisecond flashed me a concerned look. I knew he knew about my nightmares, but it was never brought up. "Sleep in my room, its closer," he recommended. I wanted to protest, but he paid me no mind, turning back to his music.

I grumbled, turning tail and saying goodnight as he tuned his violin. His only response was a grunt.

I entered Sherlocks dark room that brimmed with his scent that I could not help but love. His bed was still as warm and comfortable as it had always been, absorbing the sweet and bitter smells of my detective. Tobacco and new books, that's what I could distinguish. I sighed contently.

From the living room, I heard Sherlock begin to play. It was a slow, sweet song that reminded me of a river or pond bank, alive and well and full of beauty. Like Sherlock, I thought. The song weaved its way through intricate chords to my heart. It was beautiful and peaceful, but also strong and confident. A minute or so in to the song it was haunting enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Dammit, Sherlock, I thought. The things you do to me.