Chapter Text
Sherlock did his best to watch John without turning his head to look directly at him. This was the sixth text in the last hour John had received. Each time his phone vibrated, John had first looked at Sherlock before he checked the phone. This made him look guilty. About something. John hadn't sent a reply to any of the texts. Sherlock shifted his laptop to see if he could find an angle that would reflect John's image.
This had been going on for more than two weeks. Sherlock admitted he was slow to notice: John got a lot of texts and there was never any agreement to always share their correspondences with each other. No doubt, each of them received messages when the other wasn't around; sometimes the texts were so irrelevant, so it was useless to share. Sherlock didn't report every time that Mycroft harassed him; only occasionally John would mention news about Harry that implied he must have heard from her.
But there was something different about these recent contacts. Sherlock had casually asked a few times "Who was that?" and John shrugged it off or changed the subject. He never replied to the texts (at least in Sherlock's presence) and his face always went . . . different. At times, his face appeared embarrassed; other times, pleased. And today, he looked guilty.
Without turning around, Sherlock muttered, "That noise is irritating. Can you turn it off or should I go in the other room?"
"Sorry," John said, quickly switching his phone to silent. He made a mental note to leave it that way for the time being until all of this was sorted. He'd noticed Sherlock asking questions -- subtly, of course, but asking nonetheless. Two things had happened in the last month that led up to this. The first was cracking Sherlock's skull in half when he dropped it off of the mantel. He'd felt so terrible, despite Sherlock telling him that it was fine. He had John now and didn't need it. But it continued to eat away at him, so he'd saved the pieces, trying to figure out what to do with them. Later that week, caught up in a lust-filled kiss, he'd tried to clear the table like they did in the movies, realising too late that Sherlock's violin had been on the table. It had busted and that time John actually cried, his chest so tight with guilt that it physically hurt him. Sherlock had been visibly upset for days, trying his best not to take it out on John, but that didn't help. And then John saw it, the perfect thing to get for Sherlock. He'd been in contact with the maker for weeks now, being updated on the process of it and trying to save up the money for it. It would be a wonderful surprise if he could keep the secret until it was ready.
Sherlock decided to take a new approach. He closed his laptop and went over to the chair where John was sitting. He took John's book from his hand and slipped like a cat into his lap. He slid one arm around John's shoulder and gave him a quick kiss on the ear. "I'm bored. Should we have a little talk?"
John stuffed his phone into his pocket and nodded. "All right," he agreed.
"What should we talk about? Do you have any ideas?" Sherlock said. But before John could answer, he added, "How's Harry? Have you heard from her recently?"
"A week ago, yes," John nodded. "She's doing well. Trying to stop drinking again."
Hmmm, nothing there. "That's good, that's good," Sherlock said, trying to sound interested but knowing he didn't because in truth, at the moment, he wasn't. "And how's work? Any problems, issues?" he asked, as he twirled his fingers through John's hair.
John furrowed his brows slightly. "No, everything at work is good. Sherlock . . .what's going on?"
"I'm just showing interest, John. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?" He felt a little annoyed but wasn't sure if it was because John was suspicious about his curiosity or because Sherlock knew John was right to be suspicious about his curiosity.
"No, of course not," John said quickly. "You're just . . .acting a bit strange." John knew he should just shut up and answer his questions before the conversation turned to his own strange behaviour.
"I'm not," Sherlock lied. "Anyway, anything you feel like asking me? Anything you feel we should talk about?"
John shook his head slowly. "Um . . .how's your experiment going?"
"Fine," Sherlock shrugged. "Moving on, would you like to go into the bedroom and do sex stuff?"
"Geez Sherlock, with romance like that how can I resist?" John teased. "What's going on with you?"
"Interesting," Sherlock said. "That was an interesting response." He stood up awkwardly and walked over to the mantel before remembering that his skull was no longer there. He'd have to figure this one out on his own. "John, would you say you are satisfied with our relationship as it stands? Anything you'd like to see change?" He did not turn to look at John, but instead just gazed into the kitchen.
John stopped smiling, looking a bit worried now. "I'm happy . . . aren't-aren't you?" He asked slowly. It didn't help that Sherlock was at the mantel, thinking of the skull probably. His stomach twisted.
"Indeed, I am very happy," Sherlock said. "But I can admit that very often I get my way when it comes to how things are. Sometimes this is because my way is the best way. Occasionally, it's because I have been known to . . . become difficult when I don't get my way. I'm wondering if, maybe," he paused, not quite sure what can of worms he was opening, "you have tired of my way."
"I don't understand," John said. "Are you asking me if I want to break up? I don't. I love you," he said.
Sherlock smiled before turning around. "I'm glad to hear that. I love you, too," he said genuinely, sitting down on the sofa. "I'm sorry I started this conversation. Let's pretend I didn't, all right? Would you like to do anything tonight?"
