Mother Bird

The Homewrecker

Molly's departure left the men on the lawn, standing out in the darkness of the unlit porch lamp, one which Mary evidently had not bothered to leave on for her tiresome husband. Sherlock knew that John's intentions had not yet faded away; he understood that there was something else he wanted out of this night. Though all the softness was gone, it was instead replaced with irritability, with a sort of aggression that scared Sherlock more than he thought it might. He felt more like prey to some beastly predator, he felt vulnerable and exposed. Though at the moment there was nothing he could do to counter John's advances, for there was a predominant part of his heart that wanted tonight to go about exactly as the man had planned. There was a large part of himself that wanted nothing more than to go with the flow, nothing more than to be swept away by a wave of John's emotions and limbs, no matter how aggressive, no matter how angry. He would take that man in any form, even this one. Even the one that scared him the most.
"Come on then, let's go and get your car." John decided at last, shoving his hands into his pockets and exchanging one last look towards his house before stepping from the grass and into the street. It was symbolic, in a way, that he was leaving his own unwelcoming house to follow Sherlock wherever he wanted to go. Sherlock hesitated on the lawn, feeling as though he might want to speak out against John's irrational actions. He wasn't entirely sure if the man was intoxicated or not, though there was a part of his consciousness that insisted he debate John's rather blind infidelity. A simple kiss was one thing...what else did he have in mind? Surely nothing that could be appreciated by poor Mary, the woman who was sobbing at Sherlock's feet only hours before, dreading the very thing that was about to happen. It was within Sherlock's power to ease her pain, it was within him now to say no...
"It's just in the woods." Sherlock said at last, swallowing his hesitations and following John along the poorly lit street along the tree line.
"You seem to have some idea on how to rob a house." John commented. "Everything seems so...polished."
"I'm a fast learner. But I wasn't robbing you, that's what you don't understand." Sherlock snarled.
"I understand just fine, Sherlock. I appreciate your effort, really." John assured. "But now we're free, no handcuffs, no bars. You came with a purpose and now I intend to make it worth your while."
"Yes I...I suppose." Sherlock muttered, picking up his pace a bit unintentionally and striding much faster than John could ever manage. Perhaps he was absentmindedly trying to distance himself from his advisory, perhaps he thought he could make it to the car and drive away before John could follow. Oh but he wasn't scared...he wanted this. He wanted this more than anything. It was just...oh who knows? Perhaps some sort of performance anxiety. Sherlock wasn't afraid of loving John, it was the very thing he had dreamed of for the longest time. Though it had been a long, long time. He had merely forgotten how to forget all morals; he forgot the small little details. Tonight would revive him, he was just afraid to get back into the usual rhythm. The rhythm he once knew by heart. As the men hiked along the logging road Sherlock thought once more to their kiss in the jail, about who might have witnesses such a thing. If there were cameras...oh surely there had to be! The police must've seen the whole thing; Molly Hooper may have also been a witness! Mary would know for sure, she'd find out through the gossip that flowed through this town like a charging river. But was that so frightening? The woman already seemed to have come to grips with the idea of a cheating husband; she already seemed prepared for the truth. The marriage wasn't working well anyways; their lives were not as precious as Sherlock once assumed. He could be the one to separate them again; he could be the one to inflict the last fatal blow onto the already shattered home, claiming all those who once belonged to Mary Watson. He had her child, her husband...could she handle one more defeat? Undoubtedly. The car loomed into view, a great dark mass along the shaded moonlight, though what its arrival signified Sherlock did not know. Was he expected to drive the two of them back to his own house?
"It's cold." Sherlock commented a bit stupidly, his shoes crunching through the frozen puddles that had collected in the long forgotten tire treads.
"It is." John agreed. "Unlock the car, Sherlock. And get undressed."
"I..." Sherlock hesitated, his mouth rather falling open. "That's rather abrupt."
"Is it?" John questioned. "Has this not been coming on for the past couple of months? Have you not wanted me since that first night at the bar?"
"I should ask you the same." Sherlock commented. John turned around to face him, oh there was not a hint of sympathy in his face, he was not here to play games, he was not here for conversations about feelings. It took only a moment's eye contact for Sherlock to at last take the key from his pocket, deciding at last to follow John's instructions to the letter.