![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: No Sacrifice
Title: No Sacrifice
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piplover
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Cutting and self harm
Summary: John promised he would help. Now Sherlock is keeping him to his word.
A/N: This is a sequel to my story Mayan Desire. You should probably read that to fully understand this.
The flat was dark and silent when John opened the door, the light from the hallway casting shadows which started his heart racing. He had only been gone a few hours, seeking release from his flatmate’s increasing boredom and destructive behavior in the form of a perfectly pleasant date.
Her name was Rebecca, she was a secretary for an obscure law firm, and why had he left Sherlock alone when he knew what he could get up to when in one of his moods? At the very least, the detective should have been scrolling around the internet looking for a case to occupy his brain, or watching crap telly with his incredibly long legs pulled up to his chin.
John reached for the light, fearful of what he might find.
“Don’t.”
The word was spoken softly, grudgingly, as though Sherlock had had to fight against the silence. Sudden fear forced John’s hand, and he flipped the switch anyway.
***
John was humming to himself. The sound grated on Sherlock’s nerves, had him clenching his teeth as the doctor fluttered around the room, putting on his shoes, adjusting his shirt, fastening his watch.
He curled up tighter on the sofa, his back to the other man. He did not need to see him to know what he was up to, having memorized his pre-dating habits after the second time of watching him perform them. It may have been a different woman than last time, but John’s nervousness and sheer happiness were enough to start his head pounding.
“All right, mate, I’m heading out!” John called from the kitchen, doing something in the fridge that Sherlock could not place. “There’s leftover Chinese in here I want you to eat, it’ll go bad in a few days and you haven’t had anything all day. You’re not on a case, so you can’t use that as an excuse. I’ll be back in a few hours and we can start that Life on Mars marathon.”
Sherlock did not respond, his eyes closed against the annoying glare of the overhead light.
“Sherlock?”
He started when a hand settled on his shoulder, bringing his head up involuntarily.
“What’s wrong?” John had stopped fidgeting, his date seeming forgotten as he took in his friend’s appearance. Sherlock had no doubt he was paler than normal due to his headache and having not left the flat for several days.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, turning his back again so as not to see John’s worried expression. It did things to his stomach he didn’t like, and he was already feeling slightly queasy. “Just a headache,” he relented, knowing if he didn’t give some reason for his behavior John would start to fret, and then he would have to talk.
“Did you take anything?” John demanded, already moving to the bathroom and the small medicine cabinet.
Sherlock closed his eyes again, resigning himself to letting John have his way until he left. When he came back into the room with two paracetamol and a cup of water, Sherlock sat up and dutifully took the pills with a grimace.
“Aren’t you going to be late?” he asked, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. John knew perfectly well how he felt about his dating.
“Take them and then I’ll head out,” John ordered, crossing his arms as he watched Sherlock mouth the little tablets and down the water with ill grace. “Now, I’ll be back in a few hours, and if you’re feeling up to it we’ll pop in the DVD and make some popcorn. Don’t set anything on fire, break anything, or poison yourself.”
He frowned at the instructions, watching petulantly as John pulled his coat from the rack and opened the door. With a little wave he left, already smiling in anticipation.
Sherlock waited five minutes before making his way to his bedroom, leaving his light off as he rummaged around in the false bottom of his bedside table for the wooden box he kept there.
He took it with him to the living room, setting it on the coffee table before switching on the desk’s small reading lamp, turning off the overhead light as he made his way back to the sofa. The dimmed illumination helped ease some of the pain in his head, and he sat carefully on the edge of the cushions.
The box was made from dark oak, with no ornamentation save for the small combination lock which kept its secrets safe. The size and thickness of a hardback book, it contained the few things Sherlock found more valuable than other mere possession. Fingers steepled under his chin, he regarded it thoughtfully.
It had been two months since he had last needed what it contained. Sometimes he had been able to go longer, others, only a few days would pass before he felt it calling to him.
Tonight, the craving was nearly unbearable.
With deft fingers he quickly removed the lock, placing it just to his right, then opened the lid with all the reverence one might show a treasured artifact.
The inside was lined with black velvet which seemed to swallow what little light came from the lamp. Nestled in its folds was a small bag filled with white powder, a medical bottle holding a clear solution, a syringe, and a scalpel, safely capped.
The first three items he had not touched in nearly two years. He doubted the vile of morphine was safe to use any longer, and debated throwing it out. The cocaine he knew he would never touch again.