John watched him move to the sofa. "Um . . . I didn't have anything in mind. Sherlock, are you sure you're all right?"
"Of course, I'm absolutely fine," Sherlock said. But he didn't feel absolutely fine. Because he felt like something was going on with John that wasn't being shared with him. He felt pretty sure that this kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen in relationships. He was torn between his usual strategy of not stopping until he figured an issue out and the newer strategy he'd been trying to adopt since he and John had been together: trust. John said everything was fine. John said he didn't want to break up. John said he loved Sherlock. He should trust John.
"Shall we go out for dinner then?" Sherlock asked, but when he looked up, he saw that John was looking at his phone. John's face looked guilty again.
John stared at the new message. It was going to be more expensive than he thought. That meant more days at the surgery and less time with Sherlock. He stuffed the phone away and looked up. "Dinner, yes," he smiled. "Our usual?"
Sherlock tried to keep his face as neutral as possible: he wasn't sure if he was feeling sad or angry or suspicious or just confused and until he knew what he was feeling, he didn't want to reveal anything. "No," he said plainly. "Let's go somewhere different tonight. Let's do something different."
"What did you have in mind?" John asked.
"I don't know," Sherlock said because he really didn't. "We could just have a wander and see what takes our fancy. When do you want to go?"
"We can go now," John said. "A walk sounds nice," he smiled.
Sherlock loved walking London with John. When they walked together it felt like the whole city was theirs, regardless of what was going on around them. It didn't hurt that John's cheeks went quite pink in the cold wind that also tousled his hair in a particularly appealing way. Sherlock kept his gloves in his pocket so they could hold hands, skin on skin.
John took his hand and laced their fingers together, smiling up at him. The wind was chilled, and he stuck close to Sherlock as they walked. "We can get some cocoa or tea on our way home," he suggested.
"Yes," Sherlock said, smiling at him. He was good, was John. He was good to Sherlock; he wouldn't do anything to deliberately hurt him. But then an idea popped into Sherlock's head: perhaps the texts weren't about betrayal, perhaps something was wrong and John was trying to keep from upsetting Sherlock. Was John sick? Sherlock dropped John's hand and slid his arm around him, sheltering him from the wind. "Are you too cold? Shall we rest? Do we need to get you back home?" he said, concerned.
"Wha-no," John shook his head, stopping to look up at him. "I'm enjoying our walk. Do you want to go home?" John asked, tilting his head lightly. Sherlock must suspect something, and John's stomach twisted at the thought. It was a good thing, if he could only wait a little bit longer.
"No, I'm enjoying this as well. I'm just worried about you. Do you look peaky?" Sherlock had stopped walking and was now inspecting John's face. He pressed the back of his hand to John's forehead. "Seems cold, do you feel clammy? Are you okay to walk? Do you want me to carry you?" It occurred to Sherlock that he was in fact probably overreacting, but the thought of John being sick and too afraid to tell him made Sherlock himself feel a bit sick
"Sherlock, you're scaring me. I promise I'm okay." John grabbed his cheeks and leaned up to kiss him. "I am."
Sherlock pulled John's jacket collar around neck. "I wish you'd wear a scarf," he said. Still holding John's collar, he moved his face close to John's and said, "You'd tell me . . . if something was wrong?" Then he realised that this might look rather menacing to an outside party. So he gave John a quick kiss and said, "Please, tell me" before releasing him and continuing to walk.
"There's nothing wrong, Sherlock. You know I wouldn't keep anything important from you." He reached out and took his hand again.
Did he, though? Sherlock didn't say this aloud. Maybe this had nothing to do with John at all. Maybe this was about Sherlock -- why was he so bothered in the first place? Perhaps not everything in the world had to be a clue, perhaps not had to have a bigger meaning. At the next junction, Sherlock stopped and turned around in a circle, "I see a Chinese, an Indian, an Italian and a coffee shop. Which do you choose?"
"Coffee shop," John said. "I'm not really that hungry."
The warmth of the coffee shop felt good. Sherlock pulled a chair out for John and went to get the drinks. He set the mugs down and took a seat. He leaned over the table and took John's hands. "John, I've got something I feel I need to share with you," he said
John's stomach twisted violently again and he gripped Sherlock's hands. "Okay," he nodded. He bit his lip and waited anxiously.
"I know you've been communicating with someone and haven't been telling me about it," he said quietly. "It's bothering me and I'm not sure what to do about it."
John flushed and shook his head. "It's nothing bad," he said, realising that made it sound even worse. "I promise it's nothing bad. It's a surprise," John said.
