The Ring Finger
part sixJohn was going to kill him just as soon as he figured out how to staircase. It seemed easy enough with one foot going up, weight shifting forward, and the other foot marching up to join. Sadly, it almost literally took him saying the steps in his head to manage one, then two, then three with only minor wavering. 'Literally' was always being used wrong but he felt he had a better grasp of the word than most people did after the night he'd had. He had literally been chatted up by no less than three beautiful women. One of them had literally asked if he wanted to come back to her place. And he had literally declined the attention of each and every one of them because of the inescapable fact that he was literally married.
He was going to kill that bastard. It was self defense seeing as the selfish arse had ruined his sex life.
It was impossible though. Slipping the ring off into his pocket had only been the start of the awful feeling in his gut. It felt as though it were burning a hole against his thigh, the whole shape of it impressed upon him despite the fact his trousers were loose fitted. It felt like everyone could tell it was there and knew he was an adulterer. John hated the term 'open marriage' but that was effectively what they had. It was just supposed to be a business partnership; it was the easiest way to be co-everything. Knowing and feeling were never that intimately linked, though. John could tell himself all night how he wasn't cheating, that Sherlock didn't care, and that their marriage by design did not limit his personal freedoms. But it was a lie. It was a lie the minute he paused to take the ring off because that ring, one he'd purchased for himself as a gag, was not a wedding ring.
And yet he still took it off. An honest man would have just left it and gone about his business. If anyone asked, he could have just said the truth: he bought it as a joke but sort of grew attached to it. It was not a wedding ring; it didn't stand for anything. The moment he put it pocket, it changed. It wasn't a joke in his pocket, it was a symbol of his marriage. His figurative wedding ring became his literal wedding ring all because he felt the need to hide it. Every woman who smiled at him made his stomach turn cold and sour as he thought of the lie he represented. He had been transformed into the type of man he despised. It was very, very easy to get pissed after that. And for just that reason, Sherlock Holmes had to die.
Strangulation, probably. Nothing to clean up. Great view. Very visceral.
John paused on the landing to try and get himself ready for the next batch while his stumbling continued to be masked by the gentle melody above. It was a quiet evening in for the detective, then. John wasn't even quite sure what time it was but somehow still got the distinct impression he was being waited up for. His dutiful husband staying awake to make sure he got home safely. Actually, having thought that through a bit, it was probably much more likely to be a coincidence or simply not very late at all. All John knew was that the night was dark and the rest of the building quiet save for the song coming down through the open door to their den. Though he could see into the room, he couldn't see Sherlock. He would soon enough. And then it was just a matter of not stumbling forward like a zombie or Frankenstein's monster or else Sherlock might become suspicious of his less than admirable ambitions.
The next flight of stairs were easier as the tune seemed to suggest ascension and helped call John's body to climb. He gripped the railings and the banister as he rose and managed not to falter even once as he stood again on flat and steady ground. He didn't really recall it being tilted but with only a few more steps to the door, he managed to walk and steady himself against the white-painted frame. Sherlock was playing beside his chair, looking out through the window in the mirror-like glass as the song came to him from memory.
He was beautiful. It wasn't generally a word John ascribed to men but handsome had a certain connotation of ruggedness and traditional masculinity. Sherlock could be handsome--most days the word would apply. But the softness of his hair with the curls caught in the dual glow of warm yellow street lamps and the blue of the moon, the lines of his body as he stood with his instrument--not angular but curved, the softness of his expression made vulnerable by the song at his bow and the the way he just seemed far too perfect to be real. He was beautiful in the way a sunset was with the precision of the moment captured in the knowledge it was as fleeting as it was recurrent. And god, John really was a hopeless romantic if he could stand in the doorway, drunk off his tits, and forget for a moment why he'd had such a miserable evening because he was too busy staring at the shadow of the other man's lashes on the highlighted crests of his cheeks.
Sherlock looked over at him, his chin slipping from the rest as he brought his instrument down to his side. "You're drunk," he said. It wasn't one of his more brilliant deductions.
"You're beautiful," John replied.
"You're very drunk."
John chuckled and nodded, taking a few more steps in. It was much better now that there weren't stairs in his way. Now there was just way too much room in the way. Their den was really ridiculously vast.
Sherlock shook his head, lips tucked in disapproval as he turned away and placed his violin on its stand. "Well, there's no point in asking how Mr. Murry is, then. You're dehydrated. Get yourself a glass of water if you can manage. You're useless to me now but you can at least try and be less so tomorrow."
"Yeah, well you can try to be less of a..." John didn't have the rest of a retort ready. He wasn't so sure there was a word that meant cock-blocking psychopath but if there was one, he wanted to learn it for just these sorts of occasions. There really was a limit to how often someone could insult another by listing off anatomy. Dick, cock, arse and tit were all great words but eventually he was going to have to branch out.
