#calenmindon

I also love how Barbara Jordan greets you when you're getting your luggage. Just relaxing in the baggage claim. Whenever I see her, I know I'm really home.

Honestly, for me, Barbara Jordan and the spaceship art are the only redeeming things about that godforsaken airport. If I see one more electric guitar or Keep Austin Weird mural I’m going to commit some kind of arrestable offense. If there were even one decent place to eat in the entire building I might not be so filled with rage whenever I’m in it, but god damn. 

It’s not the worst airport I’ve ever been in (that is a tie so far between Las Vegas and New Orleans) but it’s the one I’ve been angry in the most. :D

coolteamblt replied to your photo “More airports should have art that looks like it’s a sign directing...”

Have you been to DIA? We have lots of bizarre art, including our beloved Blucifer

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like Sherlock RP, Superwholock, Johnlock, and Superlock.

You: I'm not going. SH

Stranger: You promised, Sherlock. JW

Stranger: I need you there. JW

You: Then I recant my promise. If I wanted to surround myself with drunken idiots I'd work for Scotland Yard. SH

Stranger: To be fair, you sort of do. JW

You: Shut up. SH

I’ve met someone I admired immensely since I was about nine. I had to actively work on keeping a handle of myself, but after a few minutes it wasn’t so bad. Meeting George Takei was a little harder, but I managed not to sound like a complete idiot.

Wow! George Takei!

With respect (truly, because I love y’all): Khan. Yeah. Khan, played by a Mexican man who portrayed an Indian man in…...

You and the stranger both like Slavelock, and Johnlock.

Stranger: Bent but not broken. That was what he told himself. They'd called him a traitor for what he did in the riots, but John Watson told himself he'd done what was best. It was just that it wasn't terribly 'best' for him – he'd been enslaved and he'd been trained and they had done their level best to beat any individuality, any heart, any fire out of him. They'd worked for quite some time, his masters, and John had seemed biddable enough in the end. He kept his head down. He spoke only when spoken to. But there was a light in his eyes that never dimmed. That was just fine, though: no one looked into a slave's eyes.

After six months of hard work they determined him ready for sale. For gifting, even – he'd been scrubbed and dressed and knelt even now in a grand room waiting to be presented to his new master as a lovely surprise. He'd be the perfect servant. Of course he would. And at the first opportunity he'd find a way to escape, even if it meant killing the slaving bastard who'd acquired him.

You: Sherlock arrived home after yet another dull case from the Yard when he found a slave kneeling before him in his house. A gift from Mycroft. Probably from the case he reluctantly solved for him a few weeks earlier. The consulting detective didn't have much use for a slave, but he accepted the gift anyway. "What would your name be?"

Stranger: John maintained his stare at the floor, flexing his hands on his knees. He'd known better than to go running off, after all. The collar saw to that. Its control sat on the table beside Sherlock's chair, and he knew better than to even try touching it. His eyes flicked up no higher than the cuffs of Sherlock's trousers when he walked in. "John Watson, Master," he replied in a level monotone. "Though naturally I'll be called by whatever name Master prefers." His voice was carefully correct. Didn't want to give anyone a reason to cuff him.

You: "John Watson," Sherlock said to himself. "I've heard about you. You were a rather large participant in the rebellion a while back." He walked over to the table where the control sat. He turned it over in his hands. Basic functions. He placed it back onto the table. "I do believe 'John' will suffice."

Stranger: And the man remained kneeling. He actually smiled -- very faintly -- when Sherlock indicated he'd heard of him. It was nice. He'd be remembered. Remembered for being a traitor, perhaps, but as much as he had once been devoted to Queen and country, he considered 'traitor' to be something of a badge of honor. Darkly so, perhaps. "As Master commands," he replied. There was a tiny smile in his voice. It was a nice phrase, generally acceptable and non-confrontational. Only inflection changed its meaning, and this inflection was polite and accepting. After all, he wasn't to speak unless spoken to.

You: Lovely. Now Sherlock had to come up with a list of chores for a slave to do. After all, this particular slave was once a highly influential member of the opposing party. He would need to be kept busy in order to avoid having him misbehave. Sherlock didn't eat much in the first place, and wouldn't trust John enough to have him cook for him. Laundry and cleaning were generally safe. No going out to do errands. Then again, the detective could always use a guinea pig for some of his experiments. "For the time being, you will clean around the house, do the laundry, and whenever I dictate, be subject to any experiment I please," he told the slave. He could always expand the list later if he needed to. This seemed sufficient for now.

Stranger: An infinitesimal nod to the first. The flat could use some cleaning. He'd rather live in a tidy place than one crammed with papers and experiments. Do the laundry? Simple enough. No likely chance that he'd need to go to a laundromat for that; it would probably be only the cellar. He knew he had only a certain radius he was allowed in without... nasty consequences. The last, though -- John's head snapped up and he stared, though he was careful not to let his gaze go higher than the middle button of his shirt. "Experiments, Master?" he began, his mouth going dry. Oh, God. What was he in for? "May I inquire as to the nature of these experiments, Master?" Treading on thin ice, that. But it was requesting clarification of an order, and that was technically allowed.

You: "Nothing that would result in serious injury or death, I can assure you," Sherlock told him, "They are usually for cases that I'm working on. The objectives vary according to the details in the cases." He really couldn't tell John anything more. It could be anything from a simple reaction to a smell to the effects of varying types of bondage on a person's skin. "On the other hand, you will have free range around the house with the exception of my bedroom and my study. They are next door to each other down the hall on the right, last two doors on the left. You have your own bedroom across the hall from the study."

