Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 12

JOHN

  Every night for the next week Sherlock practiced his piece. He hardly slept himself, but insisted that I sleep in his room. I was worried for his health, but guilty with how much pleasure I took in crawling into his bed every night and falling asleep to the sweet sound of his melody.

  All through the days it was quiet and without a case for us, as if all of London was taking a lazy week. We hadn't even discussed his self-harm or sleeptalk or my nightmares, for it would only disturb the peace between us. Yes, it was boring but at least there was no trouble. This somehow didn't frustrate Sherlock, as he was extremely focused on his new piece. I wondered why he was so determined to finish it. Perhaps it meant something to him? I  knew it was no use asking, he hardly told me anything.

  One cold Tuesday night, as I was curled into Sherlock's bed reading a novel, he suddenly stopped playing. I lifted my head from the pages briefly, wondering for the fourth night or so if he would ever sleep. He threw the door open, causing me to jump ever so slightly. Wordlessly, he flung himself at my side and covered his face with tired hands and an agitated sigh. I didn't blame him, I'd be just as tired or worse. I didn't say anything, simply turning back to my novel. I had an irrational fear that if he joined me in his bed, he'd remember his senses and kick me out like anyone else would do and I'd have to deal with my nightmares on my own once more. Yet he didn't, instead doing the strangest thing. A few minutes back into my book, he rolled over into my side and lay his head on my stomach like he'd done at the hospital. I felt a blush creep up my neck. What is he doing?

  Despite myself, I said nothing. He needed his sleep. When I was sure he was drowsy enough, I decided to at least humor my questionable feelings by playing with his soft, inky black curls. I picked out one occasionally, stretching it out and watching it bounce back into formation. Why was this so damn amusing? I let out a chuckle on pure accident.

  "Whas so fnee?" came Sherlock's muffled voice, sending an odd sort of vibration up my torso. I jumped again. He'd been awake this whole time?! Oh, I was so screwed.

  "Nothing!" I said quickly yet  dumbly, but he seemed unperturbed. "Nhm...," he hummed quietly, before grabbing my wrist and forcing it back into his hair.  I laughed freely this time, working my fingers into his curls and receiving a satisfied hum from Sherlock. Before I knew it my detective was sound asleep. Was it even possible for a person to be so bloody cute? Apparently so. 

SHERLOCK

  Thursday afternoon I received a call from Lestrade. He told me to come down to the station, as they weren't making much progress in the case of John's attack. I yelled at him over the phone.

  "I don't care if you're trying your best, what?! No?! Try the best of someone better!"

  John came downstairs with a small pile of books in his hand, interrupting my rant. "Sherlock," he scolded gently, "It's not all his fault." I frowned. "You're right, it's not. It's Anderson's! Of all people you could have put on this case Lestrade, you put damn Anderson! I will come down there myself and-"

  John snatched my phone away. "So sorry, Greg. He's pretty hostile being penned up like this." I growled, tapping my foot impatiently. "Hm?" John said. "Uh...yeah I guess." A pause. "Shut up, Greg," John said softly. I grabbed my phone from him. "What did you do to him?!" I demanded. Lestrade only laughed, and I could have strangled him through the phone. When he composed himself, he took a breath. "I'll take Anderson off the case if it makes you feel any better, but keep in mind that you have a very powerful big brother who will do anything for you." I scoffed in disgust. Mycroft do something for me? Preposterous! But John laughed softly, to my dismay. "He's right, you know." I looked between John and my open palm which held my phone, shock showing freely on my face. I shoved this in the back of my mind and quickly forgot it, turning my attention back to the phone. "Take him off and let me help," I demanded. Lestrade tsked from the other line. "It's a little risky, honestly, but I'll see what I can do." I sighed, dramatically exhausted. "Thank you, George," I breathed strongly. "Bugger," he concluded, hanging up. With nothing more to do, I forced myself over to my music stand. 

  I'd been playing almost nonstop, but this symphony had to be as flawless as the very man it was for. John had only heard small bits in the night, but when he heard the full song his sensitive heart would melt and maybe he would love me. It was what I hoped for, after all. What would happen after that was all too much for my imagination to explore. Would there be love and kisses that a small portion of me desired? Would he ignore it? I might have been mildly heartbroken if he did.

  I pulled out my case, but stopped when John placed his hand on my shoulders. Unwelcome butterflies erupted in my stomach. Digest them, I told myself in an attempt to calm down. No such luck, for he softly began to rub my shoulder supportively. "You need sleep, Sherlock," he told me. I nodded gently, a small pleasure coming to me as he massaged the tension from playing away. I yawned despite myself, drowsiness taking over me. I hardly slept in my efforts to perfect my symphony, but now that John pointed out how tired I was I finally accepted my human anatomy.

  I allowed John to lead me to my room, turning out the lights and crawling into bed. He curled up next to me, and I was pleased how he wasn't hesitant to get close. His warmth created a strange comfort. I'd never thought I'd feel this way about another person, but here I was next to the man I loved. I was too content to hope for more, but I knew what I had to do. Tomorrow I would perform my piece for John, and at that point it would be either sink or float. I hoped for success, even if a small one. I hoped for John's love.

  I hoped for a lot of things.

  But one thing was for sure; tomorrow I vowed to win my blogger's heart. I curled up next to him, the sweet smell of tea and fresh paper filling me with pleasant warmth and what I supposed was happiness. Even as we simply breathe and lay here in the dark, he stole my heart again and again with every second that came to pass.