Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“How does it feel to be in love?”

The question, spoken in what sounded like a genuinely puzzled tone, made John look up from the book he was reading. He was used to most of Sherlock’s quirks by now and starting unexpected conversations involving odd topics was one of them. Still, the question had caught him off-guard.

John folded the corner of the page he had been in the middle of and then set the book aside, turning to his friend. Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his hands placed on the armrests and his head turned to stare expectantly at John who had settled into a corner of their sofa to read.

John tried to decipher the expression on Sherlock’s face. Was he actually curious or was this some sort of experiment?

Sherlock let out an impatient huff. “Well?”

“Um… Well, it’s a complicated question,” John said and felt tempted to laugh a little. Something in the way Sherlock was staring at him with such intensity while demanding an answer to such a deep question felt funny to him. It was endearing in a way.

Sherlock frowned as he considered John’s words. “That’s not a truthful answer from you,” he said after a moment.

John quirked up an eyebrow in confusion. “What, you think I can give you a detailed and objective answer instead?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied with a nod. His expression had changed into one that John definitely recognized. It was the look he used when he thought John was being deliberately obtuse.

“What makes you think that?” John asked. He could no longer hold back his amusement.

Sherlock seemed to disapprove of his reaction as he then scowled. “You have had multiple romantic relationships during your life and your experience in that area is far superior to mine. Surely you can give me a better answer than that.”

John blinked for a moment and studied Sherlock’s face again. He appeared to be deadly serious. “Hold on… You think that I can tell you what being in love is like simply because I’ve been in a few relationships in the past?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink.

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock…” he started but suddenly had no idea how to continue. He fell silent for a moment but Sherlock stayed quiet as well, simply observing John. His face was unreadable once again.

“What experiment is this for?” John finally asked.

“It’s… It’s nothing, John. Forget it.”

* * *

A couple of hours later, darkness had started to settle over London. John had finished his cup of tea and was taking the empty cup to the sink, yawning as he shuffled into the darkened kitchen. It had been a quiet day, they had no case on at the moment and Sherlock’s boredom hadn’t yet reached a critical point. John assumed the man was doing his usual silent thinking routine.

After rinsing out his teacup, John went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, enjoying the calm atmosphere of the flat.

“Right… I’m off to bed,” he announced as he returned to the living room. He was somewhat surprised to find Sherlock standing at the window instead of still sitting in his beloved chair. Sherlock gave no sign to indicate he had heard John, he simply stood there with his back towards his flatmate.

John drew in a breath and then gave up on waiting for a response. “Good night,” he said quietly before heading to his bedroom upstairs.

He had reached the first few steps of the stairs when he heard a soft voice from behind.

“Good night, John.”

John’s mouth twitched into a smile as he trudged up the rest of the stairs, feeling warmth bloom in his chest. Ridiculous man.

With a sigh of relief, John pushed open his bedroom door and quickly changed into his pyjamas before slipping into bed. He got into a comfortable position and then listened to any sounds from downstairs. He couldn’t hear anything so Sherlock was most likely continuing his thinking session in the living room.

Thinking about Sherlock led him to consider their curious conversation earlier in the day. In the end, Sherlock had told him to forget the matter altogether which he found strange. The serious and expectant look on Sherlock’s face had made it seem like he wouldn’t be willing to end the discussion before getting an answer he deemed satisfying. Why had he suddenly given up?

John wondered where Sherlock’s question had come from in the first place. He wasn’t usually interested in things he found sentimental and thus irrelevant to him. Why was he then asking John about the sensation of being in love? It had to be related to an experiment or a case, John decided.

Perhaps Sherlock had been uncomfortable with the idea of seeking assistance with… whatever he was focused on. Something… something that had to do with love. No, sentiment. John chuckled sleepily at the idea of Sherlock Holmes shying away from a discussion. That was certainly something you didn’t experience every day. He continued to entertain the thought for a while longer but eventually relaxed completely and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The following day, John was again sat in the living room, this time in his chair with his laptop perched on his lap. He was grinning at the screen but looked up when he saw Sherlock approach from the corner of his eye.

