The Doctor And The Detective (Johnlock)

Fourteen

John's sudden outburst silenced him. Sherlock had wanted to ask John about the spot of blood that had been slowly expanding from his trouser leg. What had provoked John's behavior? Sherlock didn't understand John's reasoning behind the whole sex thing they did. It was extremely simple to forget it, 'delete' the information from your mind (as Sherlock liked to put it). The teenagers on the TV screamed and cursed. There was a dull thunk from the kitchen, which sounded oddly like someone dropping their forehead onto a table or counter top.

Had he blown it? Sherlock didn't know. He should have stopped at a kiss. He knew he should have stopped at that, and escaped back into his room for a couple of days. John wouldn't be feeling so invaded if he'd done that. Sherlock slapped himself mentally and rose to see if he could teach John how to delete information.

His theory of someone dropping their head onto the table had been correct - John was sitting bent over and motionless. His hair was tussled and untidy, making Sherlock desperate to run his hands through it and comb it with his fingers. Instead, Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I'll tea-"

"I DON'T BLOODY CARE!" John roared, slapping Sherlock's hand away with such force that he sent the detective falling over backwards, his head cracking painfully against the counter. Almost immediately John stepped back, fear playing in his eyes. "I.. I can't do this, Sherlock. Give me a few days. I- I'm going to go stay at a hotel for a week or so. I need... I need some time away."

Anger arose in Sherlock's throat. He didn't say anything. The place where John had slapped him stung. Watching the doctor's back disappear, Sherlock let his head rest against the cold floor and let the tears which had been hiding beneath his eyes finally slide free. It was messy and ugly. Snot and tears bubbled everywhere, and Sherlock's body was racked with loud choking hiccups and sobs. The tiles of the floor of the kitchen were hard and cold, and yet Sherlock couldn't stand to go into his room instead. The back of his head throbbed, and when Sherlock raised a hand to it his fingers came back sticky with blood.

He felt like crap. He felt positively sick to his stomach. Nausea eddied through him, stroking his throat and making his cheeks and lower jaw numb and tingly. This only made Sherlock cry more. He may appear as a cold stone figure to many, but really he was the biggest child inside. He hated feeling sick. He hated being sick. He hated seeing other people be sick. He hated hearing the sound of someone being sick, or smelling the acidic odour of vomit or even talking about being sick. He'd always hated it.

Sherlock Holmes was a man of disguise. He could enter a room as the calm and collected, mildly annoying and mind-bogglingly clever detective and come out five minutes later as a grumpy 90 year old man. But the biggest disguise he ever put on was on him 24/7. He wasn't 'calm and collected' - in his mind he was screaming continuously. He acted like he didn't care, but he always did. The sight of murder victims and dead bodies made him sad. Sad that the body he was looking at used to be home to a being, a human just like him.

And Sherlock Holmes was no stranger to love. It had lived deep within him ever since he had first laid eyes on John Watson. He just hadn't uncovered it until now. What Sherlock thought was sexual drive was passionate love, and what he'd thought was loyalty was adoration. He was 100 percent head over heels in love with John Watson.

The problem is that he had blown it, and now John was never going to love him back. He might as well just savour the memory of last night before it turned sour in his mind. Sherlock wasn't one for self pleasure, but as he recalled the bucking hips and sweet moans of John Watson under him he felt a pleasing rush of blood low in his stomach.

There was no one around, so Sherlock didn't feel embarrassed about thinking these things. He closed his eyes and felt John's lips against his own, fingers entwining into his hair, passion and desire and feeling all building up, stronger and stronger until....

Sherlock felt bile leap into his throat. He groaned and pulled himself up, dragging his head over the sink. He was so in love with John Watson it made him physically ill. "John, please come back soon," Sherlock whispered before violently dry heaving.

(Oh my god that took a long time to write! As said before, I have really bad writers block.... I know what's going to happen, I just can't seem to write it!
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Poor Sherlock.....)