Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Three

This is a reoccurrence, and one that John does not take kindly to. Every day, he goes to the shops, and every single day, he comes back to see a movie and a post it note where his coffee maker used to be.

He looks at them, and looks at the lock - untouched - and then looks for signs of disturbance, routinely searching through his flat for clues, left in the wake of carelessness. And never, not once, can he ever find a damn thing.

This happens so often that John now has the entire boxed set of Harry Potter, Spiderman, and Batman Begins. And John always wonders - how does the kid know how badly he wants those movies? How does he know where John lives? How does he know anything?

John doesn't even know his name!

So, one day, John gets a permanent marker, he gets some tape, some paper, and Casino Royale, and he writes a short, cold note before putting it in the spot where the absence of his coffee maker was. He doesn't know if the kid'll see this, or ignore it, (because he seems like the type who blatantly would), or if he'd... write something back, maybe?

John puts two sugars in his tea casually before leaning into his leather seat, slinging his socked feet over the counter. He wiggles his toes a tad, reading the post-it note over and over until the sentence becomes one word. He's not sure if he should communicate his desires to the mystery man, but John would love to have some input to the extent of the kid's robberies.

He tapes the note to the James Bond movie and puts it atop the counter where his coffee maker sat. Quietly, as if he's afraid the burglar is watching, John signs his name and pulls away to gather his wallet, so he can go to the shops.

He smirks at the note as he unlocks his flat door, ready to welcome in the newcomer. A new kind of mischievous is alight in his sea blue eyes.

Go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,

John Watson.

***

Is it really any surprise when John comes home to see a new note on his counter?

He rips it off with an unruly flourish, running his hands through his hair in as much annoyance as possible. "Fuck," John whispers. He paces left, and then right, gathering his senses with a twitching hand. "Who are you?" he says to the note. "S-H. S-H."

"Sam." John sits down. He looks at the note.

"Sebastian? Skyler..."

"Seth."

"Simon Herrod."

"What the hell kind of name is that?" John mumbles. "Wrong, wrong, wrong."

He looks at the post-it note, mumbling gutturally. Nothing is adding up. Nothing makes sense. It's all so bloody complicated, it's all so fucked. What is he doing? His judgment is faltering, his walls are falling down, and he's just damned uncomfortable. John runs his hand over the note, reading it, and reading it, and reading it.

Hello, John.

I'm glad you sent a response, albeit a rude one. Although, I assure you, fucking myself would be enjoyable, I'm not exactly one for masturbation. Too many... juices.

Have fun watching your movie.

-SH

How can one be so sodding casual about breaking into a flat? Can't the kid just stick a letter in the envelope slot? This madness had to end. It had to, or else John promises himself he will go absolutely insane.

John only saw him once. Once, accidentally, mistakenly, happenstance. John knows that there was a jolt, a jaw dropping quiver when he saw him, but... chemistry? John's equated that to the thrill that came from rushing down the street and yanking back at the thief's scarf. John thinks it's because he looked danger in the eyes.

Chemistry... it doesn't exist, and anyone who thinks otherwise is either a hopeless romantic, or entirely stupid.

But the thing John finds even scarier to think about - what if he likes this asshole?

He crumples the note in disgusted frustration, scribbling another quick reply before sticking it to his fridge with a magnet. If the kid wants a reply, then he's going to get one, John thinks.

What's your name?

Then John pulls away to put himself to bed.

***

John can feel crystal teardrops on his windowpane, and a boy with bright blue eyes pulling towards him. His fingers are splayed, his eyes stretched wide open and only half-seeing. Is that it? The coffee maker?

The boy is holding the coffee maker in his hands. John wants it; he reaches and makes a ripple in the fabric of his dream, trying to touch a coffee maker that's behind a veil.

There's a shadow upon his eyelids, and a stroke of cool skin, and a smile and a goodnight kiss. John is lost inside the moment, and the harshness turns to something much more soft as he slips and slides all the way to sleep.

***

He'd been expecting something more... more. He walked all the way from his flat in this stupid blizzard, just to break into an unfortunate almost-stranger's house to write them a three sentence note. So, yeah. Sherlock'd been expecting a bit more than what he finds.

An accusation, maybe. A threat to take it to the police. Maybe he'd even been hoping for it, something to spice up his life of thievery.

But it's not that. Not a threat, or a bargain, or a plea - just a question. Small. Meaningless. Sherlock's not sure how to answer, even if he can lie about it.

What's your name?

Sherlock breathes quietly into the dark, low hum of the wet snow colliding with the windows. He looks around surreptitiously as he takes the note off of John's fridge, but only quiet enough to barely notice the sound of soft, discontented mewls coming from John's room. Sherlock is still staring at John's note. He is still thinking of ways to answer, still thinking of things to say. What can he say? The truth?

John grunts, and Sherlock looks up curiously.

Surely, he isn't having nightmares.

Ridiculous.

Sherlock pockets the note in his Belstaff coat before writing his own in a messy scrawl, and then he turns to John, who is stirring uncomfortably. He walks to John's bedroom door, to where John is clenching his sheets gently, and Sherlock stares at him a while. Just... staring.

He sees the way that John's lips part in the dark, a twist of flesh where his eyelids begin, and where his eyebrows grow thick. His breaths are soft, calm, shallow, and slowly...

Sherlock finds himself leaning over John. Far, far over, so he's leaning down - his eyes so close. Snow melts on Sherlock's eyelashes, and drips onto John's lip - once, twice - and Sherlock is mesmerized by it still, unable to think, unable to move, out of captivation at the bead of water. He's just looking at John like he wants to steal him away, to where no one will ever be able to hurt him again.

Sherlock's never wanted to steal a someone away.

He's only wanted things. Never a person.

Sherlock backs away in startled confusion, his face forming a question at the man sleeping underneath the covers. Tonight is too strange. This isn't the right time, or place, and it's all Sherlock can do to keep himself from running out into the snow without saying his goodbyes.

He tapes the note to John's bedroom door, and leaves as quietly as he had come.

A/N: OMG Sherlock is so sassy and he doesn't believe in love how foolish lololol faill but he totally wants the peen tbh and John is completely oblivious to Sherlock being a fucking stalker Hegehhehegwhheh GUYS GUys guys thanks so much for staying with me and reading bc that is simply RAD OKAY THANK YOU YES okay