“Look at this,” John said, pointing a finger at the laptop, “these two blokes are trying to hunt ghosts but one of them is too scared to really even try and it’s hilarious–“

Sherlock took one look at the video currently playing on John’s screen before interjecting in a bored tone: “There are no ghosts, John, they are simply the product of a human mind trying to distract itself from the harsh truth of its own mortality. What you’re watching is nothing more than shallow entertainment designed to clutter your brain and stop you from seeing things that truly matter.”

He then paused for a second and snorted. “Besides, your silly video isn’t really even about the so called ghosts,” he said knowingly, walking over to his chair and dramatically flopping down into it.

John frowned and closed the lid of his laptop, crossing his arms. “What are you on about?”

Sherlock smirked but said nothing before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“I expected better from you, John. Once again you clearly see but you do not observe.”

John huffed at that and rolled his eyes. “Right. Okay. Clearly there’s something massive here I’m just too bloody dumb to notice.”

Sherlock hummed. “Tea?”

“Yeah… Tea.”

* * *

At dinner, Sherlock easily agreed to eat some of the pasta John had made which was quite a pleasant surprise as John sometimes had to threaten him in order to make him put something into that stubborn mouth of his. They ate in comfortable silence until Sherlock finished his plate and emptied his glass of water.

“John,” he began conversationally, “you have been in love in the past, yes?”

John almost choked on his pasta. “What?”

Sherlock simply stared back at him, slightly tilting his head to the side.

John took a big gulp from his glass of water before clearing his throat. “I… I suppose. Um. Once, yeah. I think,” he said and felt his face heat up. Damn it.

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to visibly brighten at that and he leaned forward in his seat. “Well, then. Describe your experience. In detail, please.”

John licked his lips and scratched the back of his neck, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. What was this about? What the hell was Sherlock getting at? It wasn’t just that he felt reluctant to talk about the issue, he also felt he was incapable of giving Sherlock an answer that would satisfy him.

“It’s not… There aren’t.. It’s not something you can just describe like that, Sherlock. It’s not a single feeling. Um.. It’s happiness, I guess? Feeling like you’re content,” he said and looked down at his plate to avoid meeting Sherlock’s intense stare.

Why did he always have to watch you like he was trying to see straight into your soul?

“I see…” Sherlock murmured, processing John’s words.

“Yeah. It’s, well, kind of an abstract concept,” John replied with a nod, eyes still on his plate.

“Still… You have experienced the sensation of being in love in a past relationship. However, it ended badly,” Sherlock said. He was now using his sharp deduction voice but somehow managed not to make the words as cutting as he often did with suspects and witnesses alike. John could only nod again.

“Judging by your reaction… you weren’t the one to initiate the break-up.”

John closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Sherlock was right… as always. He waited for Sherlock to go on, to say more and pick apart John’s memories and experiences just like he dissected his dead frogs and whatnot.

Nevertheless, Sherlock remained silent.

That silence made John look up and meet his flatmate’s gaze. There was something in Sherlock’s eyes he could not identify. Compassion? Pity?

John released a sigh and said: “Yeah. He felt there was no future for us.”

* * *

That night, John went to bed a little later and sleep claimed him in no time. His sleep was not disturbed by nightmares, he felt warm and comfortable buried under his duvet, and…

“John.”

He frowned and shifted, pulling the duvet higher to cover his body better.

“Johnnn.”

John groaned and grumbled, having no option but to stir at the insistent calling of his name.

“John!”

He growled in annoyance but then sat up, eyes still mostly closed and his hair no doubt a complete mess. “What?!”

“What is love?”

John’s irritation subsided and was replaced by confusion. He blinked, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes in order to actually see something but unfortunately the room was too dark. He then tried to process Sherlock’s question but only one thing came to his mind at that bleary moment.

