philtatos :: multi drabbles

johnlock: method to madness

METHOD TO MADNESS
summary: Sherlock has always been a bit mad.
warnings: n/a
edit history: aug. 24. 17 - title change

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Sherlock hated it when John sat at the kitchen counter with an unfolded newspaper. He hated it when he read something interesting and pursed his lips, or when his blue eyes ran across the words. He hated it because every time, Sherlock's heart would clench and twist, and on the tip of his tongue were the words, "I love you." Words he had never said before and never planned to say, because Sherlock Holmes couldn't and wouldn't let his guard down. Ever.

Sometimes John would pad across the flat in his socks, retrieve something, and go back to typing away at his computer with a furrowed brow. He'd bite his lip sometimes, if he wasn't sure what to write, and sit staring at the screen until the brightness dimmed. Sherlock would watch from the couch while working on a case, stopping everything and leaving the room completely silent, which John usually failed to notice. His fingers would take to typing again, and Sherlock would ignore the I love you that plagued his thoughts.

Tea would be sipped with an outstretched pinkie finger and wet lips and Sherlock's heart would skip a beat again and he would stay silent with contemplation. He swallowed down the words and offered a pained smile, and then he'd go back to whatever they had been talking about last.

The case they were working on was lengthy. It didn't really matter what it was about, only that there was a string of murders and Sherlock was no where near figuring it out. He thought maybe it was Moriarty again, that son of a bitch, the man who filled his nightmares and fed his anxiety. The man who almost outsmarted him, Sherlock Holmes. Almost.

Now it was John who began to take notice. He noticed when Sherlock wasn't eating, so he'd make him food and bring it to him when he had to. He noticed when Sherlock had missed another night of sleep, and pulled him up and to his bed before he could repeat the action. John urged him to walk outside when he noticed Sherlock had been holed up in the apartment for a month, and together they took a walk in the cold, just to the park and back. And that was how they spent their time, with Sherlock slowly slipping away and John taking care of him.

Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room, a steaming cup of tea beside him, and John in the chair next to him. His blue eyes had lost some of their color, and his face and lips were paler than usual. John watched him, arms folded with a sincere look of concern on his face.

"Sherlock," his voice quietly disrupted the thick silence. Sherlock's eyes slid in his direction, indicating he took notice.

"Sherlock," he cleared his throat. "You've been working on this case for three months." John paused to lick his lips and furrow his eyebrows, "In that time, we've been to the hospital twice already, and you went two weeks without sleep. I've.." his voice broke, and Sherlock's eyes finally lifted to meet his, triggered by his tone. Emotion seeped into him, something he had only felt these past months when John would touch him or steady him. He had blocked John out as much as possible, to focus on the case, but he hadn't realized that by pushing him away, John was slipping too. It was easy to tell--the bags under his eyes, his mix-matched clothes, even his aura was melancholy. Sherlock silently cursed himself for not noticing it sooner.

"I've tried to do the best I can for you," John rasped, "But I c--an't," he drew in a breath, "I don't think I can..." John covered his face in his hand, and tears fell onto his lap. "This case," he said shakily, "This case is killing you. I can't watch you w-wear away like this because..." His voice grew thick, but he swallowed down the knot in his throat. He waited a second, wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, and uncovered his face. "Because I love you. I love you, Sherlock," his voice turned deep, and his eyes studied the wall.

The tea beside Sherlock had stopped steaming, and silence overtook the room again. In the past months he had barely uttered a word that wasn't to himself, so he had to swallow before answering. "I'm sorry," he whispered. John turned to him as he began to stand, legs wobbly underneath him. John moved to assist him, but Sherlock held out a trembling hand to stop him. John sat back in his seat as Sherlock stood fully, and waited for him to say something.

Sherlock had to grit his teeth to keep from crying, but he managed to speak after a moment of preparation. "You, John," he began, "Are the best..." Sherlock faltered. "The best man I have ever met. This case is," Sherlock ran a hand down his face. "You're right. It's killing me. I have tried for months to figure it out, to...to find where the string leads, but the yarn doesn't end." Sherlock's voice wavered, as his tone turned from solemn to angry. "Every lead leads to another," he began to pace, "And--and it just doesn't end, John, it never ends! It's driving me mad!"

He hadn't noticed that his face was just inches from John's until he had stopped talking, but John had. His breath caught in his throat and he couldn't move, glued to the seat with Sherlock's arms on either side of him, gripping the chair's arms. Sherlock's grimace disappeared, and he blinked once before his features softened to look at John. He wasn't afraid, only slightly surprised, and more than slightly wanting to kiss him. Sherlock's eyes said the same, as they glanced at John's lips momentarily before jumping back up to meet his eyes. John licked his lip, and Sherlock's urge to say I love you came back. It was there, in the front of his mind, like a blaring neon sign. Sherlock opened his mouth, to say it, finally, but John took the opportunity to instead attach their lips. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and their lips pressed together gently. John moved away, and before Sherlock had time to open his eyes again, he had already spluttered "I love you." He meant it.

word count: 1074