Stranger: John glanced over in that direction, though he remained kneeling where he was. He was relieved -- somewhat, at least -- that nothing this man was going to do to him was likely to kill him. And of course he had knowledge of biology and chemistry, though he saw no reason to share his expertise with his master. He was free and welcome to do his own damned work. "Thank you, Master," John intoned. "Very generous of you. Do you have any immediate requirements or instructions?"

You: "It's evening, and I don't have any new cases at the moment. It's beginning to get late, so you may go to bed. I expect you to be up and dressed by eight o'clock. I will have breakfast ready for you then, and after you are done, get started on the tasks I've given you," Sherlock told him. There was only so much he could give to a slave like John during the first few weeks of ownership. He was well aware of what he would do to men of his party before he was captured.

Stranger: With care, therefore, John rose to his feet. He didn't do anything as visibly 'weak' as rubbing his knees or massaging his joints. He was far too proud to show his discomfort. Instead, he stood straight, gazing over Sherlock's head rather than straight down at him. It was a soldier's stance, and deliberately so. "As you say, Master. Would you not prefer that I did the cooking? I am capable, and a decent cook." And he probably wouldn't try to poison the man. It would be the first week, after all. They'd be expecting something like that.

You: "I don't have any doubts," Sherlock said nonchalantly, "though I'd prefer that you not interfere with the experiments that do not involve you as the subject. I would get most irritated." If John tried to cook for him, he already had a head in the fridge to glare at him. He picked up the control before heading down towards his study to meddle in his mind palace. "I do recommend that you get some rest, John."

Stranger: "Of... course, Master." The second part of the statement baffled him, but the moment he opened the refrigerator he'd definitely start to understand. He waited for the man to pass, eyes flicking away and lowering as Sherlock rose and moved toward his study. "As you say, of course. I'll see you in the morning unless you call beforehand." It was bitter in his mouth, saying these words. But he'd have to put up with it until he could see a clear way out.

You: It couldn't be anymore obvious that John's main goal would be to escape. He was a traitor, a passionate one at that. No amount of brainwashing could get rid of that. However, if he did try to escape, the chip under the slave's skin would tell Sherlock and authorities his exact location. John was much smarter than that though. He was trying to make sure he would never be caught, and it would probably involve the detective's murder. Alas, any entrances to the outdoors were alarmed, and Sherlock's acute sense of hearing would definitely tell him if John was up in the night. During the day, it would be much easier to keep guard.

Stranger: John departed the living room and stepped into his own bedroom, but not before surveying every window and door, every vent and loose board, every obvious entry and exit from the room that he could in a few seconds glancing about. He did the same in his own bedroom, and was unsurprised to discover that he'd never be able to worm his way out the windows. They'd been barred long ago, likely for the protection of the people within; that, or this room had always been a slave's quarters. He lay awake in his bed staring at the ceiling, listening for every sound he could manage to hear. The first thing to do was to determine Sherlock's sleeping patterns. When did he fall asleep? When did people expect him here or there? He had no real impression of the man apart from wealth, erudition, and a rather flat affect. Not obviously cruel. Not obviously kind. At least he wasn't one of those slaveowners who treated his property like favourite children. He'd never have been able to stomach that.

You: Sherlock could almost hear John's thoughts of possible escape plans as he scoured his room for methods to use. He chuckled to himself. /It would never be that easy, John/ he thought. He lay back in the plush sofa that he had against the back wall of the room and eased himself into his mind palace, reviewing the recently-solved case. No mentions of Moriarty, the one who led the revolutionaries. He had been searching for the man. Moriarty was probably keeping himself underground since the victory, keeping quiet until the right time to strike again.

Stranger: John was silent in his own bedroom, ears straining for the sound of Sherlock's movement. His breathing. He could hear nothing from the other room -- either the man had fallen asleep or he was as silent as a cat. John /was/, admittedly, exhausted: he'd been pushed rather hard that day by his handlers, he'd been up early, and he rarely slept much anyway. He set his alarm for well before the 8:00 readiness Sherlock required -- he wanted to be showered and comfortable, after all -- but as much as he tried to keep awake and alert for Sherlock's movements, it was the first comfortable bed he'd slept in for a very long time.

Sleep, however, was not a safe place for John Watson. He'd been through much in his time as an organiser, rabble-rouser, and combat medic for the revolutionaries. He'd seen terrible things. Not done quite as many, but experienced many more. The worst memories were nevertheless of the slave training, though, and it was perhaps two hours into his sleep that the nightmares began. Nightmares became night terrors, as they were wont to do, and he sat up with a strangled scream in the middle of the night.

You: Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the sound. It was from the direction of John's bedroom, a cry of terror. He went over to the slave's room, knocking twice before opening the door. "Is everything alright?" Sherlock asked as he peeked into the dark room.

Stranger: John was sitting up, face pale and clammy in his hands, trembling like a leaf. He looked up in terror when he saw Sherlock in his doorway; the knock had sounded like two shots, and his heart was hammering as he stared at the man silhouetted in the dim light of the hallway. "I'm sorry. Sorry, I'm so /sorry/," he babbled, an edge of real fear in his voice. He remembered all too well the punishments he'd had for making a single noise out of turn in his training. John sucked in deep breaths, shaking his head a little more firmly. "I won't... won't do it again, I promise. I'll -- routine will end the dreams, they say. I didn't mean to wake you, Master." The mention of routine was said a little hopelessly: they /said/ routine would end the dreams, but John didn't believe it for a moment.

