A Name

Chapter 8

Sherlock returned to the kitchen within five minutes since his shower. The room smelt of tea. Tea and something that was unequivocally 'them'. This only served his mind to flash back to why they were in this situation in the first place. For a genius, Sherlock Holmes was a rather stupid man.

"Sit." John had ordered. So he sat. Better to face the impending speech now rather than later. But, then again, John had said he wasn't mad. John wrapped a blanket around Sherlock's shoulders. It was the ugly pea green one. How fitting, an ugly garment for an ugly situation. John's hands started to rub frantically at his arms and back, trying to heat up a frozen detective. Sherlock could do very little, so he stared at John. He studied John's face. From the blonde of his hair to the slope of his nose to the curve of his thin lips and back to where he started. John never looked up at him. He never got a chance to see those piercing blue eyes up close that day. So, in a flurry of hurt and tenderness, he did what he wanted and kissed John. He ducked his head and met the other man's lips head on. Bull's eye. John tensed, surprise, then he relaxed into the melding of their mouths. The kiss was chaste in nature, but not in meaning. Their kisses were never chaste in meaning. Because each kiss held the unspoken words of want and desire and need to love. Sherlock moaned into their joined mouths and licked at John's lower lip. Sherlock, for what felt like a long time, felt good once more. He felt at home. He felt great. That was, until John pushed his body away from him. Their foreheads remained touching.

"Stop."

John's eyes were closed but that did not stop him from knowing the hurt in Sherlock's grey-blue eyes. He wanted to tell Sherlock how his health was more important and they should really get him into bed, but that would be a lie. Because John, for once in his life, didn't want to be touched by the other man. Something had snapped in him in their time away. Sure, it was only one day, but 24 hours changed people, apparently. No, not change, just..clarify people's thoughts. Because now, where John's previous determination to find Sherlock, there now filled an even bigger determination to find Paul.

~~~

They spent the remnants of the night in uncomfortable silence, or they would have had Lestrade not called that night. The detective inspector's voice was rushed.

"Sherlock, you gotta help. I wouldn't call if I wasn't desperate."

"Yes you would."

"Is John there?" the detective inspector's voice was tense and annoyed.

"No, what do you need?"

"Murder-suicide. Third one we've seen, each a week apart. We might still get something. " he paused, "Please."

"I'll be there."

He placed the cell phone back on the table from which he retreived it and dashed to grab his coat. It had been a quiet night; too quiet. Far too quiet. A good murder was..well, good, at the moment. It would take his mind off his relationship issuse. The great Sherlock Holmes had 'relationship issues', who would've thought to see the day? Sherlock was well aware that by ignoring the problem (was there really a problem?) he was only making matters worse, but something in him (pride?) banned him from giving in.

"Where are you going?" John asked from the kitchen where he had resigned to write his blog. In truth, he just needed to not be in the same room as Sherlock. Somehow, though, he couldn't bear to not be near him.

"Case."

John's mouth formed into a neat little circle, mouthing 'oh'. There was hesitation in his eyes, "Want me to come?"

"If you desire to do so." they both knew that was Sherlockian for 'yes'. Sherlock's phone beeped with a text from Lestrade indicating the address to meet at.