No Conductor of Light

John had finished packing and had set his bag by the door before turning to Sherlock. The detective was sulking in his black armchair, a hair away from yelling at the telly. John walked over, blocking Sherlock’s view. Cupping the other man’s jaw tenderly, John tilted his head up until their eyes met then smiled.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” John asked yet again. “It’s only a small conference. I’m sure you would find it interesting to talk with some of my colleagues.”

“Boring,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand at John. “Besides, I have work here to do. With my experiments, I probably won’t even notice you’re gone.”

John knew better than to take offense to that, considering how much Sherlock had sulked and pouted since he’d told the man he was going to be gone for a week. Their relationship was still young, both men finally admitting what they felt after both had nearly died on one of Lestrade’s cases about a month ago. John was worried that this absence might hurt since he was fairly certain that he was one of the first, if not the first, romantic attachments Sherlock had ever had. Keeping eye contact, John leaned down and kissed Sherlock slowly. He kept it up until Sherlock’s lips softened from their angry pout and he started kissing back. Reassured, John licked at Sherlock’s lips until they opened then slipped his tongue just inside. Since he had more experience, John was able to keep the kiss light and teasing rather than letting it grow hotter as Sherlock was trying to do.

“All right, my plane leaves in a few hours,” John whispered, pulling back just enough to be able to talk. He couldn’t help a few more light kisses, featherlight touches that he delighted in. “I’ll call so you can talk to me about cases, okay?”

“Fine, good,” Sherlock said shortly, lips twisting into a frown as he pulled away. John just sighed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. They hadn’t quite progressed to saying “I love you” yet but John told Sherlock with every kiss. He picked up his bag and headed downstairs, hailing a cab and heading to the airport. During the trip, John sent a quick text to Lestrade, hoping the DI could keep an eye on Sherlock while he was gone. Somehow, John didn’t quite trust Sherlock alone for the whole week.

The first full day John was gone, Sherlock stormed into the morgue and bullied Molly into giving him a couple hearts and lungs for an experiment. John had declared that nothing gooey or bleeding could be experimented on in their flat. Sherlock decided this was the perfect time to research a few things he couldn’t before. He left in a huff, leaving Molly near tears at his brusque manner. The rest of that day and all of the next were devoted to his experiments, blood covering the table and the floor.

The third day dawned with a visit from Greg Lestrade. He’d been texting and calling Sherlock after Molly had called him crying but the detective had completely ignored him. Thankfully, or not so thankfully for the victim, Lestrade had a case he could use Sherlock’s help with. When he was let into the flat, Lestrade settled into John’s chair while Sherlock wandered the flat idly with violin in hand.

“I have a case,” Lestrade finally said when Sherlock showed no signs of stopping. “I could use you. Will you help?”

“What kind of case?” Sherlock asked quickly, swinging the bow in his other hand. “Is it at least interesting?”

“I think you’d find it so,” Lestrade said, sitting back and resting his hands on the arms of the chair. This was probably going to take a little while, to go by Sherlock’s agitation. “We have a dead body in a locked room in a flat. Windows closed and locked. Victim lived alone and, according to the landlord, no one else had a key.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said after a few moment’s silence. He placed the violin and bow carefully into his own armchair and impatiently threw his coat on. “Lead the way, inspector.”

Lestrade felt his mouth gape open as Sherlock agreed without any arguments. He stood up quickly, heading downstairs to his car. Sherlock deigned to get in, since Lestrade didn’t drive a police car. After a few attempts at conversation were shut down, Lestrade drove in silence and watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The detective was staring out the window completely still except for the fingers of one hand. They tapped at his leg in an irregular pattern, slowing down then speeding up. It was the only sign of agitation and Lestrade decided that Sherlock wasn’t doing very well with John gone.

They pulled up to a small building, the victim’s flat on the first floor. Donovan and Anderson were waiting outside but Sherlock breezed past them without a single glance or insult. They looked at Lestrade, who only shrugged back. Sherlock didn’t seem to be completely himself which, to be honest, when it came to Donovan and Anderson could only be a good thing. Lestrade followed into the flat, stopping behind Sherlock as the detective studied the poor woman who had been killed.

“A serrated knife was used,” Sherlock said as soon as he heard footsteps. “Most of the cuts were done while she was alive, the final one being the slash across her throat. She bled out not long after that.”

Lestrade didn’t say anything, long used to how Sherlock worked. Sherlock walked to the window and pulled out his magnifying glass, going over every inch of the thing. He nodded to himself then started walking the length and width of the room. Finally, he turned back to the body and studied each of the cuts and the woman’s hands.

“John, your opinion?” Sherlock asked absently, still looking at the woman’s hands. An uncomfortable silence met his question and Sherlock looked up, confused for a moment. “Ah, right.”

