don't be dull, be fannish

“Sherlock,” he said, and got a mostly-asleep 'hmm?' in response. He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I can't imagine that marrying anyone else would have been even half as good as this has been.”

“I've no intention of staying here beyond the one year mark,” Sherlock states offhandedly. His mouth snaps shut after he says it and he looks briefly as if he'd like to take the words back.

John looks at him, tries to capture his gaze, but Sherlock keeps his face turned sideways. “Sherlock...?” John licks his lips, tries to calm his suddenly racing heart. “Sherlock, what do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, John.” Sherlock sends him a smile that seems far from genuine. “Honestly, I don't even know what I'm saying.”

John's eyes narrowed. He drained the rest of his coffee and pitched the empty cup into the bin. "You know," he said to Lestrade, "we should all have dinner sometime. You and Mycroft." He gestured to himself and Sherlock.

Sherlock looked horrified, and Lestrade was watching Sherlock. "I think that can be arranged," he said, amused.

"It certainly will not." Sherlock was practically hopping from foot to foot in impatience.

They are mid-soup course when Sherlock charges into the room. His eyes are severe and wild, and he's pinching the spine of the book like it is poisoned. "You—!" He shakes his fist at John. "You!"

John rolls his eyes. "Yes, clearly this is my fault."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "Sherlock would thank you, but he is currently regressed to the age of sixteen."

Sherlock raised his free hand (from under his wing) to make a rude gesture, which in John's opinion only validated the point.

"Oh, don't be like that, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, admirably unfazed. She passed John a mug of soup and set Sherlock's on the coffee table before carefully arranging an afghan over him. "I'm sure something properly awful will happen any day now. Mustn't give up hope." Sherlock just made an unintelligible noise, though that was more than John had got out of him all day, and with a pat on his head Mrs. Hudson stepped over his slack wing and bustled out of the flat.

Something wrong...

John sagging against the wall. John wincing as he knelt. John so calm during negotiations, now nervous. John did not normally sag, wince, fret. John was still. John was calm. John stood foursquare against the world, head held high.

Conclusion: John is tired frightened (?) hurt (!)

John is hurt.

"I don't expect you to understand the appeal of long legs."

"It's an important attribute for a winning racehorse," Sherlock says, because it is.

"Yeah," John says, warm and sarcastic, "that's exactly what I meant."

When, if, The Box is filled, John will know that it’s pointless. The Box contains physical proof of every failure, of everything about John that is broken. Should the day come when there is no more room in The Box for the latest reminder, well, then John will know that he will never be fixed. And John refuses to be broken forever.

It isn’t until very late the following night – so late that it’s early – that he realises. They’re halfway through a Chinese meal of staggering proportions, and Sherlock is making John laugh with his predictions of the fortune cookies. When John grins at him, eyes bright and alive with mirth, he’s almost unrecognisable as the quiet, sad-faced man who limped into the lab only yesterday, and Sherlock’s stomach gives a little leap as he smiles back. It’s been so long since he was attracted to anyone that it takes him a moment to identify the feeling, but when he does he looks at John – deceptively non-threatening in his knitted jumper – and thinks Oh.

“See, here, have a look,” the scientist said pointing to one particular image, waving at someone to enlarge it. It was an aerial shot, looking down on the creature and on the figure it appeared to be curled around. Or more accurately on the person.

It was hard to tell, but pressed protectively but not constrictively between the wall and the creature was what looked like a man, smaller and stockier in build to the creature, fairer in hair colour but a touch darker in skin tone. He appeared to be asleep, curled up, relaxed, not at all concerned that the creature was wrapped almost possessively around him.