He made no move to dispose of either.
These had been his lifeline once upon a time. When his brain had refused to shut down or wasn’t fast enough, he had been able to use the appropriate method to sort himself out. Cocaine for when the cases were particularly complicated and sleep was more a hindrance than a help, and morphine for after, when he needed to just stop thinking and couldn’t.
The scalpel, on the other hand, had become something of a saving grace once the use of chemical aid had been denied him. He had found through trial and error the perfect method to bring about the peace he sought, and even now his fingers itched to be holding the blade.
But, as with the other items contained within the box, that, too, had become forbidden. He had not promised John he would never use it again, because he didn’t know if he was strong enough yet, but he had given his word to try.
And Sherlock hated breaking his word when it truly mattered.
He ran his fingers lightly over the velvet, feeling its unique texture of prickly softness, letting his touch ghost over the vial and the little bag before resting on the scalpel.
It would be so easy, to roll his sleeve up and press the blade to his skin. Or perhaps he would pull his trouser leg up and let the cool metal kiss the sensitive flesh of his calf. And legs were so much easier to hide than arms.
He was moving before he had finished the thought, resting his socked heal on the edge of the coffee table, tugging the soft material on his left leg up until it bunched behind his knee. The thin cotton bagged slightly where it gathered, the pajama bottoms a pair he had owned for several years and faded to a light green with washing.
With clinical precision he removed the scalpel from its bed, removed the cap, and pressed the tip just above his ankle. The urge to push the blade just a bit harder was so strong he could feel his heart beating faster in anticipation.
But for three minutes he sat there, unmoving. The handle had warmed under his touch, the textured metal leaving little grooves in his fingers. He struggled, as hard as he had fought with any criminal, against the longing to just get on with things, to mark his skin and be done with it.
John isn’t here! He thought harshly to himself, pushing the blade just hard enough to draw a drop of blood. The pain beckoned him, a Siren’s song which he struggled not to follow. John wasn’t there, but he was going to be back that night. He wasn’t leaving Sherlock alone. He wasn’t going to leave him.
He had promised. John had sworn that Sherlock wasn’t going to have to deal with this by himself.
Cursing, Sherlock withdrew the blade and with sharp, jerky motions, covered it firmly with the cap. He placed it delicately in the box and pulled his pajamas back into place. Then he stood slowly and turned the lamp off, throwing himself back on the couch and turning his back towards the only relief he had ever known.
John would be home in a few hours and would know what to do. He wouldn’t have made Sherlock promise if he didn’t.
***
The light flared suddenly despite his warning and Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand, curling up tighter and burying his face in the scratchy material of the cushion. It smelled faintly of sweat and dust, musty and worn.
“What-” John’s voice was shaken, fear and concern warring in his tone until neither could win and he was left speechless.
Sherlock listened as the door was closed, material signaling the taking off of his coat and hanging it up on the coat rack. Then the couch dipped as John sat by Sherlock’s feet, clearing his throat hesitantly.
“Is this what Lestrade was looking for?”
It was said so calmly, with no censure in the voice, that Sherlock couldn’t resist turning to look at John’s profile to gauge his reaction. The doctor was staring intently at the box, or rather, the contents within it, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs the only outward sign of distress.
Sherlock’s stomach twisted, an unpleasant sensation he associated with falling down, and he forced himself to sit up in the hopes of stopping it. His shoulder brushed John’s as he settled his feet on the floor, biting his lip as he joined John in staring.
“Yes.”
John jerked his attention back to his friend, eyes sweeping the arms hidden behind shirtsleeves, as though he could determine if any fresh wounds had been made in his absence.
“I didn’t do anything,” Sherlock whispered, turning his face away from the box and all its promise. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
He heard John swallow, flinched slightly as a warm hand was placed on his wrist.
“Why not?” John asked softly.
He didn’t want to answer anymore than he had wanted John to know his secret. But he did know, and there was no reversing what had happened. Taking a calming breath, Sherlock forced the words out against the tightness in his throat which wanted to keep them in.
“You said you could help,” he answered, wincing at how vulnerable he sounded. He did not like being vulnerable. Not to anyone or anything. But he hated feeling this way even more. “Please?” he asked, not certain what he was asking for, but hoping John would understand.
Without warning strong arms wrapped around him, one hand resting on the back of his head and bringing it down to rest on a shoulder marred by scars which could be felt beneath the soft cotton. He stiffened in the embrace, uncertain of the motive behind it, but John held firmly and didn’t release him.