“So, how did the killer get in?” Lestrade asked to break the tension in the room. If nothing else, that sentence would have told him how much Sherlock really relied on John.

“Through the window,” Sherlock said, straightening quickly and snapping his magnifying glass shut. “The window was unlocked prior to the murder, perhaps from a service person. The killer then came back later, climbed in the window and then locked it. He murdered the woman then left via the door, locking them before closing them.”

“Excellent,” Lestrade said, already pulling out his cellphone to text Donovan. While Sherlock was here, he wanted to keep them as separate as possible. Sherlock idly wandered the room, looking for more information while Lestrade did so. He felt as if his mind was much slower without John, without his conductor of light. Sherlock was actually surprised at how far into his life John had gotten, how lost he felt without him.

That case took two more days, one of furious research by Lestrade’s team once another body was found and one of mad chases and gunshots when Sherlock pinpointed where the murderer was likely to be. Sherlock luckily escaped without harm but Lestrade had been shot in the arm. The DI was surprised that Sherlock went to the hospital with him, but it had been partly Sherlock’s fault the man had been shot. Sherlock had actually tripped while running after the murderer and Lestrade had had to stop so he didn’t run over Sherlock. The murderer had chosen that moment to shoot back at them.

Once Lestrade was home, Sherlock made his way back to the flat. The silence was overwhelming when before John it had been welcoming. There was nothing especially interesting for Sherlock to do since his experiments had been completed. Two more days until John came home and Sherlock couldn’t wait. He wandered around the flat for a few hours, touching John’s things and pulling memories out of his mind palace.

When even that exercise paled, Sherlock sat down to eat a couple pieces of toast. It wasn’t quite the same without John to argue and cajole him into it, but it had been a few days since he’d eaten last. And Sherlock knew John would be disappointed if he didn’t eat. After that small dinner, he played the violin while staring out the window. Sherlock found a foreign feeling rising within him: the forlorn hope that John might come back early. He’d called each night and Sherlock looked forward to each call with an earnestness that surprised him. He’d never needed anyone before.

Tonight, the phone didn’t ring and Sherlock finally gave up waiting for it. He’d paced the flat countless times, reorganized his sock index five times, organized John’s clothes, screamed at the telly for half an hour, and re-alphabetized all of their books. He fell into their bed and lay there, exhaustion creeping in but not enough to make him sleep. Sherlock spent a lot of time staring at his phone and willing it to ring, but it never did. And, to be honest, it was too late for him to call John.

The next day passed similarly, though Sherlock made more of a mess than cleaned things up. In the middle of organizing the books again, he just left them. Half were in piles on the floor while the other half were still on the shelves. Numerous cups of tea littered the flat, cold and half-drunk. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to change out of his pajamas or brush his hair, just ran his fingers through the dark curls a few times. John was supposed to be home that night and Sherlock frequently glanced at the clock, counting down the minutes.

At eight, John walked up the stairs to the flat with a tired grin. He was looking forward to seeing Sherlock again, sorry that he hadn’t been able to call last night. By the time he’d gotten away from his colleagues, it was far too late to call. Opening the door, John stood frozen at the sight that greeted him: Sherlock standing in the middle of a pile of books, hair standing up in messy spikes, with his violin dangling from one hand. The rest of the flat was a mess and the telly was turned on, the loud sounds of a talk show emanating from it.

“Sherlock?” John said quietly, closing the door behind him. “What happened here?”

“John?” Sherlock asked, turning quickly towards the doctor. “John! You’re back!” He bounded towards John, violin still in hand, and wrapped his arms around the smaller man. Sherlock pressed his face into the crook of John’s neck, breathing in the scent of the other man. John hugged Sherlock back, completely taken aback at this reaction.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John murmured, tilting Sherlock’s face up towards him. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and smiled. “What happened here?”

“I don’t like being without you, John,” Sherlock grumbled, quicksilver eyes locked on John’s blue ones. “You’re my conductor of light and you make me better. I missed you on the case with Lestrade and the flat was too quiet without you.”

John’s smile turned tender as he listened to Sherlock. This was completely unlike the aloof detective he’d first met and he had to admit he liked it. Carefully, John took the violin from Sherlock’s hands and stepped out of the hug long enough to place it on the couch. Once that was done, John took Sherlock’s hand and walked into their bedroom.

“Why don’t we spend some time together then?” John suggested, rubbing a hand soothingly over Sherlock’s back. “I missed you, too.”

Sherlock smiled, the first deep breath he’d taken since John had left leaving his lips. He leaned down and kissed John, pouring everything he’d felt and all the relief and love he felt now into it. Everything was right now and he could finally relax all the tension.

“Sounds like a plan,” Sherlock said, pulling John down onto their bed with him.