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

Chapter Six

"Hello." His tone is rather peculiar, cautious in its entirety. There's the fleeting impression that he's frightened by John's appearance, and Sherlock can feel his throat go dry and every gland in his mouth stop watering as John looks him over, and blinks. "John," Sherlock says, leaning forward to offer a hand.

John doesn't take it. "You're the burglar?"

He stops dead in his tracks, his lips still unable to form words - it's almost as if he's aphasic. "W-well," he stutters.

This shouldn't be happening.

He tries to save face by straightening his back and shoving both his hands in his pockets. Sherlock eyes John coldly, letting his brain readjust to this new feeling in his stomach. "It's not burglary, it's more... of a hobby. Passes the time, you know..." Sherlock looks at the watch on his wrist (stolen), trying to recover a sense of uncaring. John bores his eyes through all that.

Christ.

He takes a step forward, sticking his finger up into Sherlock's face. "You think that breaking into my flat in the middle of the night is fun? A pastime? Ridiculous. I should report you."

"But you're not going to."

"No? And why's that?"

"Because," Sherlock says in a dark whisper. "You find me interesting."

"I don't even know your name! How-"

"But I know yours."

"I," John whispers, "don't know how you know my name."

"It doesn't matter."

"How does it not matter-"

"It's the bag."

"What?" John asks.

"The bag gives it away."

"Gives... what away?" John wearily stares, his eyes forming dark slits.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John basically ceases to breathe. When he speaks, his words are rough and heavy against the evening air. "...How do you... how..."

"I've seen your wallet, John. I know your name from your license. I thought, you, of all people, would be able to add two and two together."

"What?" John takes one limping step closer, shaking his head over and over again. He seems like he's trying to shake memories out of his mind, and he bites his lip as Sherlock continues.

"You were in the army, correct?"

John stares, and shakes his head. "I don't know you. We aren't having this conversation."

"And you're here because you were shot. And you don't want to use the cane, because it's psychosomatic - you're thinking, 'Why do I have to use a cane for my leg if I was shot in the shoulder?' Your tanline, too - hot climate, but in England, it's the middle of winter. So. Iraq or Afghanistan. And then there's the bag-"

"How..." John's voice cracks so much it gives out underneath him. "Tell me..."

"The bag, well, it's just a dead giveaway. It's expensive, but not too expensive, and it's breaking on the right seams - but you don't want to give it away, right? It says 'DH' on it, in the corner. Made in Mexico, maybe; the tribal pattern is frankly quite identifying. Now, I would say you bought it, but where the hell would you get a hand-made rarity like this? I think it's a gift. Now, what really gets me-"

"Don't," John chokes.

"-is the blood. There's a faint splash of it on the bottom. You tried very hard to get it out. Reminded you of someone. This isn't even yours, is it?" Sherlock walks so he's close enough to touch John's hands, darkened by the afternoon sun. "You took it, after someone died on the battlefield. It isn't even yours."

John stares.

Sherlock shrugs. A smile graces only half of his face, and he throws his thumb back as he says, almost hopefully, "There's a coffee shop down the road."

"I..."

"What?"

A strangled noise barely escapes John's throat.

"Yes, John, spit it out."

"I..."

"Yes, John."

"I... I don't like coffee," he replies, quietly. It's almost like he built all that tension to tear it down again, and it gets the desired effect of a scoff and a playful hand gesture.

"They sell tea, too," Sherlock says gently, his lips curling up.

"I still... I don't know your name."

"And I don't know if you were deployed in Afghanistan or Iraq."

John's face breaks into an awed smile, some kind of idle fascination lighting up the dark circles under his eyes. Everything about him seems to glow, the way he breathes even incredulous. How? John's head is screaming. How, how, how?

Sherlock watches him warily, a soft smile still lingering. He's holding his breath; John sees it plainly in the way his arm stays perfectly slung over his shoulder to point back, and his eyes, wild. His lips are parted faintly, and his nostrils aren't flaring from the pressure of pulling in air; it's almost entrancing, the way Sherlock refuses to breathe. And his chest - motionless. He's waiting for John to tell him to go away, or to piss off, or to call him a fucking freak, a fucking psychopathic kleptomaniac. John doesn't. He just stares and stares and stares.

The cool taste of snow lands on his tongue as they sneakily drift down, as sudden as they are subtle. It's snowing.

John doesn't notice; he's too busy... just... being shocked.

Sherlock sees snow settle in John's hair, on his leather jacket, on his eyelashes. He sees it sway and shift in the wind, he sees the frosty breath expelled from John's lungs, he sees him, he sees everything. Despite it all, he's still so cold, and despite John's very starstruck display, Sherlock just wants a cup of tea to warm him up. So, Sherlock lets go of a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding (he was very caught up in observing other, more important things, and didn't have the spare energy needed to breathe), he shuffles a tad, and gestures down the road. "If you could kindly stop staring, now, I'm asking you for tea."

John blinks, and smiles. "...You're a fucking creature, aren't you?"

A/N: here are my thoughts on this entire thing.

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and that was my opinion. omgomg. omg. yes. leggggggo. leave a cote, or a vomment. pls. I must know what you think, lovely readers. AU REVOIRRR