“What…? You mean.. Haddaway?” he breathed and yawned.

The response was a loud huff. “No, John! Love!”

John heaved a sigh and let himself fall back on the bed, longing to just let himself drift off again. Sherlock, however, seemed determined to stop that from happening. In seconds, he had grabbed John’s lovely, warm duvet and yanked it away from him. “I need you to answer me, John.”

“I need you to fuck off…” John groaned and made a half-hearted attempt at snatching the duvet back. His flatmate was far quicker to react though and made sure he kept the thing out of John’s reach.

“Tell me and I’ll let you go back to sleep,” Sherlock said, sounding almost desperate. John might have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if he hadn’t been so pissed off by being harassed in such a way.

“Tell you what? God, if you need to use my laptop or something, just deduce the password and get on with it…”

“John, this isn’t about your laptop… Just. Give me an answer. A real one,” Sherlock whined.

John muttered a curse and then rubbed his eyes. “Fine… What was the question again?”

Sherlock made a loud sound of impatience but then quieted down and softly asked: “What is love?”

John chewed on his lip as he thought about the question and what he could possibly say to that. Who was he to say what love was? This was Sherlock once again assuming he had some revolutionary answers to fundamental questions just because he had experience in something Sherlock apparently did not.

To be honest, he mainly just wanted to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to come up with an easy lie, however, not when Sherlock’s voice had been so sincere. Sighing, he sat up again and turned to his flatmate.

“Love is when you care for someone enough to wake up in the middle of the night and answer their ridiculous philosophical questions.”

It was too dark to see Sherlock’s face but John could hear an actual gasp as Sherlock’s brain registered his words. Was he shocked? Horrified? John had no real way of telling.

A short moment passed and then suddenly John was being tucked in under his duvet again.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly.

A few seconds later he was gone.

Chapter Text

Despite having been harassed in the middle of the night, John did actually feel well-rested in the morning. He had slept peacefully after Sherlock had finally given him his duvet back.

Although… Sherlock hadn’t simply handed it over, he had more or less tucked John in. That was a strange thought. Strange but good. Good in a strange way. Or something.

John sat up in his bed and looked around. His bedroom hadn’t changed in any way, nothing had been moved or taken. Still, he felt like something had shifted. Something big.

His thoughts strayed back to the previous night and their brief squabble. Sherlock had once again demanded him to answer an impossible question and… Christ, what had he done? It had been late, really late, and he’d been half-asleep and rather pissed off at his flatmate’s antics. And then he’d just… gone and blurted out something a bit not good.

John cringed at the realisation, remembering the gasp of shock he’d heard in response to his inconsiderate words. He had known Sherlock was uncomfortable with the subject and still acted like a real twat, hadn’t he?

He’d simply gone and connected the massive, frightening concept of love to himself and his flatmate while said flatmate was obviously just trying to approach the matter from a cautious, scientific angle.

“Well done, Watson,” he murmured and flopped back down on the bed with a sigh.

After all their time together, John hoped Sherlock understood that at least some level of affection existed between them. Most likely a much higher level on his side, John thought, but that was alright.

Something about their relationship was special, that couldn’t be denied. He had never worked better with anyone else. He had never felt as alive as he did with this ridiculous, remarkable man.

Yes, there certainly was love involved. Well... at least on John’s side.

Love. Such an odd little word.

“Love has many forms, John. Ours… it’s too misshapen, too complicated,” James had said, and he’d been right.

But what sort of form had the love occupying 221B taken?

* * *

By the time John had brushed his teeth and taken a morning shower, he’d managed to make up his mind. He had to confront Sherlock.

Firstly, there was the matter of whatever experiment Sherlock had in mind. He needed to find out what Sherlock was trying to achieve and why he needed answers to impossible questions about the nature of love.

Secondly, he needed to clarify some things about their relationship. Mainly he wanted to know if the previous night’s events had done some irreversible damage to… well, whatever it was that existed between them. This part scared him.

