Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Twenty

John reads crime novels on Wednesdays, if he can. Keeps his latest on a small shelf to the right of his bed.

Next Wednesday, he may think that he misplaced one.

And Sherlock will know that he hasn't.

***

"...Does it ever bother you?"

"No, John."

"Let's watch a movie."

"No, John."

"You okay?"

"Yes, John."

"Stop saying my name so much."

"Okay."

***

A necklace sits.

And it waits.

Sherlock takes it from across John's neck in the dead of dusk, the gold parting with the golden.

Later, when Sherlock finally loses himself to obscurity, he drinks a brew that tastes overwhelmingly like guilt.

***

We're okay, Sherlock thinks. We're fine.

I'm fine.

And he proves that. He sits down next to John on the couch and looks at him, and his lips are sagged and tired and sad, so he kisses the uncertainty from his mouth with both hands.

He thinks of all the things normal people say, about how happy John makes him, and about how he looks so beautiful that he can hardly think, he can hardly breathe, and so he stops and he starts and he ends and it clicks like clockwork and soft, warm, thick hands.

Their kiss is thoughtless. And passionate. And driven.

"We're okay," Sherlock whispers so softly that the wind can't even hear - John isn't listening, now, he's just buzzing with the energy that pulses through him - and Sherlock uses this to advantage. He speaks all the words that he's not said for the past few days. "I can prove it."

We're going to be fine, we're going to be fine, we're going to be fine.

"Do you know this?" Sherlock repeats as he peels John's shirt from off his shoulders, "do you know this?"

"Yeah," John replies into the crook of Sherlock's neck. But that's not what Sherlock hears. Not really.

***

The last call Mycroft sends is a voicemail detailing the occurrence of Sherlock's father's death.

***

He realizes too late that the bag - he shouldn't have touched that.

The "DH" transcribed into the corner is not his signature, nor is the washed out blood that dots the corner.

It's not his fault. It's the first thing Sherlock sees, when the urge rushes uncontrollably into his limbs. He didn't want it. He never wanted it.

But he takes it, because that's all he knows, now.

***

"Does it ever bother you?"

John must fucking know. He must fucking know, or else he wouldn't keep asking.

Sherlock ignores him and hopes to God he doesn't say anything else.

***

The day before the day they're supposed to take a break, John makes sure that Sherlock is okay, even if he insists otherwise. He doesn't know, yet. John doesn't know about the things Sherlock's taken, so his worrisome manner prevails.