You: "But we both know that is incorrect, John," Sherlock said, deeming it safe to come inside. He sat by the edge of the bed. "Talking about the dreams, however, is much more effective. Would you like to? I do perfectly understand if you don't." Slaves were abused. It was a commonly known fact. John was probably given some of the worst treatment while he was being trained. Nightmares were a common side-effect of being a slave.

Stranger: "Why do you care?" He spat out the words before he knew it; when he heard his own voice, though, he cringed back: "Christ. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It's very kind of you to be concerned, Master." The stress of this was horrific. Any moment the man would turn on him. Any moment he'd feel the sting of the collar's shocks. It would be well within his right. He'd been punished -- severely -- for far less. John made a soft and pained sound in the back of his throat, covering his mouth to muffle the sob. It was humiliating just to be /seen/ like this. "Fingers like knives," he whispered. "The darkness. Full of eyes. Full of people. Surrounded, every moment. Never alone, never /alone/ but constantly alone. You can't understand. I'm sorry. You can't. I don't know why you'd try."

You: "You feel isolated," Sherlock said with an empathetic nod, not looking at the slave. That summed up his childhood very well. "Everyone with their high-leveled standards, constantly surveying you, watching your every move. They're waiting for the one slip, your mistake." He paused for a moment. "When the mistake occurs, there's no one to turn to. No one to be there to comfort you. No one that will really be there for you." Then his eyes moved back to John.

Stranger: The understanding -- the actual /understanding/ from Sherlock -- was something John never expected. Never dreamed of. "Perfect doctor. Perfect soldier. Perfect slave; oh, especially perfect slave. I could live with that. But they loved 'correcting'. Every chance they got, they 'corrected'." The word had a bitter twist to it. He stared at Sherlock in the dark, still unable to meet his eyes but looking into his face nevertheless. It was all right, in the dark. "There's no one," he admitted. "Even if I could go back, I'm a liability. It's here to be used and beaten or there to be killed. Even if I could get away, get far away, there's. There's no one. Nothing. Nothing except judgment and -- and punishment, and running, always running. There's nothing for me /anywhere/. Not here, not there, not away. I don't know why I don't end it. There's nothing to hope for anymore."

You: Sherlock continued to look at John. It had gotten to the point where he had been contemplating suicide. The detective actually found himself sympathizing for a rebel. "It's nowhere as hard here as it is where you just were, John." He took the slave's arm and gave it a light squeeze. "I can promise you that you'll have a better life here." Owning a slave was something Sherlock never thought he'd do, let alone comfort him. Somehow, it felt right to. It shouldn't have, but it still did.

Stranger: John swallowed hard, shaking his head at the gentle words. "You're very kind," he said softly, "but the fact remains that you /own/ me. I'm not a man anymore, not legally, not in anyone's eyes. Anyone's at all. You can be kind or you can be cruel and it doesn't matter, because it's you who decides. I... it's not about how it's hard. Even if it's easy, it's just... routine, day in, day out. Cook, clean, and never be anything, never be able to aspire to be anything other than your sodding /nursemaid/. You seem a decent sort, you haven't even -- haven't even touched me, not hard, but all I am is a thing. All I'll ever be."

You: "You aren't a thing to me. You are a man. No one could go through the rough treatment that you have and still have that spark in your eyes." The eyes were what Sherlock first noticed about John. They still held so much life that other slaves did not. It was beaten out of them long ago, turning them into subservient drones. The detective would have sold him to someone else if it weren't for that spirit John possessed within him still.

Stranger: At last -- at very long last -- John raised his eyes to look into Sherlock's. In the dim light from the hall and the streetlight coming in from the window, he could see the brightness in them. The remarkable colour. The depth of them. Once he looked he was staring as if he were a man hungry for understanding. He hadn't looked into the eyes of another person since his capture. It was the first connection he'd made, and as he reached up to settle a hand on the back of the one that gave his arm that soft squeeze, he nodded once. He'd never be able to hurt the man. Damn him. He sucked in a sharp breath and nodded again, murmuring: "All right. All right. I just... don't want to be alone." But that was hardly something Sherlock could fix.

Stranger: ((BRB!))

You: Sherlock nodded once more. He knew that John wasn't looking for another slave for companionship. He couldn't see any slave matching John's level of passion at all. An idea came to mind. "I'm not sure if this will help at all, but I can stay in here for the night if that would make you feel any better." Sherlock really wasn't sure if John would feel any less alone. He wouldn't mind doing that for John at all. He intrigued the detective more than anything.

You: ((Okay))

Stranger: John's eyes widened in bafflement. It wasn't actually /possible/ to be friends with his master, was it? Well, was it? A master, perhaps not. The source of these kind words, perhaps. The idea of escape had fled from his mind; all he could think was that he desperately didn't want to be alone. He felt childish. Pathetic. But grateful, nevertheless. Hesitantly he nodded, staring down into his lap. "I know. I know it's ridiculous," he muttered. "But it'd help."

You: Sherlock kicked off his shoes and climbed under the covers with John. He had been pretty lonely himself for all this time. It was a strange feeling, to have a friend. The detective had never truly had one before. "Consider yourself a free man as long as you live in this house," Sherlock told him as he settled in. "I would highly advise keeping up an act while guests are over, though." He looked up at John to see his face. His reaction would be something to see.

