Nights When Boredom Strikes

Marks and Memory Loss

John woke up and turned his digital alarm clock to face him. 10:17 a.m. shone in bright blue right into his tired eyes. He figured it was time to get up and groaned as he slowly rolled out of bed, his legs failing to support him, and fell to the floor. He groaned again as he pulled himself up and into his bathroom. He squinted his eyes because they were still adjusting to the sunlight, and splashed his face with a cold handful of water. He wiped the cold water from his face with a washcloth that was hanging on the towel rack and noticed something as he looked in the mirror.

Bloody hell, what are these? He thought, prodding at the red and purple marks on his jawline and neck area. He noticed a soreness in his torso and lifted up his shirt, revealing tons of little marks, all the way to his waistband. He pulled his pajamas down a little to show his hip, where the marks only continued to trail downward. Bloody. Fucking. Hell. He thought, thinking back to the previous night about what could have caused theses bruises, but came up empty. Again? Fucking again? Really? I need to stop drinking so much, and so often. Shit. He racked his brain, but couldn't pull anything out after he and Sherlock talking at the bar, and then his tugging urge to dance. Shit. Shit. Shit. What did I do? He poked at the marks, finding which ones hurt and which ones didn't, the ones on his ribs and hips hurting the most, sending a burning pain through him every time he poked.

Sherlock had gotten up at 6:00. He needed sleep, but not too much because it would slow him down, even if he didn't have a case to work on, the only thing Sherlock liked to let slow him down was being with John. Being with John did just that. He thought about last night's activities and smirked, but the smirk quickly fell when he remembered that John probably wouldn't remember it. He had just recollected his thoughts when he heard John practically sprinting down the stairs. 

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, out of breath as he reached the couch that Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on.

"Calm down, what is it John?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his startled-looking flat mate. He knew, oh God did he know, time to start working on a plan. A fraction of a second later he had it. John began to roll up his shirt and Sherlock widened his eyes, quickly hiding his expression. 

"For God's sakes Sherlock, what the bloody hell are these and where the actual fuck did they come from?" John exclaimed, half panting, still a little out of breath from running down the stairs. Time to put the plan into action, I'm lucky I have some in the kitchen. Sherlock thought, biting his lip. Apparently John really didn't remember last night, so Sherlock had to keep his game going. 

"Oh yes, those. You, uh, were stumbling -- a lot -- and you ran into a few tables, fell a couple of times, nothing too major." Sherlock used the first and most probable story that came to his head. John did stumble a lot, so he wasn't actually completely lying to him. John sighed, running a hand through his hair, eliciting a small noise from Sherlock. 

"What was that?" John asked. 

Sherlock bit his lip, "Nothing." He replied as he returned his attention to the computer in his lap, with, unknown to John, nothing but the Google homepage up. He sighed, closing the computer and setting it in its place on the coffee table. As Sherlock stretched his arm to place the laptop on the table, John noticed something. Sherlock had marks too. Not as noticeable as John's on his neck, but more noticeable on his collar bone. What- Is that makeup? John concluded that there was in fact, a makeup line at the bottom of Sherlock's neck.

Oh God-- did we?-- Oh God. No, Sherlock would have told him the truth, right? John thought, but then reminded himself that this was Sherlock. 

"Sherlock." John looked at the consulting detective. 

"Hm?" Sherlock questioned, turning his head to look at John, seemingly innocent. 

"You've got marks on your neck." John said, pointing to his own neck with his index finger, lightly tapping the skin. 

"I got - um - poked and I bruise easily." Sherlock was not expecting John to see his marks, he put concealer there for a reason. Sherlock turned to face away from John. 

"You were - poked - in the neck?" John emphasized the word neck. Who pokes someone in the neck? 

"Mhm, yes, poked in the neck, that's exactly it." Sherlock replied hurriedly. "Would you like some tea?" He asked as he quickly strode into the kitchen, putting the tea on without an answer.

"Oh, right." John said in a passive tone after Sherlock. John sat on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock to get back. 

Sherlock pulled a vial of crushed up white powder out of the cabinet and spilled it into John's tea, where it quickly dissolved. John cannot find out about the experiment yet, or at least if he does, he can't remember it, it would ruin the whole thing. Sherlock brought the tea into the sitting room handing it to John, he took a sip of it and looked accusingly back at Sherlock, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock sat next to him on the couch and casually sipped his own tea. 

"Sherlock, you never make tea. Something is going on." John said as he sipped more of the tea. Yes, yes there is. Sherlock thought, making sure not to speak out loud.

John quickly hooked a finger through Sherlock's shirt collar before Sherlock knew what was going on and tugged it out a couple inches, looking down into his shirt, kind of wishing he hadn't afterwards. He caught a glimpse of all of the little fingerprint sized bruises on his friend's torso before Sherlock pulled away, starting towards his room, clutching his hands over his chest. 

"Poked all over, I see." John half-yelled towards Sherlock as he walked away. Sherlock turned around for a second and John saw how much he was blushing. 

"Um, yes." Sherlock lied poorly before closing his bedroom door behind him and slouching against the door. This was why he had a plan.

John sat there and put his face in his hands. Oh God. Oh. My God. Every time he tried to fathom the evidence his thoughts returned to nothing but repeating these phrases. He wondered how far they had gone and what they had done. He mostly wondered why he couldn't bloody remember it. He'd finally had some sort of thing with Sherlock and he couldn't fucking remember it. Just his luck. Then his thoughts took a bad spiral. Maybe he didn't tell me because he stopped it. Maybe he rejected me and didn't want me to know. Maybe that's why he wouldn't talk about it, because he did not feel the same way. John was back at square one, his brain oddly fuzzy, but he passed it off as a side effect of the massive hangover.

Sherlock paced around his room, thinking about what to do. This could've ruined his experiment, if John found out, he could get utterly pissed. This could also end my experiment. No, no it won't. I still need more data. Once and for all I could know how John feels, though, at least partly sober. I could just walk out there right now and- but am I ready f he doesn't like me? Sherlock thought on this matter for a good five minutes. He decided that he was going back out there, being straightforward with John, and if John didn't like him, he would drop the whole sentiment and feelings stuff and go back to the way things used to be. They would go back to normal because John wouldn't even remember being angry, or knowing anything at all. He had one major thing stopping him from walking out that door, this was John. He decided the pros far outweighed the cons and worked up the bravery to go back into the sitting room.

He walked out to see John with his face in his hands. He has most definitely put two and two together by now. Sherlock thought, contemplating walking back into his room when the doctor looked up at him, not saying anything, just looking. Sherlock stood there for a minute, wondering if he should take the previous seat he had or sit further away in case things got loud. John motioned Sherlock towards him with his finger, an unreadable expression o his face. Sherlock took this as a sign it was okay to take his seat back and so he did. He didn't face John right away, and didn't really say anything at first, he let John be the first one to speak. He needed to play the game.