John left the bathroom and braced himself for coming face to face with his flatmate. However, he soon discovered that Sherlock was not in the flat and he was alone. This made John feel somewhat relieved.

He heard his stomach rumble and so he wandered to the kitchen to prepare himself some breakfast. He had just finished making himself a sandwich when he heard his phone make a sound in the living room. It was a text message.

Do you have questions? SH

John took a bite from his sandwich as he stared at the message, frowning. What was he on about this time? He typed a quick reply.

What?

The next message arrived shortly.

Questions for me. Have you got any? SH

Here’s one: what are you getting at?

Well, you said one should answer questions. SH

You mean you want to answer my questions?

You know I hate repeating myself, John. SH

Right. I’m confused as to what I’m supposed to be asking you.

Seriously, John?  SH

Last night, you informed me that one should answer another person’s philosophical questions during an inconvenient time in the case that one is willing to demonstrate affection towards this individual. SH

John gaped at the words on the screen. Then he burst into a laugh and almost dropped his phone. Sherlock could be awfully funny and endearing at the same time while intending to be neither. A minute or so later he sent off a reply.

Sorry, I don’t have any philosophical questions for you. Thanks for the offer though. You’ve made my day.

He had to wait much longer for Sherlock’s next message and so when it finally arrived, he had finished his sandwich and made himself tea.

I was unaware your day could be made with so little effort. SH

John quirked up an eyebrow at the message. It wasn’t serious or demanding. It was almost… playful? He came up with a reply and hit send without worrying about it too much. It might have been risky but he was feeling brave.

I’m just not that hard to please.

John placed his phone on the table to wait for an answer. He sipped his tea and felt a jolt of excitement when the device once again informed him that a new message had been received.

Your standards are awfully low, John. SH

What exactly are you implying?

Nothing at all. SH

Will you be home soon?

Yes. SH

On my way now. SH

* * *

Despite John’s decision to confront his flatmate, they didn’t talk when Sherlock returned. John attempted to start a conversation a few times but he simply couldn’t find the right words. He was at a loss while growing more and more confused.

John had been convinced Sherlock’s questions had to do with an experiment of some kind but the text messages had been strange. Their little chat hadn’t seemed like an attempt to gather scientific data at all, it had been more personal. Sherlock had even said something about affection !

No cases had come up yet so a considerable amount of time was once again spent lounging in the living room. This meant that throughout the afternoon, Sherlock sprawled across the sofa and John sat in his chair with his laptop, casting occasional glances at his flatmate.

Sherlock was quiet but John could see him sometimes wiggling his bare toes and sometimes bouncing his leg which were familiar signs of restlessness the detective usually started showing after a while without a case worth his attention.

John browsed through his email absentmindedly, more focused on wondering how he could question Sherlock about all the recent events and their earlier chat without making it terribly awkward. He was just about to delete a bunch of spam emails to make room for case offers when Sherlock suddenly sat up and cleared his throat.

“John… I think I might be ill,” he said.

John glanced at him one more time, surprised, and then put his laptop away to walk over to his flatmate. “How do you feel?” he asked and looked Sherlock over with a concerned expression. It was rare for Sherlock to admit he wasn’t feeling that good.

Sherlock frowned slightly and looked as if he was trying to determine how he was feeling. “I... I feel strange,” he finally answered.

John made a humming sound and placed his palm against Sherlock’s forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever… Is it nausea?” he inquired further.

Sherlock visibly swallowed and shook his head. “No… It’s not like that,” he murmured.

“Right… What is it like?” John stared at him, starting to feel more worried. This was odd and unusual. Sherlock was behaving in a way that wasn’t right.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then let out a heavy sigh, suddenly looking rather tired. “There’s this… ache in my chest. It’s.. It makes everything heavier. Breathing. Thinking,” he said and then breathed in deeply again, seeming unsure how to go on.

“Oh,” John replied and felt stupid for only managing to produce such a useless comment. He scratched the back of his neck and looked at Sherlock warily as if scared the man might suddenly burst into flames or something.