You: ((BRB, sorry))

Stranger: Dumbfounded. Utterly so. John stared at Sherlock in baffled disbelief as he nestled back under the blankets. The bed was a bit narrow, enough that it would have been difficult for either man to lie in the bed without touching the other. But he smiled faintly at last. "Shall I call you by name, then? Sherlock Holmes?" The name rolled off his tongue with surprising ease. It seemed to fit there. He nodded once and closed his eyes, settling onto his side. One hand curled before him, fingertips resting against Sherlock's inner arm. This was mad. Ludicrous. But he could survive it, at least for a while.

You: "When no one else is around," Sherlock answered with a smile. John's reaction was priceless. His sapphire blue eyes showing even in the darkened light in the room. The detective closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh. "I am rather glad you dropped the whole 'master' thing. I know it's standard, but it gets on my nerves."

Stranger: "You should have said," John murmured. "I think it's loathsome, but then I think masters are, by and large." He nestled a bit closer, his body beginning to relax quite quickly. Amazing, that. "You may well be an exception," he added. More or less graciously, even.

You: "I intended on telling you later, when you adjusted more. Then again, this was wasn't exactly anticipated either," he replied, chuckling at the thought of sleeping in John's bed on their first night of even knowing each other. "We should probably go and get some things to make you feel more at home here," Sherlock added looking around at the spartan bedroom.

Stranger: "Hm. No. Not by either of us," John agreed. His eyes opened as Sherlock went on and he glanced about, tugging the blanket over the both of them and nodding vaguely. "Maybe. I've never really been used to having anything, so I'm not sure how much more at home I'd actually feel."

You: "We could look around and see. It doesn't have to be all at once." John would seem the type to have what was practical to him and not much more. Probably from his lifestyle before enslavement. Moving about from place to place, in danger of losing valuables. Sherlock watched as John began to relax some more, just about ready to go back to sleep.

Stranger: From plotting the man's eventual demise and his own escape to falling asleep snuggled up against him. John didn't even stifle his yawn; he just nodded faintly and let his eyes fall closed. It had taken him over an hour to fall asleep before. He was out like a light in no more than ten minutes now, unconsciously snuggling close to Sherlock as if for warmth and affection and comfort. By the time an hour had passed, he had his face pressed gently against the other man's chest and an arm curled around his waist. His sleep was deep and silent, and his nightmares didn't wake him again.

You: The deep and even breaths lulled Sherlock to sleep like nothing else ever did. It was unlikely that they did form a bond like this, especially so quickly. It was rather nice to be this close to a person. Sherlock was never brought up to do this. He had to stay calm and detached. He had to get high marks for all of his schooling. Working hard all of the time. The stress was terrible, and his brother always followed their parents' orders. Nobody else could feel his pain until tonight. He drifted to sleep with his arms around John and a faint smile on his face.

Stranger: They slept like children, like brothers, and when John woke -- early, he was used to sleeping little -- he looked up at Sherlock in surprise. His master? Or just his flatmate? His mind darted down its memories of the night before. It had been good, he realised. It had been wonderfully good. This was beyond unlike anything he'd expected. Sherlock was unaccountably patient, even gentle-natured. It went against everything he'd ever experienced. He wasn't pitied or put down or infantilised. Despite having woken half an hour before his alarm, John took a little time to lie in, to doze comfortably in that warm embrace. One hand ran along the thin man's side quite unconsciously, trailing down his ribs and up his spine.

You: Sherlock soon stirred slightly at the touch, slowly opening his eyes to see John beside him. He gave the man a sleepy smile. He, also, was used to very small amounts of sleep. His patterns were inconsistent, and varying on the activity of his mind. The detective rubbed John's shoulder. "Good morning," he murmured, still not quite used to getting that much sleep in a night. It was eight hours, approximately, dwarfing his average of three or four.

Stranger: ((I'm so sorry, but I really need to run!))

You: ((Do you have a tumblr or an email where we could continue this?))

Stranger: ((Sure -- my tumblr is calenmindon. Don't hesitate to give me a poke. I also have that name in my tags here so you can search for me.))

You: ((Awesome, I'm johnlock-roleplay-babe, and I will definitely find you. Ta-ta!))

Stranger: ((Thanks, you too!))

I was tagged by the lovely Calenmindon. However, I am far too sleep deprived to tag people. I'm sorry. I might do that later. 

1. Where would you live if you could?

I'd live in a cottage in the Wicklow Mountains in Ireland, right outside Dublin. 

2. Run after the Doctor or run after Sherlock? 

The Doctor. As much fun as following Sherlock and John around -- I'd much rather see space and time. 

3. Furniture: antiques or the newest shiniest most improved thing?

A mixture of the two. I do really like antique things, though.

4. What’s your favorite season?

Fall. Something about the falling leaves and the rain.

5. How long could you stand being away from an internet connection?

I can stand being away from an internet connection for a while, as long as I have something to do.

6. What’s the best gift you’ve ever been given?

To sound rather sappy and sentimental: a new home/life.

7. What talent do you wish you had?

I wish I was better at art and writing. 

8. Which sense would you lose if you had to choose?

I suppose my sense of touch.

9. What have you been meaning to read for ages but haven’t got to yet?

Enders Game.

10. How would you spend a big pile of lottery winnings?

I'd go back to school. Save. Invest. 