“I’ve got you,” John whispered into his hair, rubbing a soothing circle on his back. “Whatever you need from me, I’m here.”
The words were like a release valve, allowing some of the pressure that had been building over the past week to escape in a long, harsh sigh that more closely resembled a sob. Despite himself, Sherlock found his own arms wrapped around John’s waist, clinging to him as he would a lifeline as he struggled against the need for blessed pain and the promise he had made.
They remained there a long time.
***
The first thing John did when Sherlock released his clenched grip on him was to head into the kitchen and take the ice trey out of the freezer. He brought it with him into the living room, smiling at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and placed the trey on the coffee table.
“Do you still want to?” he asked, knowing he didn’t have to elaborate for the detective to understand.
“Yes,” was the immediate answer.
Without another word, John twisted the trey, the sound of ice popping and crackling jarringly loud in the silence, and pried one of the cubes free.
“Hold out your hand,” he instructed, relieved when he did so without hesitation, and dropped the cube into his palm, closing slender fingers around it. “Hold that until it is completely gone. If you still have the urge, you can have another.”
At Sherlock’s twisted half smile, he realized what he had just said, how it sounded like a treat rather than an alternative to gouging scars into body parts. He found himself mirroring the expression.
As the cube melted, Sherlock’s fingers twitched and gripped tighter, sending little rivulets over his wrist to leave chilled splatters on the carpet. It was only water, after all, and the floor had seen much worse with some of his experiments.
John monitored his friend’s breathing, the tension in his shoulders, and felt his own worry start to fade as whatever inner demon Sherlock faced lost some of its hold. When the ice cube was nothing more than a handful of water, Sherlock opened his palm again and motioned for another.
They repeated the experiment twice more, John insisting Sherlock switch hands after the right one started to turn red with cold. But his friend followed his lead, and after what must have been fifteen minutes, something inside him seemed to release, and the tightness which had creased his forehead left, his features calm and relaxed.
“Better?” John asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock murmured hoarsely.
He seemed embarrassed by John’s help, but the doctor wasn’t surprised. Sherlock hated relying on others or being helpless, and the fact that he trusted John enough to allow him to see him in such a vulnerable state spoke volumes about his regard for his friend.
“Need this anymore?” John asked, nodding toward the now liquid ice cubes. He waited for Sherlock’s slight headshake before taking the trey back to the freezer.
He wondered briefly if a special mould should be purchased for such instances. Everyone he had known who had resorted to cutting, and he had actually known quite a few soldiers who did, had seemed to have some kind of ritual associated with it. Whether it was a special knife or a prescribed set of cuttings, there had always been something more than just scratching a few lines into the nearest available patch of skin. It seemed rather lacking to just pop into the freezer for something they used on a normal day.
John cleared his throat, determined to treat the situation as normal. Or, as they had said in the military, situation normal, all fucked up.
“Do you feel up to our marathon?” he called, opening the fridge to confirm his suspicions and sighing at the untouched Chinese.
“Yes. Let me -” Sherlock trailed off, and John turned to look over his shoulder.
Sherlock had stood and was closing the box, deftly locking it and holding it almost reverently. He didn’t say anymore as he retreated to his room, no doubt to hide it once more from any prying eyes or rogue drug busts.
John didn’t mind. The fact that Sherlock had waited for him to arrive home, had trusted him enough to keep his word and refrain from his destructive behavior, was more than enough to sooth any worries the doctor may have had about keeping such items in the flat.
When Sherlock returned a moment later, John had the Chinese microwaving and was just putting the first DVD into the player. At Sherlock’s questioning glance towards the kitchen, John scowled.
“I told you to eat,” he said, ignoring the rolled eyes in favor of preparing a plate. “So you get the Chinese and I get the popcorn. If you finish all yours, you can have some of mine.”
“Honestly,” Sherlock sighed, allowing his frame to fall gracefully onto the sofa, feet propped up on the table.
He did not protest, however, when the plate and fork were set in front of him, and scowled at John’s own bowl of popcorn which he was hugging possessively as he sat beside him.
“Ready?” John asked, smiling with the same sort of anticipation he had displayed when leaving for his date.
Sherlock found himself unable to resist returning the grin, and in answer settled himself more firmly on the cushions and brought a forkful of greasy noodles to his mouth.
“Always.”
