Sleepless
part nine"Jesus Christ!" John shouted as the chair flew across the room--minor feat--at the behest of Sherlock's foot. The furniture bounced back nearly as far, tipping to the floor less than twelve inches from where it'd started with an echoing thunk against the polished tile. Sherlock stared down at it, fists balled at his sides as he considered giving it another go. It wasn't likely to break the second time around either but perhaps if he picked it up and smashed it against the table instead he'd get a better result.
John was up and off the bed, though. Book forgotten. His lips formed a small 'o' as he breathed out in one long sustained breath, his nerves obviously unsettled by the sudden but short journey of the ridiculous chair. Good. He should be unsettled. Even as he tilted his chin down to better glare up at Sherlock over the ridge of his own brows, John was not nearly unsettled enough. Sherlock shoved the chair away again with his heel and John grabbed at him to keep him still.
"What the hell set you off this time?" he shouted, all but yanking Sherlock away from the chair as though the two might continue their brawl. His ears were red but his face hadn't yet caught up with the burning flush of anger. "We've talked about this!" His voice carried a hint of warning which only caused Sherlock's mood to darken still. He smacked John's hand away. John paused for only a second then grabbed his arm again, harder, fingers curling into the muscle of his bicep as he maintained control over whether or not Sherlock was allowed to turn away. "You have got to get this under control. Do you hear me?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting them linger on the ceiling before casting an irritated glance into the glaring blue eyes that held his. "Oh, no, have I made the good doctor mad?"
He shook his head. "We're not doing this, Sherlock. You are not going to stand around and make a scene just to try and get a rise out of me. I'm not playing that game with you."
"No, of course not," Sherlock baited, jerking once more against the hard grip against his arm. "You'd rather be playing doctor."
John let him go but did not move, the knuckles of his hand still white as he pointed up at him in warning. "Don't. Don't even start. We both know what you're doing so just stop."
"Or what? You'll kiss me again? Take me right here against the wall? Shall I get the lights, Oh Grand Placater, or would that be too aggressive for you?"
Sherlock enjoyed watching the muscles in John's jaw flex, his lips roll from a thin line into a disgruntled pout, that small, almost frightening smile crawling across his features like an ill omen. That had done it. John's fuse was easy to light and it burned fast and bright once the sparks caught into a flame. He wore his insecurities like a cardigan, matching perfectly the reds of rage, the greens of envy and the yellow cowardice of sentiment. He burned with it. False hope, lies, stupidity--didn't John see? Why didn't he see? It was so obvious; so there. Mundane and boring and soothing and dying and bitter and nothing but white noise--so overwhelmingly white--now red and green and yellow and on fire.
John took a step back, arm raised and pointing not at Sherlock but past him. "Walk out that door," he ordered with a voice that was gruff from the exertion of control.
Control? Control. Control over what? Sherlock looked at the door with a shift of his eyes but did not move a step. "Or what?"
"No 'or what'. Walk out that door."
The commanding tone was humorous. Did he really think he could just tell him what to do and he would do it? Mycroft had been trying to gain that sort of power for years. It didn't exist. It didn't work on him. Why should Sherlock care what anyone else wanted? He leaned forward rather than stepped away, his face looming closer in as much a challenge as he cared to extend to the stupid little man who didn't know anything but always acted like he knew best.
John was always full of surprises.
Sherlock's face nearly smashed against the table as John pushed him down against the surface, arm pulled hard behind his back as he neutralized any chance of a struggle in a swift and almost elegant disarming motion. You could take the man out of the army... His shoulder socket burned in pain, fingers rigid behind his back where they dared not flex against the pull. John was using nearly all his weight to keep him pinned, not playing, not amused. His grip around his wrist was warm and dry. He did not bother to lean in and speak into his ear but instead kept still and strong, not bargaining anything for the sure pin. He spat as he spoke.
"You don't want to take some time and get yourself together, fine. You want to act like a jackass, great. But you know damn well what will happen if they find out you can't take being cooped up down here. So whatever this is, whatever's got you wound up, you'd better either deal with it or walk it off because I am not here for you to take this shit out on when you're angry." He gave his arm a hard shove, just short of the force required to snap something or dislocate it. This was restraint--he was always so good at restraint--too good--not necessary half the time and dear god why did he never bother to just stay angry? Wasn't enough wrong? Wasn't is warranted? What was it like in a mind that could bottle up stagnation and feign sanity so well when there was so much rage under the surface just waiting for an excuse.
John let go and Sherlock slowly righted himself, rolling his shoulder to ease the stress now tensioned in its socket.