11. Who would you love to meet above all others?

You: Freak. JW

Stranger: I'm sorry? SH

You: Want me to write it down again? JW

Stranger: Obviously you're upset. SH

Stranger: Certainly that's a word I've heard before. SH

You: Not upset. I've come to a realization. The obvious, and all. You know. JW

Stranger: That I'm a freak. SH

You: Yeah. JW

Stranger: Well. Donovan made that clear the very first night we met. I didn't think you were so slow as to only catch on now. SH

You: Well, maybe... Maybe I should have listened to her. JW

Stranger: And avoided me. SH

You: Of course. JW

Stranger: Ah. Well, it was only a matter of time. Luckily for you, you haven't much to pack. SH

You: Well, I still need a flatmate. For the rent. JW

Stranger: I'm the one with the special rate with Mrs. H. Out by the end of the month, I'll find someone else. SH

You: That's a pity. Who would want you for a flatmate? JW

Stranger: What brought all this on? SH

You: Just you. JW

You: I must admit I've been quite a fool myself. I should have realized from the very start. JW

Stranger: Just your sudden realisation? A revelation? Bolt from the blue? SH

You: Yup. JW

Stranger: In any case, I'm on my way back to 221B. Be there in half an hour for your property or I'm chucking it out the window. SH

You: Inside Lestrade's office, John was having a serious talk with the DI about one of the latest cases. He suddenly frowned when he noticed he didn't have his mobile phone. « Hm, Greg, have you seen my phone? » He asked, looking around him. Thinking he might have forgotten it somewhere else, he got outside the office and noticed Donovan holding his phone. « Oh, thanks I thought I had lost it, » he said with a soft smile, not noticing that there was actually something wrong. Otherwise, why would the young woman smirk strangely? He took his phone and glanced at it. The messages sent before had been deleted, so he didn't suspect a thing.

Back in 10 minutes. Been with Lestrade talking about the case. JW, He sent.

Stranger: He'd never let the other man see. He certainly couldn't allow John to know how much the word -- oh, he never let words hurt him. Never ever. Or at least he never let the lash of them show. The ones who called him those names were beneath him, beneath notice; they couldn't hurt him a bit because he had no respect for them or their opinions. He was safe from Donovan, from Anderson, from all the rest. He just wasn't safe from John, who had never thought any of those things. And it was certainly John. It came from his number. He supposed it really had been only a matter of time, illogical as it was. John was bright enough to understand how mad, how toxic Sherlock was. He'd just never thought he'd hear that worst of words come from John Watson. Well. He had no reason to follow any of the old rules anymore. When his phone buzzed again, he stared at it a long moment before responding:

Good. We'll see this done quickly, then. SH

You: Humming happily, John waved for a cab and quickly got inside it, telling their address to the cabbie. That case had been a nightmare, and of course, Lestrade wanted to have some notes about Sherlock's discoveries and deductions. Something the detective hated to do. So John did it without complaining. It was worth it, wasn't it? Still, he was feeling incredibly exhausted, leaning back against the seat of the car and suppressing a yawn. He was looking forward to be home. /Home/ with his crazy flatmate.

When his phone vibrated, he pulled it out and stared at it, frowning deeply, since he didn't understand.

See what done quickly? I was just thinking about coming back home and have a good rest. I had to abide Donovan more than you did, you know. It can be incredibly tiring. JW

Stranger: This didn't make a damned bit of sense. Sherlock stared at the phone blankly, reading the message over and over. Abide Donovan? When he was parroting her words back at him? A suspicion sang in the back of his mind -- John would never say those things, so what if -- but he banished it. If John came to his senses, he'd certainly say those things. His mouth twitched as he texted back:

I don't know what kind of game you're playing at. Doesn't matter. I'll be in my room. Take your belongings and be gone tonight if that's how you feel. SH

You: John had to suppress the urge to yell 'What?!', otherwise he was sure the cabbie would have given him a look. He didn't understand a damn thing. He had been at the Yard, actually /working/ for Sherlock, and now the other man was talking about his departure? Why on Earth would he want to leave the flat? It was almost scaring him, to think that maybe, maybe Sherlock had suddenly gone bored and thought he couldn't abide John's presence.

But I don't want to be gone... What's the matter with you? JW

Stranger: Sherlock's face twisted. Contorted. He was angry and humiliated and confused and frustrated, and it made for a very bad combination where Sherlock was concerned. He tapped in his message and tossed the phone out the door to clatter into the living room.

Whatever sick game you've decided to play with the freak, I've had enough of it. I'm not answering anything else. SH

You: They both really needed to have a serious talk with each other, that was certain. There couldn't have been some misunderstanding, since they hadn't talked to each other for several hours. It only took two minute before the car pulled up by Baker Street, but it felt more like two hours. His heart was pounding inside his chest, and he was imagining all the possible scenarios which would explain those... odd texts.

John rushed inside their flat, slamming the door behind him. He didn't even take some time to remove his coat from his shoulder and directly headed towards Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, what's wrong? He asked with a worried tone, knocking at the door.

Stranger: When John came into the flat, Sherlock had already shut the door of his bedroom and curled up with his back to the door. He lay there now, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around himself. His head was bowed forward and he was silent, utterly silent except for long thick breaths. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that John could affect him like this. But he'd let the man in, hadn't he? He'd let John make him happy, endlessly happy. He'd been the one person in the world who didn't think Sherlock was a freak, and that had been more than he'd ever expected to find. And now John was leaving or playing some horrible sort of trick that he'd never be able to understand because stupid damned normal people got up to ridiculous things that never made sense. So he made no audible response, just closing his eyes instead and silently willing John to go away.

You: /What had gone wrong, seriously?/ John thought, swallowing hard as he knocked at the door again. He was meant to remain always calm and rational, army-like, but now he clearly couldn't. Sherlock had talked about being a freak, and the simple thought made John become angry. Not against his friend, but against the others who kept calling him like that. "I don't understand, Sherlock. I genuinely don't. You talked about being a freak, but you are not, I swear. You never were and never will be." Looking around him for something, anything which would explain the situation (even though it was stupid, as if the answer would just hang around him like a hidden gift), he then rested his forehead against the door. "Let me in. Explain. Just say something."

