Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 9

JOHN

I woke up sooner than my body would've liked to. Afternoon naps weren't normal for me, so despite having just rested I was still physically exhausted. I rolled over, groaning in reluctance as I realized I'd have to stay up all night to fix my sleep schedule.

It took me quite a moment to remember that I was still in Sherlock's bed, and when I didn't see him at my side I began to panic. My hands searched through the sheets almost desperate to find the source of the warmth that had previously filled the blankets around me, as if Sherlock had somehow shrunk and was now tucked into the bedding.

"Sherlock?" I called, a bit more upset-sounding than anticipated. "What," I heard him call from the lounge. I was still a bit conflicted about having shared a bed with him, but the fact that he was unwell and still up and about was much too distracting at the moment. "Get your arse back in this bed!" I demanded, only realizing how awkward that sounded after it'd been said. I felt my face blushed, suddenly very interested in the grey-ish wallpaper of Sherlock's bedroom. He appeared in the doorway, smirking that smirky smirk of his that made me want to punch him in his gorgeous face. He looked right at me, apparently unperturbed by the events of last night and this morning.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were coming on to me," he drawled mockingly.

"That's wishful thinking, Sherlock," I said, looking away with a dismissive gesture. But my face was flushed, and my voice was quiet. No doubt he noticed, he noticed everything.

If he did in fact notice, he didn't say anything, instead complained childishly that he was just finding something to eat and didn't feel it necessary to wake me.

   Heartwarmed by his consideration but still upset at his wandering, I settled him back into his bed and climbed out myself. I warned him to behave, as I'd only be gone a minute to fetch him something to eat. His only response was an agitated groan, at which I couldn't help but smile. Despite the earlier events, it seemed as if we were unable to keep up that icy wall experienced this morning. The pain of rejection was still there, but forgotten in the heat of the moment. And that, I couldn't be happier about.

SHERLOCK

John arrived back at the flat in approximately 45 minutes. I glared at him upon his entry. "You said you wouldn't be gone long," I complained, bored with sitting up in bed and waiting. Just waiting, waiting was so boring.

John smiled, tossing me a small bag with a biscuit and some wrapped up muffin-like sandwich. I tossed it aside. "I'm not hungry," I lied. John frowned at me, and for a moment I felt a pang of heart and regret. I never liked for John to frown, it always made me feel awkward and shaken. "You're a liar, Sherlock, and not even a good one. Eat your muffin." I huffed stubbornly. I didn't want him worrying about my health.

"Please," he added softly. How could I say no? Reluctantly I managed to consume a third of the biscuit and a bite of the sandwich before turning it away. I'd realized that I was in fact very hungry but John seemed satisfied with my efforts, taking the food away and giving me some time to think.

How docile I've become lately, I thought to myself. It was disgusting, this warm feeling that seemed to amplify in John's presence. But at the same time I couldn't get enough of it. It was nice to feel excited and pleased, but with positive feelings kept a wave of harmful ones. I kept thinking back to the previous night, what I'd said and done. I still didn't know how John felt about me, but I could tell he was upset about something more than just my self-harming. At this point I even dared to assume he returned my feelings. Perhaps, I mused, I should conduct another experiment.

After the previous two, I should have gathered enough data to reach a conclusion. Either John loved me back, or he didn't. It was quite simple, really. If he didn't, which was far more likely, then I'd be forced back into my world of solitude and indifference. I told myself that would be fine, that I'd already made up my mind that self-harm was useless, but recently I hadn't been so sure. Just the same, if John did love me, or even like me, I wasn't too positive on what to do then either. Love caused so many ifs and buts. It was horribly dreadful, but I'd have to endure.

Just as John walked in and I was deep in thought, I heard the telly on from the lounge. I must've left it on. The newswoman was reporting a string of mysterious shootings. As I listened to the broadcast, a sudden flood of realization passed over me. John began to say something, but was interrupted by my sudden outburst of information.

I ignored John's cries of protest as I flung myself from the bed. "John, text Lestrade for me tell him I'll be there in 10 minutes!"

John was furious for a moment. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. You are staying here until I can properly fix you up." I could tell he was struggling to put some authority in his voice, but this was much more important. "I understand your frustration, John, but I think I just solved the case of your attack," I said briskly, dodging him as he tried to block my way. He sighed in agitation.

"I thought you would have let that go by now," he chastised with annoyance. "Since when do I ever?"I shot back, trying to grab my coat from him. As I swung in for a grab at my coat, in an unexpected turn John grabbed me by the face, compressing my cheeks between his thumb and index finger. I stopped abruptly, confused.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said sternly, "I will let you text Lestrade, I will let you tell him about the case. Hell, use my phone if you want. But God forbid, Sherlock, I will not let you leave this house without proper medical attention. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly. "Good," he piped, suddenly cheerful. He led me back to my bed, and for a moment I had to think about what had just happened. The way he'd taken control and forced me, of all stubborn people, to change my mind was odd, confusing, new...

...and kind of attractive.