Chapter Text
Sherlock didn’t know how much longer he’d survive feeling like he had a caving hole in his wind pipe.
Ever since the fight with John, he’d felt like he couldn’t catch a breath.
~
From: John Watson
Sherlock, where are you?
-JW
From: John Watson
Sherlock?
-JW
From: John Watson
SHERLOCK ARE YOU ALRIGHT?
-JW
From: John Watson
ANSWER MY TEXTS, DAMMIT.
-JW
From: John Watson
Fuck the reservation, I’m coming home. Please be okay, damn it, be okay.
-JW
“Sherlock?!” yelled John, bursting through 221B’s front door and running up the stairs. “Sherlock, are you here?!”
The door to the flat was open.
He stepped in, heart in mouth.
To find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, unmoving, staring intently at a clear liquid that suddenly turned blue. He let out a triumphant noise and noted down the time from a stop watch John hadn’t noticed was hanging around his neck.
John saw red.
He stalked towards the consulting arsehole and slammed his hand onto the table.
Sherlock looked up to meet John’s angry eyes and sighed.
“Great. What did I do now?” he muttered.
John gaped at him.
“What did you- Do you have any idea what the hell you just put me through?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“What?” asked Sherlock. “Pray, do tell.”
“I’ve been texting you for two hours. From Angelo’s. Where you were supposed to meet me two hours and a half ago for a date we planned together three weeks ago. I thought something had happened to you! I just got you back, Sherlock! You can’t scare me like this!” growled John.
“I missed a date? That’s it? Honestly, John, I thought I’d started World War III,” Sherlock huffs but his eyes flash with…something. It’s gone before John can quite place it (rather, after John refocuses on Sherlock’s offhanded spear to his heart.)
“ A date? You missed much more than a date, Sherlock! You promised you’d put down the experiments for one night so we could have some one-on-one time, so I could have one decent conversation with you without you retreating to your fucking Mind Palace!” yelled John, his nerves on fire.
His shoulders suddenly slumped, his voice softened, “Do you even care?”
Sherlock flinched.
A minuscule movement that resounded in the entirety of the flat. He looked vulnerable for all of a second before he recomposed himself, icy eyes meeting John’s defeated ones.
“If you wanted domesticity, you should’ve stayed with Mary,” he spat, looking feral but at the same time like his heart had been tossed onto flaming coals.
John recoiled from the statement.
“You know what, maybe I should have,” he replied, eyes hardening, the fury he felt making them cruel in a way Sherlock thought warm, deep blue eyes should never be.
And he’d done that. He, Sherlock Holmes, had made John Watson cruel.
“I should have never chosen you over Mary. You don’t care about me, about how I feel, about whether or not I get to kiss you goodbye before I go to work, about whether or not I ever even bloody see you. You don’t care about what I need! It’s just you, you, you!” John went on, eyes still hard but worryingly damp. “I love you so much and all you do is throw it back in my face. Do you even realize that I’d serve you my heart on a platter if you asked it of me?”
Sherlock drew himself to his full height, his entire form shaking.
“I’ve only ever been a rebound for you. You’ve been trying to make me into a Mary. Domesticated, gentle, simple, dull. I am not her, John. Do not expect me to conform to your ideas of a relationship. I am a different type of challenge altogether, you know that, and yet, you’ve been trying to mould me,” Sherlock snarled, his anger and hurt rising. “Find some simple-minded, desperately boring girl who’ll fit into this fabricated dress you weave, because I certainly will not.”
He turned, attempting to leave the conversation. John grasped his wrist, wrenching him backwards.
“And if I don’t want that? If I want you?” whispered John, eyes searching.
“Then, you’ll find me in a lovely little place in Central London. The address is 221B, John Watson. And I’ll be waiting,” breathed Sherlock, as the tears of anguish finally spilled over.
Then he’d ripped his arm away and slunk off to his bedroom.
~
That had been three days ago. John had not yet returned to 221B and so the anvil on Sherlock’s throat had not been alleviated.
He couldn’t help but wonder if John would answer his invitation this time same as the first time or if he truly would find another Mary to warm his bed.