Stranger: The only thing nearby was the fallen mobile -- it bleeped rather sadly to indicate it was low on battery. Sherlock remained silent for a long moment, trying to block out the sound of a voice that had always been so kind, so soothing. It was trying to soothe him again but that was nonsensical. Why would John bother now? Why would John care? There was a sudden rustle from within as Sherlock rose, stalking toward the door and fiddling with the lock. His usually deft hands were having trouble with it, though. He spoke rapidly, leaning his own forehead against the door: "If it's the heads in the fridge -- it is, isn't it? There's just the one. I can end the experiment. The eyes. The... I need the violin, John, but maybe I can find somewhere else for the eyes..." Just don't leave. Just don't leave. More than that, he was desperate for John not to hate him. He just couldn't bear seeing him.

You: "The eyes?" John would have laughed if the circumstances had been different. Now he was only staring blankly at the door. "Sherlock, seriously. Hm, I don't have... a /clue/ about what's happening. I mean it. I just send you one text, head back home and you're..." He cleared his throat, trying not to sound dramatic. "You're talking about me, leaving the flat and I... Well, obviously I don't want to... And I don't understand why you... talked about that." The fear and pain he had been trying hide to ignore were back, and it was almost overwhelming. As he looked around him again, - a nervous and desperate move which he couldn't suppress - he noticed Sherlock's phone resting sadly on the floor. On the floor. Why would Sherlock drop his precious iPhone on the floor? It was low on battery and anyway, John never glanced at Sherlock's phone so he just grabbed it so that he could give it back to his friend. "Can I come in?" He asked gently.

Stranger: "One text? You sent -- " The sound of the voice on the other end of the door was desperate, a pained laugh accompanying the words. He could remember every one of them. Every word. "'Freak.' 'Who would want you for a flatmate.' 'I must admit I've been quite a fool myself. I should have realised from the very start.' Any time you wish to start making sense..." Sherlock grabbed the door handle, squeezing it, starting to twist before just unlocking it and whirling away. It was as much invitation as John was going to get, apparently.

You: John froze, something snapping inside his mind when he heard the word 'freak'. Maybe it was Sherlock's tone or the quotes which followed, but John found himself enable to say anything, or even make a single move. First, he had never heard his friend sound so... desperate. That pain and higher voice was so unlike his friend. Then finally, his eyes looked down the phone in his hands. He could just try to take a look at it. Well, there was still the battery problem but... It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. "I never sent those texts," John almost whispered, his mouth dry. "Never. I would /never/ tell you such things. I mean... I had an argu-" An argument with Donovan about it. And now it all made sense. The phone, she was holding /his/ phone after he told him to stop calling Sherlock like that.

Stranger: A heartbeat. Another. Sherlock jerked the door open suddenly, and his face was... strange. Pale, but simultaneously red-cheeked and red-eyed. His eyes were too bright, too, but his expression was set and intent. He reached out to grab John's shoulders and push him out into the relative brightness of the middle of the front room, staring into the man's face and speaking quickly: "Say that again. Tell me you would never say that. You were at the Yard, you were dealing with the idiots there; you were dealing with -- " He let out a sharp hiss. "Donovan," he growls, breathing heavily. "Did your phone ever leave your possession while you were there?"

You: Sherlock's face. It was so... unlike him. Scared, even paler and, Jesus, the man had cried? John was a little taken aback by his reaction and flinched a little when Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder. "I would never call you freak," John said quietly, clenching his jaw tightly. "I mean, Sherlock, it's obvious. Why would I? You're my best friend." And yet Sherlock had fallen completely into Donovan's trap. Oh, the woman was so... John shook his head, thinking there was no word which would describe his thoughts about that disgusting woman. "She had it. I lost it somehow, and she had it. I just thought... I didn't realize. Sherlock. I--" His eyes were locked on Sherlock's red. "Jesus, I'm sorry."

Stranger: "Ah." The word, the sound, did absolutely nothing to express the weight of feeling that passed through the detective. Fury shaded into relief with only tinges of that same outrage pointed at the woman who'd started this in the first place. Anger. Vengeance. But relief washed over all that, and before he knew it Sherlock was grabbing John and wrapping his arms firmly around him. He held the man tight, close, for a long moment totally unwilling to let him go. Deep breath after deep breath followed as he inhaled the scent of John, felt the warmth of him, the height of his head, the breadth of his shoulders, the comforting realness of his short soft hair and honest eyes. His smile was desperate and wide as he pulled away at last, clearing his throat and bobbing his head. "Yes. Well." His voice was thick and he cleared his throat again and swallowed. "Another time, be careful with your belongings. Can't trust anyone at the Yard, apparently. Place is full of cops. I'll just. Yes. Right. That's all sorted." Sensible that unexpected bear-hugs might be considered Inappropriate Flatmate Behaviour, he dropped his arms and raked a hand through his hair. "Think I'll just take a shower," he murmured, turning to return to his bedroom.

You: So he did care that much. When he felt those long arms wrapped tightly around him, John remembered that day at the pool when Sherlock thought for one second - one horrible second - that John had been Moriarty all along. The fear and misunderstanding in those eyes. It all seemed like that man, that bloody mad man did care after all. Despite his moods, behaviour, despite claiming he was a sociopath - he cared. That thought had touched John a lot. Well, of course, that feeling had soon been replaced by the adrenaline rushing through his body because of those gun aimed at the both of us. But he could remember. He remembered that Sherlock Holmes cared and this-- this was the ultimate proof. Though, it was unnecessary, because John Watson didn't want his friend to be hurt in any way.

