Hostage: A Johnlock Story

Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Ceiling Corner

Sherlock ripped open another white patch, and sighed as the drug entered his bloodstream. He seemed to be relying on it a lot these days. He was still in his pajamas and his curly, black ringlets splayed out randomly, untamed. The couch was basically his bed. Sherlock didn't sleep much anyway. His brain liked to keep him awake, thinking about the next murder. Some people found it... inhumane, and him, mind you, that he like murder. Even his parents gave him looks when he talked about it.

Stopped talking to them years ago, Sherlock thought, and thrusted the newspaper in his hand somewhere onto the ground. He was so bored. Nothing! Useless newspapers. If only he could just-

John walked in abruptly, his blonde hair combed back. Sherlock sat up and analysed him, eyes narrowed. John stood in front of him. "What?" He said. Sherlock felt the tension from last night burst out between. John looked nervous and angry, making Sherlock feel uncomfortable. "I'm bored," Sherlock snapped, pausing to pick up the discarded newspaper. "No murders."

"Well, I'm going out." John nodded at Sherlock, and shrugged on his overcoat. "To find you-" he emphasized, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "-a case."

Sherlock heaved a sigh and flopped back onto the couch, looking weary.

"And why," he said, looking John sharply in the eyes, "would you do that?"

John flushed slightly and shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe-" he said threw his arms in the air exasperatedly. "Your bored. I'm going to find you a case."

Sherlock waved his words away like a paper plane, but John was already heading for the door.

"Keep your phone on. I'll call you." John said, his hand on the doorknob, but his eyes firm and filled with concern. "About last night.." he started. Sherlock looked up, his eyes peeling away from the most fascinating ceiling corner. Oh, right. Sherlock had completely forgotten about it, but it seemed like John was still dwelling on it. It certainly reflected their personalities. John looked incredibly uncomfortable, and fumbled around with his thumbs.

"Forget it." Sherlock said quietly. John took his cue, looking immensely relieved at the ease of the situation.

"Er, thanks." He said awkwardly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Right, well I'll see you later then." John said.

Sherlock just stared up at the ceiling again, averting John's gaze. John shut the door. Sherlock thought he heard a small, disappointed sigh from behind the door.

Several hours later, Sherlock was dressed in his black suit, the one he knew John preferred. It seemed insignificant, though he wanted to subtly get on good terms with John again. John was easy to manipulate, but Sherlock liked it better when he was genuine with him. He could act natural around him, unlike everybody else in his life. Sherlock felt a strange feeling, guilt, he presumed, when he used John. It was unusual for Sherlock to experience such human emotions. Sherlock wasn't sure if he had ever had any real emotions before he met John. Or any real friends. Sherlock still questioned why John stayed with him. He was happy he stayed, though. Most of the good times he'd ever had was with John. The satisfaction of finding a murderer made Sherlock feel pleased and increased his brain power, but John was something new. A fresh face, a new adventure. A different kind of happy.

Sherlock had prepared tea, but John hadn't called. Sherlock's eyes wandered back to the ceiling corner. The plaster was peeling, and the wallpaper was ragged and fading. Sherlock's mind raced. He tried to suppress it, but it wasn't much good. John was good at that. John helped him take his mind off the uncontrollable thoughts that constantly dominated his head. Sherlock tapped his fingers rhythmically on the side of his jittery leg. Precisely at the fifth hit, his phone tone started to play. Sherlock immediately reached for it, the metal vibrations tingling his clasped palm. He flipped it open.

"John."

The response was heavy breathing for a few seconds. John finally responded.

"Sherlock? Good, I wa- huff- just going to say- huff..." John grunted.

"What? Say what?" Sherlock demanded.

"Murder - huff - on Sethton Grove..." John exhaled deeply.

"What number?" Sherlock pasued. "Where have you been running?"

"23B. Cabbie drove off with my cane - had to get it back. But-" John said, recovering.

"Never mind that." Sherlock said impatiently. "Where are you?"

"West Turth. Sherlock-" John said slowly.

"Get a cab to Thordon , two blocks over from Sethton Grove. I'll pick you up. Stay were you are."

"Sherlock, wait-" John said, his voice laced with frustration. "I've been trying to tell you-"

"It can wait. Stay. Where. You. Are." Sherlock said and flipped the phone over, ending the conversation.