John rolled off of Sherlock, something he was usually reluctant to do but now came so easily. His body's heightened state was completely demolished. Had he heard right? Had Sherlock, the only human being (although John now seriously doubted the existence of a heart in the man that lay on his right) he had ever had the courage to say 'I love you' to and mean it really just said some other bastard's name while they made love? Oh how stupid of him to think Sherlock was serious about this. How many times did he have to mess up for his brain to learn. John finally acknowledged the man beside him. He was flat on his back as well, staring into the empty space in front of his face. No, the silence just makes it worse. Say sonething, idiot, John thought.
"Uh." Oh god, what. What am I going to say, I just need to not be in the same room, "I need a shower", he blurted out. With that, John left and soon he was under running water, washing away any anger he knew might spike up.
Sherlock didn't realise John's absence until he opened his mouth to speak and found there was no one to speak to. "Alone again, then." He fidgeted on the bed, when was John going to come out of the bathroom, he needed to explain. He needed to explain how his brain had blacked out, how John had been the cause of him lowering his inhibitions, how he, himself, is all at fault here, how he would understand John's anger, and how much he loved him. He just needed to explain. He just-no, John probably wanted his space at a moment like this. What he needed was to leave and come back when he felt it safe to talk to John. So he did. He hastily dressed in rumpled trousers and a wrinkled shirt. He didn't even bother to put pants on, nor socks when his feet slid into his slippers. Not only did he look as if he had just been jumped and had his shoes stolen but now came a second dilemma, where the bloody hell could he go? Not Mycroft, no. Not Lestrade, god no. Not John. Not John.
His mind was made up as he made his way down the stairs, bit nippy, he should have put on a wrinkled jacket as well. It was obvious where he should go, hiding in plain sight, right under their noses, quite literally. Obvious.
YOU ARE READING
A Name
أدب الهواة"What mattered was now, this exact moment, when John loved him. What mattered was that Sherlock had found a reason to smile. What mattered was that John's fingers had found their way to Sherlock's chest and were gently running along his skin below h...