But that embrace felt... /right/. It was unexpected for sure, but it didn't matter. He could feel the tension and the desperation of Sherlock, the relief but most of all, the impact of those words. The doctor held him tighter and before he had time to truly realize, Sherlock pulled away and stared at him with a wide smile. He didn't quite get what the man told him, since his mind was only focused on that face. He'd almost never seen a smile like this one on the detective's lips. And again, it was both sad and beautiful. God, really beautiful. "Sherlock, wait." John said quietly when the man retired to his bedroom. "Wait..." He got closer and wrapped his own arms gently around him, pulling him into another hug, a gentle and soothing one. "It's all fine."

Stranger: He had never wanted to. Never once. Caring was not an advantage. Caring about people didn't make you more capable of helping them -- it made you less capable, made you less able to divorce their needs from yours, less capable of making logical, correct, accurate decisions. Caring let people in and let them become all too capable of disappointing you in the end. Caring was a liability, and it was one he'd shoved from his heart years ago. He had high self-regard, but he didn't care all that much for even himself. He hadn't planned to care for Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't planned to care for Lestrade. He'd tried not to care for his brother, which was easier given how much of a prat he could be, but he still would have defended the man to the death. And John Watson?

When the arms came around him from behind he stiffened for one brief second before he sagged, leaning his flimsy weight backward into John and closing his eyes. A deep breath. Another, and his hands moved to rest over the ones that held him gentle and close. This wasn't all right. Couldn't possibly be all right. And yet it felt more all right than anything he could remember. He turned, pulling his long arms around John and sliding one hand into his hair. Maybe he could be allowed just this once. Maybe he could let his resolve break just this once. "You," he whispered, his voice cracking, "are so, so very important."

Stranger: ((Are you still there? Just checking Omegle isn't being bad!))

You: (Yeah, I am, sorry. I'm taking a long time, I know. :/)

Stranger: ((It's fine! Take your time, I have a while yet))

You: Sherlock thought caring wasn't an advantage, something which always made John stiffen a bit. For a man like John Watson who basically tried to understand people, a doctor who wanted to show that he thought every single person mattered, it was a statement that made him feel uncomfortable if not quite sad. Yet, there was some truth in those words. Caring /this/ much for someone couldn't be healthy. It was dangerous, and most of all, it could kill you. Genuinely. Turn you into dust until you can only feel how much it hurts and how much you wish it could stop. And caring /this much/ for people like he and Sherlock could be even more dangerous, because their lives were basically dangerous and there was the possibility of losing the other during a case or something else. The chances were higher but it was worth the risk, wasn't it? It was a risk he was willing to take, just to feel that irrational feeling, the adrenaline when they would both chase criminals, to feel the complicity, the respect they had for each other. And above it all, just to be able to be /home/. Because home wasn't just 221B Baker Street. It was Sherlock. It was the bloody violin at 3 in the morning, it was the bloody eyes in the microwave, the moods, the giggles after a particularly difficult case. And sometimes, Sometimes, it was a tight hug. Home.

This time, John took all the time he wanted to enjoy their closeness, to breathe Sherlock's scent and bury his face in his chest. It was meant to soothe Sherlock and yet, it was soothing him as well. The fingers buried in his hair, the long arms around him, holding him tightly and yet tenderly. And the words which made him basically speechless. Knowing it was one thing. Hearing it coming from Sherlock was... incredible. "Thank you," John whispered quietly, exhaling a shaky breath through his lips. "You are important to me too, you know. A lot. Jesus, so much."

Stranger: Home, for Sherlock, was something impossible to describe. Amorphous. Intangible. Pointless, he would say, but deep within he knew differently. 'Freak' they'd called him as a boy. 'Freak' in uni. The only one who didn't think he was a freak was Mycroft, and Mycroft eternally saw him as the disappointing younger brother who never could make his way properly in the world. A part of him so, so very much wanted to show Donovan just how much of a freak he could be, but though he'd shut himself off from emotions, from feelings, from words ever causing him harm -- so he'd thought, at least -- he still wasn't a monster. He wasn't what anyone thought he was. And to say that John understood him was perhaps not incorrect, but what John never did, never ever did, was judge him for being different or strange. John accepted him, eyes in the microwave and extended silences and sulks and sheets in the Palace and all.

"You have become vital," Sherlock whispered. "Invaluable. Necessary to my mental well-being. I... live every day in the quiet fear that you will come to your senses and go find some flatmate who doesn't put you into hellish danger. That something or someone will take you away and I need you, John. It..." He bit his lips, tilting his head back to look down into John's with a pained smile. His hand moved from John's hair to cup his cheek, running the pad of his thumb along the shorter man's cheekbone. "May not be altogether healthy for you. You may have noticed that I tend to obsess."

