When Mycroft calls, it snows. As if his very presence can make it colder.

So much so, that when fluffy pieces of ice fall from the skies in what seems to be an almost tumultuous storm of pure white, John asks if Sherlock's brother has called (whose name is still unknown and mysterious), and Sherlock nods with a sardonic smile.

"What does he say to you?" John asks, turning away from his unfinished painting to look back at Sherlock, who is violently thrashing open an upset newspaper.

"Nothing," he replies.

John sort of frowns, and says, "What kind of 'nothing'?"

"Like," Sherlock snaps, "nothing nothing."

"You could just say that you didn't want to tell me."

"Then, I'd be lying, in part." Sherlock meets John's eyes with a sincere gaze, and then he returns his attention to his newspaper.

***

On Mondays, Sherlock goes to the shops with John, as per request of the multiple magazines he consults to keep his "significant other" happy (because that's what he and John are, now, right?). Not that John even especially likes shopping; in fact, he's rather impartial to it. But the magazine said so, so on Mondays, Sherlock drags John to a shop and insists they look at things.

He doesn't steal. He tries his hardest not to, because he knows John would be disappointed in him.

Sherlock hasn't yet found a shop that's too intriguing, besides the occasional rickety, broken down ice cream parlor. It is trembling and creaky, painted a blue that has disappeared patchily from the soft, aging wood, a stark contrast against the sky. It literally draws Sherlock, as he can see ice-cream churn smoothly in a row of mixers, spinning colors and textures into one swirling mass of flavor. It's absolutely mesmerizing - there's a pink ice-cream, and a white one, and a dark brown one, and yet one more - mint; a pale lime contrasts against the pastel wood color. ("Ice Cream Parlour," it says in curly yellow letters, hung up above a doorway that's almost falling apart.) When Sherlock sees it, something clicks in him.

"We need to go there."

John turns rather slowly, staring at something else entirely - a mother and her child, listening to a song together on a bench a few feet away. He grabs Sherlock's hand - "What?" he asks - suddenly turning to see Sherlock's finger pointing towards a tiny little shop, quietly bustling in the Monday noise.

"That old thing?" John questions, but Sherlock tugs rudely on his shoulder to summon him across what seems to be a cesspool of boring. John shakes his head in frustration and follows after.

***

"Does it ever bother you?"

"What?"

"Your dad. You never see your dad."

Sherlock scoffs and pushes his unfinished pasta across the table to where John is, a dismissive look in his eyes. "As if."

***

They watch movies a lot. John likes to pretend that if he pays for the movie, Sherlock's urge to steal will die away.

But that's not true; John is not a miracle cure. He is a miracle person.

They watch rom coms, and they avoid guns and sadness and dead people; Sherlock secretly likes When Harry Met Sally and Jerry Maguire and when John isn't looking he finds himself singing "Hey Jude" under his breath because it's a nice song and John is a nice person.

One night, Sherlock falls asleep after eating an entire pint of his favorite ice cream (mint with a chocolate swirl). Right on John's chest. John falls asleep under Sherlock's body, their limbs curled into each other like two lovers in the cold.

And they're lovers, yes - but for some reason, it doesn't feel so cold.

***

"How's your painting going?" Sherlock places a fresh cup of coffee in front of John, his bedhead overwhelmingly overwhelming. How does he wake up so perfect? John thinks as he stares intently, stirring his black coffee for no reason other than to stir.

"John?" Sherlock repeats, looking up to see John with an knowing expression, reminiscent of a smile.

"Oh. Oh. Um, um... the... picting. Painture. Shit."

Sherlock laughs, a deep, gorgeous laugh, that sounds like the sun kissed his lungs and filled his voice with golden air. His smile - God. John loves his smile.

"It's good. Good indeed. Quite, uh... drawn. I still have to apply a coat of primer, then actually begin to paint, but, uh..." John smiles, and sighs, "it looks nice."

"Okay, John." Sherlock sits down across from John, and bites hungrily into a sandwich. He talks as he chews, regarding food as a hindrance to his intellect (which needs to be spewed out at an indecipherable rate).

John grins. Oh, how he adores this boy.

