Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Twelve

I'm sorry.

-JW

John stares at the text he's sent blankly, feeling a sense of nostalgia for the familiarity of his penmanship. He puts his phone down and drinks a bit of the leftover beer from the fridge.

***

Sherlock receives the text at approximately 11:30, and he shoots out of bed almost instantaneously, like a bullet out of a shotgun.

The phone looks ominous in the darkness, sitting there with its blinking green light. Should he even look?

No. No, he shouldn't.

He does.

And how the fuck is he supposed to reply? Yeah, of course, John, it's fine, you just ripped up perfectly good stationery. In fact, I've been waiting for this moment with bated breaths. In fact, I really have actually been waiting for this moment with bated breaths and I miss speaking with you uncontrollably.

Sherlock puts down the phone slowly, staring at the now still notifications, silent. The candy green light doesn't come on again, as Sherlock stares at that phone, for five minutes, which spans into thirty, and then it's two hours and the entire time he is contemplating how he ever got into this mess.

Sherlock has a way of doing things; a way of getting what he wants without revealing what he is. A liar. A thief. A steal, a cheat. If he wants to be less abrasive about his... hobby, he'd just say he's a "con artist." (Con artist is the most accurate name Sherlock's got.) When he'd tried to make John fall, he did the exact opposite, and now he's bewildered and upset and just exhausted about the entire damned thing.

This's never happened before. This should be easy. Human error. He should have the one up on this - he's not as weighed down by this "feeling" crap - but he feels helpless all the same. He's not supposed to overthink this. His time is too valuable, and he's too busy with his routines, and his induced happiness, and his okay-ness, and his equilibrium.

John is tipping the scales against his favor, and he simply has no idea what to do in a situation like this. He's never felt (pah) butterflies. He's never wanted someone. He's never missed something. He's always had what he wanted, took what he had, wanted what he took. But there is one thing Sherlock is sure of - he does not have John Watson.

John Watson is his own. His skin and his eyes and the sunshine pent up inside his blonde hair is not only beautiful, but it is driven, and he controls the air that he breathes thusly. He controls the way he is, because he is a leader, and Sherlock cannot help himself from being drawn to him. A moth to a flame; the dark to the light. John is not controlled. He's not a variable. He refuses to be inside some poor mathematician's algebra equation.

It's fair to say, that in this moment, Sherlock's half-given up.

Because what if he's wrong? What if Sherlock truly can't steal whatever he wants, what if he's just like the rest - wading through a downpour of slushy lies and broken dreams to try to attain the unattainable... a happy ending?

He gathers his socks and pulls them on so they're all the way up to his knees, then slips on his shoes before getting his navy Belstaff. He feels angry, and sad, and nostalgic, so he's not going to play John's stupid game and say that it's fine, it was an honest mistake.

Sherlock cloaks himself with the coat, hugging it irritably around his shoulders and turning up the collar against the cold. He feels incredibly lacking; not because of his attire, but because of what he's about to do.

***

Sherlock is sitting on this little stool next to John's telly, patiently watching John breathe as he sleeps all his worries away. He's in deep; his eyes are barely moving under his lids. Probably for the first time in a long time.