You: "Come to my sense?" John asked with a serious look, faking a surprised tone. "Hang on... You mean realizing that I ought to live a boring life, totally mundane, where I just basically go to work, come back home, eat, go to sleep, wake up at seven in the morning in stead of three? Yes, right. It sounds like a brilliant idea." His face cracked into a bright smile and he chuckled softly, the warmness of his eyes even stronger than before. "Seriously, Sherlock. How can you possibly imagine I would want to stay away from danger, and most of all, live with someone who is... well, not you." He found himself leaning into the delicate touch, his eyes closing lazily as he allowed himself to sigh. "As for the obsession. Well, hm. I don't know what you're talking about," He chuckled once more, his own mind becoming obsessed by the stroking of Sherlock's thumb along his cheekbone. "Seriously, though. There is nothing healthy for the both of us. This relationship, it's... Jesus, it's clearly not a relationship shared by two flatmates. But I know for sure that I..." He cleared his throat, pressing his lips together hesitantly. "I need you as much as you need me. In fact, I wonder if it's not more. I-I owe you... so much. Everything." His arms around Sherlock's waist tightened a little and he gave him an even brighter smile, his eyes twinkling. "And Jesus, how could you possibly become obsessed over someone like me? I am boring, for God's sake."

Stranger: This was becoming more, so very much more than he ever expected. Sherlock laughed softly when John did, tilting his head and murmuring: "Well. Most normal people would, but you are not normal." He listened as John went on, blinking in surprise. Warmth touched his own eyes, growing more and more the more he heard. His hand continued to stroke the side of his flatmate's face, fingertips curling around the ridge of his ear, drifting down the line of his neck and the line of his jaw. It was as if he was mapping John's skull, his face, stroking those places where the razor had shaved less well, where the five o'clock shadow was beginning to set in. "You are extraordinary," he whispered. "Who ever called you boring? Nobody with a mind. No one with eyes. You are my conscience, John. You are my heart. You are everything there is of me that isn't cold logic and rationality and reason. I don't know about healthy. I don't know about wise. But I know I need you with me and I don't know what I would ever do without you." He leaned forward then, pressing his lips to John's brow, kissing his forehead, then his eyelids, then his cheek. "You are as brilliant to me as any cut diamond. You are /mine/, John Watson, and I will give you up for nothing and no one."

You: John was about to reply 'Well, then I neither have a mind, nor eyes, then,' since he called himself boring ; but he let the other man finish talking first. In the end, he was speechless for the second time that day. He was staring at that breathtaking man, who was telling him how much John mattered to him. How could anything actually go wrong? It was such a candid and childish thought and yet, he really meant it. That infuriating smart and beautiful man was letting John see inside his heart completely. See how pure and honest it was. Now, the doctor wondered how so many people were able to miss something as precious and fragile as this.

When Sherlock leaned forward and pressed kisses on his face, he didn't say anything, didn't flinch or even move. Because this time he didn't mind. Hell, people could talk as much as they wanted. Nothing - No one would ever, /ever/ have the opportunity to hurt him again. He made the promise he would never see that painful look on Sherlock's face. It wasn't right. It was... heartbreaking, yes. Even more. It made him vulnerable. And before he had time to think about it even more, he was hypnotized by those grey eyes. Not cold, this time. Warm, and twinkling. "Jesus, you are breathtaking," John murmured. He leaned forward and he could give the complete description of those irises. It was all too late now. But it was fine, wasn't it? Perfect.

You: (Ah, Blimey, I wrote then two times... >.

Stranger: (I think I can forgive you!)

You: (Aw, thank you :3)

Stranger: So precious. So necessary. And there was nothing now that would separate them. His eyes were warm, yes. Warm and twinkling, but there was something almost predatory in them as well. No -- not predatory, not exactly. Possessive. John was his. Would be his. He'd never leave, and it was good he'd never want to leave because Sherlock doubted he'd ever be able to allow him to go. The light in his bedroom was low, and as he sniffed one more time to get rid of the remnants of the tears he'd quite shamefully shed, Sherlock glanced to the side ever so briefly. Bed? ...Maybe not. Maybe that wasn't right. Though as John called him breathtaking, Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly before narrowing in the briefest confusion. And again, confusion might not have been the right word. It was simply that Sherlock wasn't completely certain what to do. The mind that could work its way through a thousand puzzles was nevertheless incapable of puzzling out what to do when holding John in his arms.

"I am devoted to you," he whispered, backing the man up toward the wall. "Entirely. And you are -- you have no idea, do you, how attractive you are? How vital? You have created entirely new definitions. I have deleted /worlds/ for you. Histories, biographies, the stars in their courses, all emptying room to try to define you and I still fail so utterly in understanding you. How can you be so magnificently frustrating?"

And John was leaning forward, and Sherlock... oh, he threw his caution and his soul to the wind and leaned forward himself, remembering only an instant before to moisten his lips. He pressed them against John's, trying to stop himself from shaking. Everything he was, everything he felt, poured into that kiss and left him almost gasping. Need and possessiveness and relief and joy and hunger and affection and love, love, love. Inexperienced, perhaps. Loving as unconditionally as a child, maybe. But no less strong for that.

You: Sherlock's lips felt warm and wonderful against his. It was different from kissing a woman, but no less tender, or gentle. It was... clearly possessive, but also full of emotions, full of... love, as strange as it sounded, since he used to be convinced Sherlock could not love. Not because he was a sociopath - to him, he had never been one. But because he was too... scared and maybe in a way too intelligent to fall for something so irrational, so complicated and dangerous. But it was Sherlock Holmes, the bloody detective with the funny hat, always full of surprises and outstanding. Despite being hesitant, overwhelmed by the emotions through him, he still managed to be brilliant and clever at this, at expressing his love. Whereas John, as caring and attached to emotion as he was, didn't find the /right/ words which would tell precisely how he felt. He was not gay, and yet he had clearly fallen for him. He had killed men, waited for several years for this man, his /miracle/ to come back. He kept trusting him, believing in him no matter what happened. All his world revolved around him.