spirit cold ➙ writings

thrill of the chase.

Thrill of the Chase!

SUMMARY; It's been such a long time. And John is tired of fleeing important possibilities in his life.

PROMPT; N/A.

PAIRING(S); Sherlock Holmes/John Watson.

TRIGGER WARNINGS; Mentions of infidelity (not between Sherlock and John).

NOTE(S); I have been working on this for eight months and finished it in time for pride month. That is all.

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The night John left his wife, it was pouring rain.

That seemed like a bit of a cliche. The streets of London were streaked with rushing water, stoplights and streetlights reflecting alike across the wet cobblestone. John had forgotten his umbrella at the house. He had forgotten almost all of his belongings at the house other than a small, hastily packed bag that he'd slung over his shoulder before hurrying out the door. He had to take the tube, cabs often disregarding the little urban neighborhood that he had moved into with the hopes of living a domestic, normal life. 

Not that normal life had ever truly been in the cards for him. Not when he had simply switched from running after a self-proclaimed sociopath to living with an actual psychopath.

Eventually 221 Baker Street loomed threateningly before him. Everything was damp. His hair began to weigh down on him, still half-soaked from the time spent walking to the nearest tube station. A stray cab's tires screeched as the driver flew through the single-lane traffic. The noise jolted John out of his musings; forced him to pull himself together enough to walk up the familiar steps.

He still had his key. He kept it with him everywhere, even after Mary moved into his lifeless little house, and even after Sherlock returned from the dead and John painted his face with streaks of blood. He supposed it was only a matter of time until he'd return, and perhaps deep down he had recognized that all along.

Certainly Sherlock would have predicted it. Certainly he'd known, as soon as Mary shot a hole through Sherlock's chest, knowing damn well what the man's "death" had done to John last time.

Finding out the unborn child wasn't John's was truly just the cherry on top of their strained, perpetually loose-fitting relationship. 

A deep, furious suspicion bloomed in the deepest crevices within his chest; concern over the possibility that Sherlock had picked up on this all along and chosen not to say anything. He didn't want to consider that. He wanted to believe in Sherlock Holmes and that little strand of goodness that he hid so well from the rest of the world.

 John took a deep breath. Raised his hand to the knocker. 

The door flew open before his knuckles could graze it.

Sherlock stood on the other side. He was wearing a maroon dressing gown over his white button-up and gray trousers. The outfit was completed by tattered black slippers rather than his usual black dress shoes. He looked like a cross between comfort and professionalism, but it was the look in his eyes that made John take a small step back. 

There was a burning confusion in his gaze that John had only ever associated with Irene Adler. She had been the only person that Sherlock was almost incapable of reading. Aside from that one evening before John's life shattered, when Sherlock was so strangely unable to comprehend why John would worry about whether people would perceive him as a fraud.