Baker Street Boys

15(iii)

*have a nice day sweetheart :)

Chapter 3

John shook his head, then forced himself away from the wall and his flatmate. "Sherlock, I-" he faltered. He grabbed his coat, glancing back just for a second to see Sherlock's eyes linger on his, then turn to the floor.

He swallowed roughly, biting his lip, then slipped into his coat, sneaking out the flat, feeling guilty for leaving Sherlock. The look on his face was enough to tear a hole in his heart. He chewed his lip, trotting down the rest of the stairs and out the door.

The cold London air hit John like a smack in the face. What are you even thinking? You don't even like males. This is just wrong. Sherlock is your flatmate, for God's sake. You are not allowed to think of any male like that, especially not Sherlock.

Then came that small voice in the back of his mind, the one that made him ask Mike Stamford who had also told him that he or she would never get a flatmate, the one that made him jump in and move in with Sherlock, the one that he simultaneously wished he could smother and embrace.

Why? Why not? Sherlock obviously doesn't have a problem with it, and heavens knows your body doesn't.

"Because it's wrong, John!" He yelled out, startling a few passerby, some of them going so far as to cross the street. "I-" he bit his lip, dragging his hands down his face.

He exhaled deeply. When had he let these feelings get to him? When did he even develop these feelings?

He walked a few feet, shaking his head, then sat down on the sidewalk, pushing himself against the brick wall, resting his head on his knees.

He stayed like that for a long time, however many hours, he didn't really know. Time was the last thought on his mind. He watched the world go by, observing each person's gait, appearance, and conversations, wishing his life could be simple as theirs.

All they are worried about is whether or not they will make the next tube or whether or not they will get home in time for their favorite telly show. None of them have to deal with this, none of them have feelings for people they shouldn't. There lives are in order, set, in fixed patterns.

He was being ridiculous. Of course everyone had problems in their lives. The majority of the world had problems bigger than he. He had seen hundreds in Afghanistan.

He buried his head between his knees. "Then why doesn't it feel like that? Why does it feel like every part of me is decaying?" He spoke from a surprisingly medical standpoint, considering the state of his emotions. He honestly wished he could find and apply a cure for his ailments.

Nothing had plagued him in this way since the war. Since the countless deaths, the ones he couldn't save, the ones he-

He squeezed his eyes tight. No. This was not the time. He could not further suck himself into this painful hole. He breathed in deeply, calming himself.

He opened his eyes to the dark streets of London. Barely anyone was walking about now. With hardly any one to observe and hardly anything off his mind, he resigned himself to going home.

...

He braced himself as he entered the flat, knowing the volatile state he had left Sherlock in and well aware of what that could have done to the man.

He closed the door slowly with a little click. He shrugged out of his coat, folding it and dropping it on the counter.

He walked a bit further into the flat, feeling as if he was encroaching on someone else's territory. He scanned the living room and kitchen for Sherlock. Nothing.

Could he be in the bedroom? Oh, God, I hope-

"Ahhh," a muffled sound came from across the living room.

Don't tell me he's started doing those sorts of experiments in the living room, John thought to himself as he edged toward the muffled noises, a morbid, unstoppable curiosity egging him on.

He peered over the couch to find Sherlock, thankfully, fully clothed.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on the ground?" the army doctor wondered aloud.

The head full of black curls bounced as Sherlock's head lolled toward him. "Five patch," Sherlock's eyes drooped, "problem," he curled into a ball, loosely hugging his legs to his body.

Five patches? He goes nearly mad on three, what's he doing? "Sherlock, let's get you up. What're you doing?" John voiced his thoughts as he crept behind the couch and bent toward the limp figure.

"Prob...lem," Sherlock barely formed the words.

John rolled his eyes, trying to hide his genuine fear for his flatmate. What for? He can't even see your face. Sherlock Holmes might be a sociopath, but one thing he's not is suicidal.He shook his head, ridding himself of such thoughts, focusing on the problem at hand.

He scooped up the pale man with ease, almost too much. "Sherlock, when's the last time you ate? You barely weigh a stone!"

"Strong John," Sherlock's woozy body convulsed as he giggled.

John furrowed his brows as he carried Sherlock to his room. Sherlock melted out of his arms and onto the bed.

John turned around and walked out of the room. But, as he did, he could have swore he heard a soft "thank you" coming from the consulting detective.

He half-smiled to himself, sighing as he moved toward his own bed room. It had been a long day and there was more on his mind than he could handle right now.

He blew through his lips as his head hit the pillow, ready for some much-needed sleep.

Who knows? I might even have this all figured out when I wake up...