Sequel: Worship the Sun
http://piplover.livejournal.com/210589.html#cutid1
Author:
piplover Rating: PG-13
Warning: Cutting and self harm
Summary: John promised he would help. Now Sherlock is keeping him to his word.
A/N: This is a sequel to my story Mayan Desire. You should probably read that to fully understand this.
The flat was dark and silent when John opened the door, the light from the hallway casting shadows which started his heart racing. He had only been gone a few hours, seeking release from his flatmate’s increasing boredom and destructive behavior in the form of a perfectly pleasant date.
Her name was Rebecca, she was a secretary for an obscure law firm, and why had he left Sherlock alone when he knew what he could get up to when in one of his moods? At the very least, the detective should have been scrolling around the internet looking for a case to occupy his brain, or watching crap telly with his incredibly long legs pulled up to his chin.
John reached for the light, fearful of what he might find.
“Don’t.”
The word was spoken softly, grudgingly, as though Sherlock had had to fight against the silence. Sudden fear forced John’s hand, and he flipped the switch anyway.
***
John was humming to himself. The sound grated on Sherlock’s nerves, had him clenching his teeth as the doctor fluttered around the room, putting on his shoes, adjusting his shirt, fastening his watch.
He curled up tighter on the sofa, his back to the other man. He did not need to see him to know what he was up to, having memorized his pre-dating habits after the second time of watching him perform them. It may have been a different woman than last time, but John’s nervousness and sheer happiness were enough to start his head pounding.
“All right, mate, I’m heading out!” John called from the kitchen, doing something in the fridge that Sherlock could not place. “There’s leftover Chinese in here I want you to eat, it’ll go bad in a few days and you haven’t had anything all day. You’re not on a case, so you can’t use that as an excuse. I’ll be back in a few hours and we can start that Life on Mars marathon.”
Sherlock did not respond, his eyes closed against the annoying glare of the overhead light.
“Sherlock?”
He started when a hand settled on his shoulder, bringing his head up involuntarily.
“What’s wrong?” John had stopped fidgeting, his date seeming forgotten as he took in his friend’s appearance. Sherlock had no doubt he was paler than normal due to his headache and having not left the flat for several days.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, turning his back again so as not to see John’s worried expression. It did things to his stomach he didn’t like, and he was already feeling slightly queasy. “Just a headache,” he relented, knowing if he didn’t give some reason for his behavior John would start to fret, and then he would have to talk.
“Did you take anything?” John demanded, already moving to the bathroom and the small medicine cabinet.
Sherlock closed his eyes again, resigning himself to letting John have his way until he left. When he came back into the room with two paracetamol and a cup of water, Sherlock sat up and dutifully took the pills with a grimace.
“Aren’t you going to be late?” he asked, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. John knew perfectly well how he felt about his dating.
“Take them and then I’ll head out,” John ordered, crossing his arms as he watched Sherlock mouth the little tablets and down the water with ill grace. “Now, I’ll be back in a few hours, and if you’re feeling up to it we’ll pop in the DVD and make some popcorn. Don’t set anything on fire, break anything, or poison yourself.”
He frowned at the instructions, watching petulantly as John pulled his coat from the rack and opened the door. With a little wave he left, already smiling in anticipation.
Sherlock waited five minutes before making his way to his bedroom, leaving his light off as he rummaged around in the false bottom of his bedside table for the wooden box he kept there.
He took it with him to the living room, setting it on the coffee table before switching on the desk’s small reading lamp, turning off the overhead light as he made his way back to the sofa. The dimmed illumination helped ease some of the pain in his head, and he sat carefully on the edge of the cushions.
The box was made from dark oak, with no ornamentation save for the small combination lock which kept its secrets safe. The size and thickness of a hardback book, it contained the few things Sherlock found more valuable than other mere possession. Fingers steepled under his chin, he regarded it thoughtfully.
It had been two months since he had last needed what it contained. Sometimes he had been able to go longer, others, only a few days would pass before he felt it calling to him.
Tonight, the craving was nearly unbearable.
With deft fingers he quickly removed the lock, placing it just to his right, then opened the lid with all the reverence one might show a treasured artifact.
The inside was lined with black velvet which seemed to swallow what little light came from the lamp. Nestled in its folds was a small bag filled with white powder, a medical bottle holding a clear solution, a syringe, and a scalpel, safely capped.
The first three items he had not touched in nearly two years. He doubted the vile of morphine was safe to use any longer, and debated throwing it out. The cocaine he knew he would never touch again.