“I’ll listen to your lungs and heart,” John decided. Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted. The sight filled John with fondness but he mentally scolded himself for allowing his feelings to bubble up like that.

“You’ll need to take off your shirt,” he added and then hurried off to fetch his stethoscope, letting Sherlock undress in peace.

When he returned to the living room, Sherlock had indeed pulled off his shirt and was sat with his back straight as a ramrod. John approached him with a reassuring smile, keeping his eyes firmly on Sherlock’s face, and then performed a regular check-up on him.

“There’s nothing wrong with your lungs or your heart. Your heart rate is somewhat elevated but I don’t think it’s anything out of the ordinary,” John finally announced. This, however, made Sherlock look anxious instead of relaxed.

“Ah,” he breathed.

John bit his lip, still worried. “Maybe we should book you an appointment…”

“No. No doctors. Other than you,” Sherlock protested and quickly shook his head, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks.

“You have to tell me if you start to feel worse,” John said firmly and touched Sherlock’s shoulder with his hand for emphasis. Sherlock glanced at the hand and then slowly looked up to meet John’s eyes, nodding.

“I’ll tell you.”

* * *

A few hours passed and John tried his best to be nonchalant in his efforts to keep an eye on Sherlock. He could see no obvious warning signs of an illness; the man wasn’t coughing and didn’t seem to feel abnormally cold or hot. The only visible sign of discomfort John could see was the continued fidgeting as Sherlock tapped his foot against the floor or his fingers against any given surface nearby.

Around five o’clock, Sherlock’s phone rang.

John looked up from the newspaper he had been reading in his chair, only to see Sherlock more or less lunging at the phone which was lying on the coffee table. He suppressed a smile at the sight.

Sherlock’s face was serious and his eyes wide open as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Lestrade. Finally. Give me something good.”

John kept watching Sherlock’s face while he listened to Greg on the other end. A brief few seconds later, Sherlock’s mouth turned up into a pleased smile.

“Yes. Obviously. Don’t touch anything,” he said, ending the call without further ado. Then, his eyes turned to John.

“Get your coat, John. We have a case.”

Chapter Text

“Right… So what’s this case about then? It must be good since you’re smiling,” John said as he climbed into the cab behind Sherlock who had already announced their destination to the driver.

Sherlock made a soft humming sound and laced his fingers in his lap.

“A man got run over by a car,” he said, glancing towards John as the cab began moving.

John blinked and frowned. “But… that sounds, well.. trivial,” he commented.

“Doesn’t that happen all the time?”

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. “Ah, yes. Boring accidents,” he said and waved a hand dismissively.

“This was no accident.”

John nodded in return, his expression thoughtful. Of course it wasn’t, otherwise Sherlock would have given Greg an earful about disturbing him with something so dull.

“Go on, tell me then,” John said and looked at the other expectantly.

“Imagine, John, that you were at a bus stop with a coworker, waiting for the next one to make your way home,” Sherlock began, turning his head to observe John’s face.

“Now, what would you think if that coworker, seemingly out of nowhere, walked right into oncoming traffic in the middle of your conversation?”

John looked puzzled, his brow furrowing. “Suicide?” he suggested after a moment.

“In the middle of a friendly conversation, John,” Sherlock replied. His expression conveyed both excitement and concentration; clearly, the gears were already turning in his head.

“Of course, the idiot police has already settled on your suggestion instead of bothering to consider all the facts.”

John hummed in response.

“Did you say coworker?”

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his hands together. “We have a witness, yes.”

“Bloody hell. That’s a rough day,” John murmured, letting out a soft breath. He briefly considered the idea and grimaced.

“No one wants to witness a coworker’s death.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to John again but he said nothing for a moment.

“I suppose.”

They were both quiet for the rest of the cab ride.