Sherlock raised his left brow as he waited for some sort of conclusion to the trialing sentence then rolled his eyes when it was clear there was none. "When you do start to throw up, do so in the tub. Going off the amount of fluid required to get to this state and the concentration of which would still be in your system for you to exhibit these signs, the convulsions will likely trigger an abdominal contraction leading to you urinating uncontrollably. Best to leave all disposable fluids in a drain fitted basin." He picked up his ring from the music stand and slid it onto his left hand, the cold metal reflecting blue in the moonlight. "Actually, if you just sleep in the tub you should be fine."
John felt at his own ring around his finger as he stared at Sherlock's. Gold and black, the sun and the moon, day and night. Contrasts--not opposites. Intellect and heart. They hadn't done that on purpose. John hadn't meant to turn his ring into a wedding right either, though. He held his left hand up towards Sherlock, scowling at it as he pushed it forward. "I made a mistake. I can't take it off."
The detective frowned, coming closer with the first sign of concern since his drunken stumble in. "Is it too small for you are is your finger swollen?" he asked, not understanding his meaning as he stopped in front of him and took his hand, sliding the ring off without any trouble. Sherlock looked the gold band over, then gave John's finger a brief inspection as well. He shrugged. "Comes off just fine," he said, sliding it back into its place under the second knuckle of his left hand.
It was stupid. It was so stupid. But he was drunk and Sherlock was beautiful. His eyes were blue like starlight with all the hints of green burned away and standing right there with his cheek bones and soft hair and pale skin and that stupid pronounced cupids bow. John reached his hand around to the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him down into a crushing kiss that sort of hurt but needed to be done. Not for any reasons to be proud of. That was his husband. His. And he was beautiful and he belonged to him. Better thinking than that might have reasoned out that that was primitive and wrong but alcohol and sexual frustration were masters at harnessing cavemen mentality. Sherlock was quick to struggle and quicker still to win. He pulled his face away while he pushed John back, the doctor stumbling over his own feet till he'd tripped over the coffee table and ended up folded between it and the sofa. That hurt. He looked up at Sherlock, watching his friend as he straightened out his shirt, pulling his jacket into place though it had not been touched. He looked slightly shaken, certainly caught off guard. John usually rather liked the way his eyes moved when he was surprised and out of his depths. Right now his back hurt, though, and it was difficult to appreciate that helpless look of insecurity that Sherlock rarely let show.
His frown was deep, his eyes made small as they squinted against internal forces. "You're drunk," he said, though neither of them had their doubts. "I won't mention that... That. If you don't."
"A guy can't kiss his husband?" John asked, not making the best of arguments. He pushed against the coffee table with his thighs, trying to wiggle out more room to get himself off his ass and back to his feet.
"I'm not talking to you when you're like this." Sherlock shook his head and left the den, calling back over his shoulder as he took the kitchen exit towards his room. "You really want to discuss the physical aspects within a marriage contract in the morning, be my guest. Until then, try not to piss yourself."
John managed to get the coffee table pressed far enough away to sit on the ground as the door to Sherlock's room closed shut with not but the customary ku-chunk as the latch slid into its pocket.
---
And he had no idea what had happened with Bill. Probably got himself a girl. John needed to check his phone to be sure he hadn't just up and ditched him. But later. Much, much later when he could stomach a position that wasn't prone to the laminate.
Sherlock wasn't exactly sympathetic. They shared a bathroom so John supposed a morning confrontation was unavoidable unless he expected Sherlock to relieve himself into the kitchen sink or some sort of container. There was still something very annoying about another man standing over one's semi-conscious body and dropping trow, though. Sherlock made a dissatisfied grunt at the smell before emptying his own bladder into the common bowl, flushing after a few shakes which made John self conscious about residual splashing. This was insult to injury and he had half a mind to call it on purpose. Sherlock didn't so much as acknowledge he was even there except for the kindness that was not stepping on him as he set himself before the sink. The flushing was already making his head hurt but the running of the tap wasn't helping things either. This was payback. This was karma. That or Sherlock Holmes was an areshole.
Seeing as he saw fit to dawdle in the bathroom and brush his teeth, John was beginning to think it might be the latter. This was hardly the time or place for conversation, though. Or thought. There were lots of places in his memory that were gone and unlikely to come back. But he remembered moonlight kisses and furniture traps. Frankly, he didn't know how he felt about that. He was already feeling rather sick so that wasn't much to be going on. The whole night was a mess of motivations that troubled him and revelations that seemed worse. He didn't want to deal with it right now. Or... anything. Not having a headache would be fantastic and that remained his sole desire and focus of thought. Mind over matter: stop feeling like gum stuck to someone's shoe. It hadn't worked yet but he was determined to continue to try.
Sherlock set the cap to the mouthwash bottle on the floor beside John as he swished and gargled his own gulp. John didn't want it but sat up and knocked it back anyway, clearing the taste of last night's mistakes from his mouth as he offered back up the empty cup and spat out into the toilet again.
"Morning," the detective said as he stepped over John once more and carried on towards the kitchen where an assortment of clangy appliances and pans were just waiting to sing their songs into the air.
John managed little more than a grunt as he reached out and pushed the hallway door shut.