He made no move to dispose of either.
These had been his lifeline once upon a time. When his brain had refused to shut down or wasn’t fast enough, he had been able to use the appropriate method to sort himself out. Cocaine for when the cases were particularly complicated and sleep was more a hindrance than a help, and morphine for after, when he needed to just stop thinking and couldn’t.
The scalpel, on the other hand, had become something of a saving grace once the use of chemical aid had been denied him. He had found through trial and error the perfect method to bring about the peace he sought, and even now his fingers itched to be holding the blade.
But, as with the other items contained within the box, that, too, had become forbidden. He had not promised John he would never use it again, because he didn’t know if he was strong enough yet, but he had given his word to try.
And Sherlock hated breaking his word when it truly mattered.
He ran his fingers lightly over the velvet, feeling its unique texture of prickly softness, letting his touch ghost over the vial and the little bag before resting on the scalpel.
It would be so easy, to roll his sleeve up and press the blade to his skin. Or perhaps he would pull his trouser leg up and let the cool metal kiss the sensitive flesh of his calf. And legs were so much easier to hide than arms.
He was moving before he had finished the thought, resting his socked heal on the edge of the coffee table, tugging the soft material on his left leg up until it bunched behind his knee. The thin cotton bagged slightly where it gathered, the pajama bottoms a pair he had owned for several years and faded to a light green with washing.
With clinical precision he removed the scalpel from its bed, removed the cap, and pressed the tip just above his ankle. The urge to push the blade just a bit harder was so strong he could feel his heart beating faster in anticipation.
But for three minutes he sat there, unmoving. The handle had warmed under his touch, the textured metal leaving little grooves in his fingers. He struggled, as hard as he had fought with any criminal, against the longing to just get on with things, to mark his skin and be done with it.
John isn’t here! He thought harshly to himself, pushing the blade just hard enough to draw a drop of blood. The pain beckoned him, a Siren’s song which he struggled not to follow. John wasn’t there, but he was going to be back that night. He wasn’t leaving Sherlock alone. He wasn’t going to leave him.
He had promised. John had sworn that Sherlock wasn’t going to have to deal with this by himself.
Cursing, Sherlock withdrew the blade and with sharp, jerky motions, covered it firmly with the cap. He placed it delicately in the box and pulled his pajamas back into place. Then he stood slowly and turned the lamp off, throwing himself back on the couch and turning his back towards the only relief he had ever known.
John would be home in a few hours and would know what to do. He wouldn’t have made Sherlock promise if he didn’t.
***
The light flared suddenly despite his warning and Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand, curling up tighter and burying his face in the scratchy material of the cushion. It smelled faintly of sweat and dust, musty and worn.
“What-” John’s voice was shaken, fear and concern warring in his tone until neither could win and he was left speechless.
Sherlock listened as the door was closed, material signaling the taking off of his coat and hanging it up on the coat rack. Then the couch dipped as John sat by Sherlock’s feet, clearing his throat hesitantly.
“Is this what Lestrade was looking for?”
It was said so calmly, with no censure in the voice, that Sherlock couldn’t resist turning to look at John’s profile to gauge his reaction. The doctor was staring intently at the box, or rather, the contents within it, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs the only outward sign of distress.
Sherlock’s stomach twisted, an unpleasant sensation he associated with falling down, and he forced himself to sit up in the hopes of stopping it. His shoulder brushed John’s as he settled his feet on the floor, biting his lip as he joined John in staring.
“Yes.”
John jerked his attention back to his friend, eyes sweeping the arms hidden behind shirtsleeves, as though he could determine if any fresh wounds had been made in his absence.
“I didn’t do anything,” Sherlock whispered, turning his face away from the box and all its promise. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
He heard John swallow, flinched slightly as a warm hand was placed on his wrist.
“Why not?” John asked softly.
He didn’t want to answer anymore than he had wanted John to know his secret. But he did know, and there was no reversing what had happened. Taking a calming breath, Sherlock forced the words out against the tightness in his throat which wanted to keep them in.
“You said you could help,” he answered, wincing at how vulnerable he sounded. He did not like being vulnerable. Not to anyone or anything. But he hated feeling this way even more. “Please?” he asked, not certain what he was asking for, but hoping John would understand.
Without warning strong arms wrapped around him, one hand resting on the back of his head and bringing it down to rest on a shoulder marred by scars which could be felt beneath the soft cotton. He stiffened in the embrace, uncertain of the motive behind it, but John held firmly and didn’t release him.