"Keep your mouth shut when you chew."

***

"What are you doing, John?" Sherlock asks, one fresh new Sunday morning. He takes note of John's posture, tight and pin straight against his hardwood desk.

"I'm applying for a job at one of the local hospitals," John grumbles quietly, almost as if he doesn't want Sherlock to hear.

"Isn't that incredibly mundane, John?" Sherlock picks up a discarded tabloid and reads the front page quickly, before throwing it to the floor.

"Ey, pick that up!" John snaps, "No littering on my carpet." Then, John's face softens a bit, and his body slumps at the shoulders; "Yeah, a tad. But... sometimes incredibly mundane is a good thing, you know?"

Sherlock seems puzzled by this, as if the very existence of mundanity is something that is unfathomable. His lips open once, before closing on themselves hastily. He stares at John for one confused moment before picking back up the newspaper and pretending to read one of the headlines. He trots away with a paper in hand, and the other hand rubbing the back of his mess of curls.

He will never understand.

And he will never attempt to try.

***

Two weeks later: "How's the painting?"

"Great," John sighs, signing his consent on a job application. He puts it in a pile and then keeps on going.

***

"Does it ever bother you?" John repeats.

Sherlock woke up with his tongue tasting bitter and angry. He woke up too early, with a scowl pasted across his lips, and John should have seen that before he started dangling ambiguous conversation in front of Sherlock's nose.

Salt saturates the roof of his mouth until the only taste left is one that is harsh, and unnatural, and Sherlock doesn't like it. He doesn't know why he feels this way - only that he does. When he looks at John's sleepy face, the light he shines is much too bright. He's staring through the rain right to the sun, which is screaming all sorts of oddities to make the peachiest skin a pinkish red.

"What?" Sherlock snaps it out without turning his head. Nothing is quite as strange as this. He's not used to being pent up inside of himself for the sake of one who hardly cares what the hell he does. So he asks, "What," not really expecting anything but the muffled protest of, "Nothing, Sherlock," and a dense, "I thought so," in reply.

But he should have learned a very long time ago that John is not one to suppress questions. Even if the questions are overwhelmingly and debilitatingly hideous.

"I said, 'Does it ever bother you?'"

"I know what you said, John. Don't be daft. What are you referring to? The rain? Your clothing - honestly, John, you could try harder - or maybe the pain of listening to the Beatles all day? Or maybe it's the fact that I haven't had a cup of Earl in a week. Or, maybe, the annoyance of hearing your pen scratch letters into a meaningless piece of paper for what's been an eternity-"

"Your dad," John suddenly says, and it's a growl, and it tears through his throat, and Sherlock smiles the most fucking sarcastic, biting, rude smile right back.

John would be surprised, but his grin is just as caustic, and just as tense.

"No," Sherlock hisses into sugar stained teeth.

A cold smile sinks underneath the pallid gray of his eye circles, and then his robe is pulled tightly around him as he storms away.

***

A week more, and; "Do you want to watch Skyfall?"

"Sure, Sherlock. Right after I finish this... I'm a tad bit preoccupied."

***

John is going to an interview on Tuesday. The air tastes salty and raw when he tells Sherlock to wish him luck; Sherlock replies that he doesn't need luck - that luck doesn't exist.

John scoffs and turns the direction opposite Sherlock in bed.

***

"Sherlock?"

"Mm...?"

"Does it ever bother you?" His whisper is barely a silent breath against the deep thrumming of Sherlock's heart. The tone is... sad.

"What, John?" Sherlock responds affectionately.

The night is dark. He shouldn't have turned the light off before he asked.

"Nevermind," John whispers, and he kisses Sherlock's hand before nuzzling into his chest and sighing out an exhausted breath.

***

He's beginning to feel a bit antsy.

A month spins by, and Sherlock is left bewildered in the wake of it. Spring is rapidly approaching, and with it, Sherlock is becoming more and more agitated - even going so far as to snap, "Don't be an idiot," at John when he proposes Sherlock move over so he can watch TV on the couch. And the fact that John has not been hired yet in the span of four weeks is even more stressful, especially since a rent is due very soon.

