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

Chapter Twenty-Four

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

There's a shattering sound, like angry glass - except it plinkplinkplinks and rolls around. Coins explode around him, and a hot hand grabs onto his. He makes a noise that eerily sounds like a swear, and is pulled toward a person that is breathing heated and heavy. John's eyes have never looked so much like molten steel. "Who the fucking hell do you think you are?" John yells, spitting up flames. "That was probably the only money that man had. He probably hasn't eaten in two days, you absolute twat, and you - you..."

Sherlock looks over at John, squinting his eyes, and cuts him off with a quiet, "Stop."

His eyes shoot open, shocked, appalled, in a disgusted kind of awe - his mouth opens as if to speak, but he is silent. Rain splatters onto his lips, and his tongue rests there, halfway through a whisper. "Stop?" John hisses. "Stop?"

"Do you need me to repeat myself? Or did the grenade that blew out your shoulder fuck up your hearing, too?"

Well.

"Heh."

John readjusts his shoulders to fold his arms tightly across his chest, shifts his weight to one leg, and smiles. His brow furrows deeply, and the lines don't go away like they do when he laughs for real - they become deeper, different, concave and absent of light. It looks like he is inverting.

He lets out a small chuckle, a forced, "Ha," before tapping his foot a couple of times, and sniffing. "God," he says, "good one." His smile tightens even more. His lips are dry and chapped; he can feel them splitting, and the sting as water droplets hit bleeding skin. "That... is so... fucking funny. You really got me good there, old pal. Because, of course, I needed a reminder, hmm, to put me in my place. To show me who's boss, yeah? Well. You certainly showed me. You certainly fucking showed me. Because, of course, fucking princess, it's okay to make assumptions on things I've never fucking told you, and no, it wasn't a grenade, it was an SA80 assault rifle that shot through my shoulder, and yes, it disgusts me that you even brought that up, you fucking kleptomaniac!"

Sherlock scoffs and replies instantaneously, wasting no time. "Next time that you want to make a convincing case, try not to be a hypocrite and attack my mental illness in the same sentence-"

"That's bullshit!" John yells. "Absolute bullshit." He steps forward. "You know that isn't a 'mental illness.' Stealing a homeless war veteran's only money from him is not categorized as a mental illness." John points back to where Sherlock picked up the cup of pence, and shouts, "Don't fuck with me." Sherlock's eyes follow his finger to where a bewildered, bearded man is looking at them, a sad expression on his face, a badge on his chest, a scar on his brow.

"Oh." Sherlock grimaces. "So that's why your pants are in a twist."

"Yes, Sherlock, that's why my pants are in a twist." John seems to think, for a millisecond. And then he says, "Did you steal my bag?"

"Your what?"

"My bag, you bloody tit, my bag."

"Why in God's name would I steal a bag?"

"It wasn't just 'a bag,' Sherlock, it was my bag, David's bag."

"Honestly, John, why," Sherlock lies, "would I steal that old, dirty, disgusting thing?"

"Oh, I don't know, because you're a fucking sadist?"

"John-"

"Did you steal it?"

"Steal what?"

"I gave you a simple question, and you can't answer. Did you steal my bag?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."