Sherlock was tense. John was sitting across from him, his head leaning against the brunette wall, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. He was thinking, Sherlock knew that. He had studied John for so long, he knew everything. Yet, John was still foreign to him. Sherlock wanted to kiss John. Wanted to show John he cared. But he couldn't. Because John didn't have feelings for him.
Sherlock knew that. But it didn't change anything. It didn't change the way Sherlock would stare, taking in every aspect of John when he was engrossed in something, like one of his books.
He did that now, studying John. He kept creasing his brow, his nose crinkling slightly. His hand was clenching and unclenching on his thigh. Sherlock doubted John even knew. He did it when he was thinking of things that hurt to think about.
John let out sigh, and Sherlock jumped at the sound.
"John?" His voice was loud in the small quiet room. John jumped, and opened his eyes, locking his dark blue eyes on Sherlock's. His chest tightened, but he didn't break the gaze.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John's voice hitched. Sherlock abruptly wondered what he'd been thinking about. Sherlock tilted his head.
"I'm bored." The statement was simple, but John pushed himself out of the chair, moving to the small-ish kitchen. Sherlock watched as John did the preparations for tea. Bring freshly drawn, cold water to a boil in the kettle. Standing at the stove, watching the water.
"A watched pot never boils," Sherlock voiced. John snorted, his shoulders shaking with the laugh.
"I've never actually believe that. I used to watch them as a kid, just to see if it was true," Sherlock watched as pain took over John's face.
"You know, it actually takes the exact same amount of time for water to boil whether or not it is being watched. The temperature is set, and the water boils slowly no matter what. Although adding salt does speed up the process, it is only the illusion of the mind for most, because they learn from a young age that the myth is true, when in all actuality, it is not." John stared at him, and Sherlock could see some emotion on John's face, but he couldn't place it.
"What?" Sherlock didn't like not knowing things. John shook his head, moving his attention back to the now boiling water.
"The water's boiled. Probably 'cause I didn't watch it." John said. Sherlock scoffed. He watched as John poured the water into cups. John took both after he finished, and walked to Sherlock, handing him one.
"John, get my laptop would you?" John set the cup down in front of him, and looked around.
"Where is it?" Sherlock looked at the cup. "Beside me on the table." John made an annoyed sound.
"Could you not get it yourself for once? I always do it." Sherlock smiled.
"But you wouldn't have it any other way. You love me, and you know it John. Now get it would you?" Sherlock noticed the tense of John's shoulders at his words, but he pushed it away. John handed him the laptop, and he pulled his feet up, tucking them underneath himself. He opened his laptop, turning it on and watching the slow movements of the coloured windows.
A loud boom echoed throughout the room, and Sherlock looked over to the window. A flash shot through, the sky outside, and Sherlock could see the rain was pelting down. The sound of the rain hitting the building was calming. He heard an intake of breath, and turned.
John was sitting, his cuppa on the dark carpet, now darker in one spot. He was straight backed, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair. His face was white, and Sherlock saw him swallow. Sherlock leapt up, hurling himself in front of John. He put his hands on both of John's thighs, and Sherlock could feel the tremor rocking through John's body.
"John?" his voice was quiet. John didn't seem to notice. Another crack sounded, and a small whimper came from John. Sherlock's eyes widened. He didn't like this. Not at all.
"John?" urgency laced his words. John's eyes un-glazed. They were the colour of midnight. If midnight could shine the way the galaxy seemed to shine. They were tinged with a light green on the outside of his pupil.
"Sometimes...I still see the war," Understanding shot through Sherlock. He gripped the fabric of John's jeans. He could hear John's trembling breath, feel the muscles in his leg tense. Sherlock was squatting in front of him, his face inches away.
"John." He uttered the name, shaking his head, but John seemed to suddenly focus, pushing himself from the chair, stumbling across the carpet.
Sherlock stood, the room tipping a bit in his vision of worry, "John, where are you going?" John didn't turn, just stopped, one of his hands on the knob of his bedroom door.
"Bed." and with that one word, he opened the door, slipped inside, and shut the door behind him.
God, Sherlock was so stupid. Why would John want to talk about the war?
Actually, you are a very smart intellectual, he reminded himself. He had wanted to make sure John was okay. But what if he had pushed John away? Accidentally shown how he felt?
He moved back to the sofa, lying down, letting the warmth of the room take him over.
He closed his eyes, and images of John flashed unburdened. Maybe, tonight, he would sleep.
Maybe, John would too.
Maybe, if Sherlock was lucky, he would dream of John.
Just maybe.
Hey guys. So, I got super excited about this one, and wanted to continue, but I can't unless I want to spoil things. Love you all. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
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Just Within Your Reach
Fanfiction-The case was a disaster. The storm had come early, and they were stuck in the hotel. John didn't want to be in the room, not now. Not with Sherlock right there. Just within his reach. If he wanted, he could reach out, pull Sherlock close, hold him...