John took several steps back, fingers flexing, chest expanding on deeper and more frequent breaths. "You're getting worse," he said, his posture still osculating between the offensive and defense. He pointed to the camera. "They're going to notice. And if they take you away from me, that's it. They're either going to have to drug you to within an inch of consciousness or kill you. That's what you're doing to yourself right now. You are pissing me off and you are killing yourself."
Sherlock could not contain the chuckle that floated from his ensnared throat. "Far be it for me to chose my method of execution," he mused, rolling his neck as the tension boiled higher.
When John's fist hit the table, the only thought through his mind was 'hypocrite' seeing as when he did it to chairs it was something of a big deal. Chairs and walls and doors and the broken skin on his own knuckles from the shower tiles. Let it hurt, let it bleed, let it be red and wash away the white. How could John stay white? How could he relax on a bed with a book and blend in against the world that was a box, a prison, a cage. That wasn't John, this was John. This was the sort of fury that smiled like the reaper then took possession of ones soul.
"I have not followed you this far to watch you kill yourself!" he shouted, the visions of lonely roads and sleepless night accompanying his moist shout. "Yeah, I get it, we're fucked, we're going to die! I am past being afraid of dying! The only thing I'm afraid of losing is the time we have and honestly, I don't even want to be in the same room with you right now!"
"Then leave!" Sherlock ordered, knowing two could play at that game.
"This is my room!"
"It's my room too!"
"I know! And what a shame it is that Sherlock Holmes has never learned to respect his things!" People, friends, chairs, lovers? John took another deep breath, his eyes black with anger. "What do you want?" he asked.
Sherlock's mind scrambled for anything that made sense. He didn't want John to be boring. He didn't want John to be happy being boring. He didn't want to be the only one feeling this way. The weak one, the failure, the most unfit to survive in a climate of the unchanging. "I don't know!" he shouted, hands raking through his hair as his thoughts curled in similar patterns like shoots from the soil of his mind. He didn't want to be like this. He'd never learned how to not be like this.
"You want your own room? Your own space? Is that going to help?"
"Are you threatening me?"
John shook his head, the physical signs of anger lessening though his eyes still held their glare. "I'm asking you. I won't take it personally if you need to have your own space. And if you'd rather stay with me, that's still fine. But you do not treat 'us' like ammunition. I am trying to help you and you either need to help me or let me but you do not start shit with me like that." He swallowed the lump in his throat and with it the last of his intentions to pursue any sort of answer. Sherlock was rather sure John wouldn't like the answer anyway. The soldier exhaled deeply, shaking his hands out again before inclining his head towards the door with a thin lipped expression. "You want to play chess?"
"No." Sherlock let his head hang, his body feeling heavy now that fight or flight had succumbed instead to sink or flounder. "You're terrible at it. And I always beat you at cards."
"Yeah, I know."
"I'm ready for sex."
John's brows knitted then fell away from his nose as he slowly shook his head. "Well, I'm not. I'm still mad at you. Let's hit the cafe. Maybe after."
Sherlock breathed and nodded, standing up straight as something of himself seemed to find its place before the gates of madness. When had John reading become such a violent trigger of unease and dissatisfaction? He didn't care to know what it said about him that he could not be pleased John was adapting and instead resented his quiet submission into a world of endless stagnation. He wanted the angry soldier raising hell at his side, not the careful doctor making sure life was enjoyed if it couldn't be fought for. Sometimes. Right now he'd be satisfied with the lover who didn't ask him to apologize but understood he was sorry anyway. He wasn't... he wasn't going to let John down. He was going to try harder.
How many times had he said that?
John waited at the door for him, the trip to the cafe as much desired for a snack as it was for the walk itself. John adapted through physical exertion. It centered him. It cleared his head. Sometimes it helped Sherlock too.
Sherlock waved his hand towards the wall where the light switch was located as he followed through the door. "Lights," he called, and the room fell to darkness behind him as John watched with wonder from the hall.
"How did you do that?" he asked, gesturing with his chin.
Sherlock closed the door. "Do what?"
"Turn the lights out without using the switch."
"It's voice activated."
John frowned, shaking his head slowly. "No, it isn't. This place was built in the 1940's; Mary's always complaining about how old the systems here are."
Sherlock shrugged, stepping out in front to lead the way. "Coincidence, then. I'll tell maintenance the bulb's gone out," he said, even as he felt a quiet surge of something in his gut that said the universe was rarely so convenient.
Besides, he was rather sure he'd adjusted the lights by command before.