* * *

As soon as the car stopped, Sherlock gracefully jumped out and John hurried to pay the driver and follow. Sometimes John voiced his annoyance about the matter but, truthfully, he was used to their routine. When Sherlock’s mind was focused on a case, he couldn’t be bothered with anything he considered irrelevant.

John couldn’t help smiling a little as he saw Sherlock duck under the police tape already set up around the scene, and then hold it up for John to follow. It was a simple thing but it proved that Sherlock was aware of his presence.

“Sherlock! You came.”

Greg’s expression was positively surprised.

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow, clasping his hands behind his back. “Obviously. Anyone with even the tiniest amount of common sense would realise the details of this case do not add up, certainly not to a conclusion as hasty and unbothered as a simple suicide.”

“Right.. well, I expected that,” Greg sighed and then greeted John with a nod.

Sherlock marched forward towards the empty bus stop and began to inspect the ground, soon moving to the marked spot in the middle of the street where the body had been collected. For a while, he silently inspected most of the restricted area.

He returned to John and Greg with a disgruntled expression.

“You shouldn’t have moved the body. I said don’t touch anything,” he complained.

Greg and John both opened their mouths but were interrupted by Sherlock before they could respond.

“Yes, yes, they must have tried to resuscitate him. Too late. It was instantaneous.”

Greg sighed. “Yes, well–”

He was, however, interrupted once again.

“Where’s the witness? We need to talk to her,” Sherlock said, nodding to John.

“At the station,” Greg answered. “The driver too. He says he’s certain the guy just ran in front of his car.”

Sherlock huffed. “Yes, of course, he’s not lying. There’s no way the victim was pushed that far from where he and the witness were standing. Now, we will meet you again at the station, Detective Inspector, there’s no point in wasting more time here.”

He then proceeded to turn around and walk away from the scene, easily hailing down another cab.

“Come on, John!”

* * *

After another cab ride, John and Sherlock met up with Greg again and he lead them to where the witness had been taken for questioning.

“Now, she’s clearly a little distraught,” Greg said, directing his words at Sherlock. “So you might want to go easy on her. We’re not accusing her of anything.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, since you lot have jumped to the conclusion that this is a suicide. I’m only interested in getting the information I need. Depending on what that turns out to be, I can either rule her out or not.”

John gave Greg an apologetic look and shrugged his shoulders a little. Sherlock did have a point. Greg sighed but let them into the room, muttering something about his job being the bane of his existence.

Stepping into the room, Sherlock immediately approached the witness, John right behind him. “Clara, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes rapidly scanned the woman.

She looked up and searched his face with her eyes, shifting in her seat. “I… I’ve already told you everything,” she said, her eyes flitting between the two men.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again but John interrupted.

“We’re not police,” he said and offered her a compassionate smile, taking in the signs of her nervousness. “This is Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective.” He pointed to his companion.

Clara briefly looked towards Sherlock again but her eyes quickly returned to John.

“And I’m John,” he held out a hand and she shook it, looking confused.

“Oh... So I’ll just.. tell you what happened?”

John nodded. “And answer some of our questions, if you don’t mind.”

He was suddenly aware that he was being intensely stared at. Sherlock’s eyes seemed to be boring into the side of his head, tempting him to turn and meet his gaze. But he kept his eyes on the witness.

The woman drew in a breath and swallowed, brushing her long auburn hair behind her ear. She then started recounting the events while John and Sherlock listened.

John was so engrossed in her story that he didn’t notice Sherlock moving before the taller man had dropped a chair next to him with a loud noise. Distracted, John glanced at Sherlock with a frown, but found him sitting down, eyes now fixed on Clara.

When Clara was done with her explanation, Sherlock posed her several questions and analysed her movements. He was surprisingly calm and quiet but John could tell he was assessing the woman’s testament.

Despite answering Sherlock’s questions without protests, Clara seemed to be more focused on John. She kept flicking her eyes into his direction and offering him smiles. John wasn’t sure how to take it. She was definitely years younger than him and admittedly quite attractive, but he wasn’t interested. Hadn’t been for some time. The flirting was flattering though.