“I’ve got you,” John whispered into his hair, rubbing a soothing circle on his back. “Whatever you need from me, I’m here.”
The words were like a release valve, allowing some of the pressure that had been building over the past week to escape in a long, harsh sigh that more closely resembled a sob. Despite himself, Sherlock found his own arms wrapped around John’s waist, clinging to him as he would a lifeline as he struggled against the need for blessed pain and the promise he had made.
They remained there a long time.
***
The first thing John did when Sherlock released his clenched grip on him was to head into the kitchen and take the ice trey out of the freezer. He brought it with him into the living room, smiling at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and placed the trey on the coffee table.
“Do you still want to?” he asked, knowing he didn’t have to elaborate for the detective to understand.
“Yes,” was the immediate answer.
Without another word, John twisted the trey, the sound of ice popping and crackling jarringly loud in the silence, and pried one of the cubes free.
“Hold out your hand,” he instructed, relieved when he did so without hesitation, and dropped the cube into his palm, closing slender fingers around it. “Hold that until it is completely gone. If you still have the urge, you can have another.”
At Sherlock’s twisted half smile, he realized what he had just said, how it sounded like a treat rather than an alternative to gouging scars into body parts. He found himself mirroring the expression.
As the cube melted, Sherlock’s fingers twitched and gripped tighter, sending little rivulets over his wrist to leave chilled splatters on the carpet. It was only water, after all, and the floor had seen much worse with some of his experiments.
John monitored his friend’s breathing, the tension in his shoulders, and felt his own worry start to fade as whatever inner demon Sherlock faced lost some of its hold. When the ice cube was nothing more than a handful of water, Sherlock opened his palm again and motioned for another.
They repeated the experiment twice more, John insisting Sherlock switch hands after the right one started to turn red with cold. But his friend followed his lead, and after what must have been fifteen minutes, something inside him seemed to release, and the tightness which had creased his forehead left, his features calm and relaxed.
“Better?” John asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock murmured hoarsely.
He seemed embarrassed by John’s help, but the doctor wasn’t surprised. Sherlock hated relying on others or being helpless, and the fact that he trusted John enough to allow him to see him in such a vulnerable state spoke volumes about his regard for his friend.
“Need this anymore?” John asked, nodding toward the now liquid ice cubes. He waited for Sherlock’s slight headshake before taking the trey back to the freezer.
He wondered briefly if a special mould should be purchased for such instances. Everyone he had known who had resorted to cutting, and he had actually known quite a few soldiers who did, had seemed to have some kind of ritual associated with it. Whether it was a special knife or a prescribed set of cuttings, there had always been something more than just scratching a few lines into the nearest available patch of skin. It seemed rather lacking to just pop into the freezer for something they used on a normal day.
John cleared his throat, determined to treat the situation as normal. Or, as they had said in the military, situation normal, all fucked up.
“Do you feel up to our marathon?” he called, opening the fridge to confirm his suspicions and sighing at the untouched Chinese.
“Yes. Let me -” Sherlock trailed off, and John turned to look over his shoulder.
Sherlock had stood and was closing the box, deftly locking it and holding it almost reverently. He didn’t say anymore as he retreated to his room, no doubt to hide it once more from any prying eyes or rogue drug busts.
John didn’t mind. The fact that Sherlock had waited for him to arrive home, had trusted him enough to keep his word and refrain from his destructive behavior, was more than enough to sooth any worries the doctor may have had about keeping such items in the flat.
When Sherlock returned a moment later, John had the Chinese microwaving and was just putting the first DVD into the player. At Sherlock’s questioning glance towards the kitchen, John scowled.
“I told you to eat,” he said, ignoring the rolled eyes in favor of preparing a plate. “So you get the Chinese and I get the popcorn. If you finish all yours, you can have some of mine.”
“Honestly,” Sherlock sighed, allowing his frame to fall gracefully onto the sofa, feet propped up on the table.
He did not protest, however, when the plate and fork were set in front of him, and scowled at John’s own bowl of popcorn which he was hugging possessively as he sat beside him.
“Ready?” John asked, smiling with the same sort of anticipation he had displayed when leaving for his date.
Sherlock found himself unable to resist returning the grin, and in answer settled himself more firmly on the cushions and brought a forkful of greasy noodles to his mouth.
“Always.”
Sequel: Worship the Sun
http://piplover.livejournal.com/210589.html#cutid1