Sherlock smirked a bit. "Listen to me, John. I have been thinking about this for a while. Whatever, whoever it is, I'm not sure this matters as much to me as the fact that the whole thing is bothering me so greatly. It doesn't seem logical. We are not in each other's presence twenty-four hours a day. You must get texts and calls when we are apart. I don't quiz you on these every night when you get home. But having to see you get them, it is really getting under my skin and I don't know why."
"I'll keep my phone on silent," John said, knowing that wasn't a proper solution. "I just . . . it's going to be worth it later, okay? I just need you to trust me," he said.
"Fine, I trust you," Sherlock said, brushing John's comment away with his hand and then immediately regretting the gesture. "John, I do trust you. Besides, I've already investigated and if there's no one else and you're not sick, I think I'll be able to accept your promise." He took a sip of tea. "However, the real issue still exists and that's my response. I don't like how I felt . . . and still feel."
"I know," John nodded. "Do you want to talk about how you feel? Maybe I can help?"
"I think I do need your help. I'm not used to this," Sherlock said. "I never used to care about being left out. I preferred it. But being left out . . . by you . . . I just . . . "
"No! It's-it's for you. That's why I can't tell you," John said, squeezing his hands again. "It's a present, a surprise," he said again.
"So you say, but at this moment, all I feel is left out of something you must be sharing with someone else. Why does that bother me so much? You have confidential conversations with your patients -- those don't upset me. Why has this one niggled me so, John? I feel like it's a . . . weakness."
"You're letting your imagination get the best of you, a nasty side effect of sentiment," John smiled softly. "It's just like my patients -- business. That's all."
"Stop going on about how this whole thing is for me, it makes it worse that I feel so horrible about something you say is actually a kindness," Sherlock's hands went to his face before he set them into his lap, looked down at the table and said, "John, I think I'm jealous." He said it like he was admitting to having been diagnosed with terminal sexual disease -- a mix of shame and devastation.
"I know," John laughed softly. He sobered up and caught Sherlock's hand again. "I am trying to reassure you that you don't have to be."
"I know I don't have to be -- I believe you -- but I am and don't know how not to be -- not just about this, but ever," Sherlock confessed. "I hate it."
"I know," John nodded. "I know it's not a good feeling and I hate that I am the cause but it's only a little bit longer."
"Are you saying you've felt jealous before? But you seem so sensible. . ." Sherlock said.
"Of course I have," John said. "When Irene was here," he admitted with a small smile.
"That makes no sense to me, John," Sherlock said. "Is love making us . . . stupid?"
"No, Sherlock," John laughed. "It's making us feel more."
"I liked it when love just made me feel . . . happy. How can we get back to that? Help, please," Sherlock said honestly. He felt like such a child -- helpless and inexperienced in this arena.
"Sherlock, I don't know how," he said quietly. "It's all . . .part of the package," he shrugged.
"Can't you do one of your things?" Sherlock begged.
"What things?" John asked confused.
"One of those things that make me feel . . . warm."
John smiled. "Well . . . I love you very much," he said, lacing their fingers. "And that's . . . that's all I can do to reassure you."
Sherlock shook his head. "You do a lot more than that," Sherlock moved his fingers against John's. "What about that thing you do with your face when your leg goes to sleep? That makes me feel warm. You've not done that in ages." Sherlock smiled as he remembered the last time he'd seen that. "And the thing you did in the bath?" Sherlock shifted his leg slightly so it pressed against John's. "That made me feel very . . . happy."
John smiled wider. "Please go on," he said. He loved when Sherlock noticed little things like this, and it seemed to be getting his mind off of his jealousy.
Sherlock closed his eyes for a minute and let images of John flash in his mind. "Three weeks ago, you stumbled when you were carrying the tea. A little spilled, you swore and then apologised. That was cute." He smiled as he watched it happen again in his head. "One day you left a note and I could tell you had written in, rubbed it out and written it more neatly," Sherlock opened his eyes, "Those things, John. It seems like you've not done any of those kind of things recently."
"I know I've been working a lot more," John said. "But . . . but it's for the surprise, yeah?" He leaned over and kissed him softly. "Want me to tell you what I notice?"
"Yes, please." Sherlock felt a little anxious; he was well aware of his faults but found it hard to believe that he ever did the kinds of things John did. Sherlock was many things but neither 'cute' nor 'sweet' really described him like they described John.
"Hmm . . . well, you snore very softly and I like to listen for a while before I sleep. I also like when you're thinking really hard and you get that little wrinkle in your forehead." John smiled as he thought about it. "Also, when we watch telly, you rub my shoulder lightly. I don't know if you realise you're doing it but it's nice."
Sherlock blushed. He hadn't known he'd done any of those things. "And those things make you feel warm, like you make me feel? Love is a very interesting thing," he said. He slipped his fingertips under John's shirt cuffs and stroked his wrists. "Let's go home now."