Sherlock contemplates paying it off with the money he's saved in his fairly large bank account... but John wouldn't like that.

***

"Let's take a break," John says one rainy Sunday evening.

Sherlock's head snaps up so fast he hears it crack, and it plunges so deep into his gut he has to stifle a gasp of air. He deflates. "What?"

"Go somewhere nice. This is too bloody stressful, Sherlock - I haven't had any fun in weeks. Hell, we haven't had sex since" -John looks at the nearest calendar - "Tuesday."

A break?

Oh no.

Oh, God, no, I did it again, didn't I?

How'd I mess up this time?

No.

Oh, n-

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock says, vacantly staring at a suddenly appealing rug.

"A break. Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock looks up at John, and he blinks a couple of times, making a point of clenching both his fists. John is clearly unnerved by this: "Oh, okay, uh... fine. We won't, then, I guess..."

Sherlock realizes that he's crushed the paper he'd been holding, and at seeing John's frightened expression, he snaps out of the daze. "What?" he asks, softly, releasing the crumpled paper onto his desk.

"A place? To have some well-needed fun?" John says it like a question, even though it's not. He looks tremendously unsure.

Sherlock is puzzled, at first - his heart is still thrumming thickly in his chest, and his mouth tastes like iron; a bit more acidic than usual. "Fun?"

"Yes, that, ever had some?"

Sherlock is tempted to yell, "No!" and book it out of there with all the money he has left, but he does the most stupid, self sacrificial, disorderly thing that he's done in a long time - he suggests the place of all places.

"Oh. Oh. I... carnival, we should go. There."

It doesn't even hit him until after John replies.

"Sure thing. Tuesday, then."

And when it does hit, it hits him hard.

He wants to swallow back the words into his throat, and pull back the nervousness with a shaking hand... but all there is is the thick taste of betrayal staining his teeth. God, he doesn't want to go there. He doesn't want anyone to make him go there, least of all John. What if he loses control, like he did last time?

John smiles in satisfaction before pushing up with a thigh slap and a heavy smile. He grins at Sherlock with the violence of a sun, and gives Sherlock his Sherlock smile, the one he uses whenever he's either too shocked or too happy to express it with only half his teeth showing. Sherlock does admit, the smile is quite frightening.

His smile is frightening, the prospect is frightening, Sherlock's eyes are bright with a rare kind of subtle fear that makes his heart thud like lead. He hasn't gotten an urge in a while. He hasn't stolen anything of value in a month, he hasn't stolen licenses, or money, or clothes, or food - not since he told John that he... he loved him.

But now? His fingers are itching.

He needs something to pocket. He needs to snatch up something, even if that something is John's. He needs some kind of release from the pressure that's been building over the last week - with his father, and John's job, and that stupid fucking rain...

So when John turns to get food from the fridge, Sherlock, with fingers shaking like they never have before, snatches up one of the small tissue boxes that sit on one of the small tables, and stuffs it angrily down his nightgown. (It doesn't fit.) He realizes too late his breathing - he's never had a reaction like this, no - his breathing is much too hard, like he's coughing on his tongue as it slips and slides around in his mouth. He hears John's voice from the kitchen; doesn't really listen, doesn't really care. There's this hum of desperation in his fingers, an urge that isn't acquainted with the fucking rain, or the sound of John limping across the linoleum, or anything at all. It's just...

Building. And building. And building.

And his mind is pressing against its cell, screaming for the itch to subside into his toes, where he can stomp out the dirtiness engraved into his soles. His nose picks up the smell of blood, and the color of panic.

So he jumps up, shoves his feet in his shoes, and walks out the door without so much as a hasty goodbye for John to clutch onto.

"Sherlock? Do you want to rent a movie?" John calls. "Sherlock?"

There is no reply.

And when John limps his way into the living room... there is no Sherlock, either.

A/N: ugh I'm sah sahrree

ily pls forgive me

So much school???? Holy butt

PlS

i think klepto has 7 more chapters??? GUYS IT'S ALMOST DONE

almoststtdtststs DONRNENEJRN

okay

okay

um

I will update

somEDAy

I promise guys ughugh how do you deal with me

ily

bye