Just Johnlock- The Big Book of One Shots

A Mad House Snippet

Brief A/N: This is a snippet from my book, The Mad House, and is being placed in this book for a fan fiction competition.

It was the city of love, was it not? Paris, where all lovers went to get away from their families, or their responsibilities. It was where they sat on a balcony under a starry night, listening to the distant honking of car horns and wailing of police sirens, sharing a glass of wine and feeling the cool breeze play over their faces. It was where they sat close, with hands interlocked, and shared a couple of kisses before going inside to their single bed and continuing their night in the privacy of their hotel room. It was where lovers went. Not just friends. So oh how infuriating it was for John to be sitting out here on their little balcony, sitting outside under the starry night and listening to the sounds of the city, all the while the seat next to him was empty. Sherlock remained inside, reading that accursed novel so as to prove some point. He was sitting with his wine, probably unaware that he was being rude, or leaving John to lament over his problems alone. To ache, to physically hurt because of the emptiness inside of him. He tried to remember the reasons he used to be happy, yet tonight even Rosie's face didn't cheer him up. Even the memory of his little girl did nothing to warm his stagnant heart. John groaned quietly to himself, leaning over his knees and staring at the ground below. Paris, why was this not the most wonderful moment of his life? The most beautiful city he had ever stayed in, the most exciting trip? Why was he agonizing over something that was out of his control, something that was literally written in time? Oh but that was just it, wasn't it? If Sherlock was so dead set with the idea that Victor was his soulmate then why did he not stop to consider what else must be gospel? If he knew he was supposed to love Victor, then why did he not realize that he was supposed to love John as well? Unless...John sat up a bit straighter, concentrating. He remembered the wording, the peculiarities. Sherlock, reciting the letter that John had written to him so long before. Sherlock speaking of the house's mistake, not that John was straight, not that there was no love between them anymore. No, Sherlock had just insisted that their love, their interruption of the grand scheme of things, would not work because John was married. Not because there were no feelings, not because either one of them was not keen. Just because he was married. John took a breath, sitting up straight in his chair and looking back to where Sherlock was sitting, through the sliding glass door. Imagine his surprise when he was met then, with a pair of eyes staring back. With trembling hands he set his wine glass aside, feeling his heart pulsing through his chest and his mind racing a million miles an hour. He got up, yet he felt as though he was not willing himself to. He felt as if he was being dragged on strings, for he was approaching that door, he was approaching that door and he didn't know what he was going to say. He didn't even know if he was ready to say anything at all, he wasn't prepared to confront him, he wasn't prepared to confess! John understood that it was now or never but still, they wore wedding rings, the both of them had their own commitments! What sort of feeling was this, what sort of eagerness made his fingers find the door and pull it open, what sort of driving force was making him step inside the warm room? Well that may very well be the first question he could answer- it was madness.
"I was wondering how long you'd last out there, with that chill in the air." Sherlock commented with a little smile. John nodded, taking a breath and leaning up against the door, still having neglected to close it just in case he was confronted with a no, and had to jump off the balcony straight away.
"You said..." John took a breath, running his fingers through his hair before shaking his head anxiously.
"I said?" Sherlock blinked, looking at John with that innocent look, that little curiosity in his eyes that made it obvious he didn't understand what was going on. Well that made two of them, didn't it? That made two of them.
"You said that..." John shook his head once again, this time with some more force. "You said it was cold out. You were right." He agreed finally, smiling weakly before sliding the door closed behind him. A failed attempt. That pain started right back up in his chest, that pain of defeat.
"What were you pondering out there?" Sherlock asked, placing his bookmark inside of the book and setting it aside carefully.
"Oh nothing. Nothing and everything I suppose, as with all daydreaming." John decided with a shrug.
"I find that most good thoughts come in darkness. I can't seem to concentrate when my mind can focus on something else, something that I'm seeing." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"I've got the opposite problem; I can only seem to focus on one thing." John grumbled. "One purely maddening thing."
"The house?" Sherlock presumed calmly, bringing his knees up to his chest and hugging them closer. He looked so soft right now, in fleece pajama pants with a tight white tee shirt. His curls had been let loose, and were falling in every which way around his face. Oh if this was another life time John would be able to get closer, if this was a century ago John would be able to express how powerfully his heart burned. He would be able to act upon it.
"You don't think the house has more control over us than we think? Do you think all of this...do you suppose we're just its puppets from here on out? That we have no control over what we do, or...or feel?" John whispered carefully, clenching his hands before folding his arms around himself to hide the anxiousness. Sherlock thought for a moment, still seeming relaxed, unable to see the deeper meaning in this conversation.
"I think that, well I think we're more slaves to our former selves than we are to the house. I feel as though the more we find out about the house the more we find within ourselves as well." Sherlock admitted finally.
"Perhaps we find out more about each other as well." John murmured with a nod, walking towards his suitcase and unearthing his toothbrush from the mess of things. "I think I'm going to go to bed." he announced before walking into the bathroom.
"That's probably a good idea." Sherlock agreed in an equally quiet voice. As John got ready he heard Sherlock rustling about, putting his things away, drawing the shades, and locking the door. There was just a lamp on now, coupled of course with the light from the bathroom. The room was cloaked in darkness, and so when John reappeared it was hard to even tell where Sherlock was. He shut the bathroom light off; walking very apprehensively over to what must have been his side of the bed. They didn't speak, for ultimately what could they say? John slid under the covers, lying on his back as stiffly as he could, feeling most all of his body weight shifting towards the side of the bed, threatening to send him tumbling off onto the floor. Yet while his body shifted one way his mind shifted the other, and no matter how hard he tried he simply could not escape from the present. He couldn't think about tomorrow, he couldn't think about yesterday, all he could think was now. He felt the blankets as they lifted off of himself so as to cover Sherlock, he felt the heat that was collecting under the sheets, beginning to make the outside room feel cold. He could hear Sherlock's breath, and his heartbeat...oh did that mean that Sherlock could hear the very same thing? How could John sleep in an environment like this, how could he sleep now, knowing that Sherlock was so close, and undoubtedly thinking the same things?
"John?" Sherlock whispered quietly, rolling over so as to face his companion through the darkness. John could only just make out his skin through the gleaming moonlight; his hair was too dark and therefore was lost with the surrounding shadows.
"Ya?" John whispered back, letting his head fall in the direction of Sherlock and finding that the two of them were much closer than he had at first anticipated.
"Did you like it before? Did you like it when it was just the two of us?" Sherlock asked quietly. John took a quick breath through his parted lips, unsure what that might mean, yet knowing that undoubtedly the answer had to be yes. Yet how to phrase it, so as to not make it so obvious?
"Yes of course. But as with most things, change is out of my control." John muttered. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, staring John directly in the eyes before taking a quick breath and averting his gaze now to the fold of the pillows between them.
"Me too." he muttered finally. And with that he rolled back to face the wall, and that was the last word spoken by Sherlock Holmes tonight.