In truth, it made him think of the recent text conversation he’d had with Sherlock. It had been odd; something completely unexpected. John had been sure something would change that day. But then they’d fallen silent and the messages hadn’t been brought up again. But it had been flirting, hadn’t it? John tried to force himself to be completely focused on Clara and the questioning. He schooled his face to avoid looking like a fool.

Sherlock, however, looked less than pleased. As minutes passed, his mood seemed to become worse and worse. After several questions, when Clara batted her eyelashes at John for the sixth time, Sherlock stood up and turned to John.

“I don’t feel so well,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

With that, he headed out of the room.

John, somewhat dumbfounded, looked back at Clara. “Uh… Yeah, that’s all, I think. Thank you for your time,” he said, watching her eyes widen slightly as he turned to leave. She opened her mouth to say something more but Sherlock’s voice grabbed John’s attention first.

“John, come along!”

With one more brief nod towards her, John hurried to follow.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re okay?” John asked as they headed back into the street.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and glanced at John. “No. Well. Possibly?”

John stared at him with a deep frown, reaching to grab Sherlock’s free arm as the man hailed another cab.

“What does that mean?”

Sherlock turned his head and stared at John’s hand on his arm. He then climbed into the cab, forcing John to follow suit.

“I told you, I was not feeling well. We got everything we needed from her. We can go home now.” Sherlock looked out of the window instead of at John now. “Baker Street, please.”

John’s eyebrows crept up. “Did we?”

Sherlock scoffed. “More than we asked for, I should think.” He kept staring at the passing traffic.

John blinked and thought of Clara’s smiles and looks. “Uh, well…”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask for her phone number right there and then.”

John rubbed at the back of his neck. “What? No–”

Sherlock’s look was icy when he finally turned his head to face John.

“She wanted you to. What a huge missed opportunity for you, John. Terribly sorry.”

John frowned and straightened his back a little. “Now hang on a minute–”

“Regardless, she’s not the murderer, and she knows absolutely nothing worthwhile.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head before going back to looking out of the window.

“Right,” John murmured, a little exasperated. “That’s good. Or not good. Anyway, I didn’t want her number.”

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow but remained silent.

“No, really,” John said and cleared his throat softly. He took a breath and thought oh what the hell .

“I was thinking of someone else, actually.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. Immediately, his eyes were on John again, his mind clearly working and processing the words. He was quiet for a moment as the car moved sluggishly and the cabbie fiddled with the radio.

“And who might that be?” Sherlock finally asked.

John, feeling a little like reality had suddenly slowed down, licked his lips and looked up at Sherlock. He saw those piercing eyes search his face, briefly landing on his lips– no, he had to be imagining that.

What even was this conversation? John was slightly afraid for his sanity.

“Well, there are better options to be thinking about than potential murderers.” He let out a chuckle.

Sherlock laughed softly at that as well, visibly relaxing. “She’s not the murderer, John,” he said again but his tone was far less icy this time. He seemed to hesitate before continuing.

“Better options however? Frankly, you do not seem so averse to potential murderers.” He tilted his head down a little as he spoke and then looked at John from under his brows, a gesture that always made John’s chest feel a little tighter and his heart skip a small beat.

John had lost his voice for a second. He opened his mouth and responded eloquently: “Errhm.” Wanting to smack himself, he quickly worked to construct a new reply.

“You, er, said you weren’t feeling so good. Is it your chest again?”

Sherlock hummed softly. “Oh yes. My chest,” he murmured, his voice taking on a lower note. John wondered whether he should be alarmed. What was the man playing at?

“I can take another listen to it, I suppose,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Yes. I think you might have to,” he said and then he was looking away once again. For the rest of the drive, Sherlock either stared out of the window or at his phone, rapidly texting a few times.

John released a breath and leaned back in his seat. Something was definitely up. Knowing Sherlock, it was likely to be a bit not good.