John reads crime novels on Wednesdays, if he can. Keeps his latest on a small shelf to the right of his bed.

Next Wednesday, he may think that he misplaced one.

And Sherlock will know that he hasn't.

***

"...Does it ever bother you?"

"No, John."

"Let's watch a movie."

"No, John."

"You okay?"

"Yes, John."

"Stop saying my name so much."

"Okay."

***

A necklace sits.

And it waits.

Sherlock takes it from across John's neck in the dead of dusk, the gold parting with the golden.

Later, when Sherlock finally loses himself to obscurity, he drinks a brew that tastes overwhelmingly like guilt.

***

We're okay, Sherlock thinks. We're fine.

I'm fine.

And he proves that. He sits down next to John on the couch and looks at him, and his lips are sagged and tired and sad, so he kisses the uncertainty from his mouth with both hands.

He thinks of all the things normal people say, about how happy John makes him, and about how he looks so beautiful that he can hardly think, he can hardly breathe, and so he stops and he starts and he ends and it clicks like clockwork and soft, warm, thick hands.

Their kiss is thoughtless. And passionate. And driven.

"We're okay," Sherlock whispers so softly that the wind can't even hear - John isn't listening, now, he's just buzzing with the energy that pulses through him - and Sherlock uses this to advantage. He speaks all the words that he's not said for the past few days. "I can prove it."

We're going to be fine, we're going to be fine, we're going to be fine.

"Do you know this?" Sherlock repeats as he peels John's shirt from off his shoulders, "do you know this?"

"Yeah," John replies into the crook of Sherlock's neck. But that's not what Sherlock hears. Not really.

***

The last call Mycroft sends is a voicemail detailing the occurrence of Sherlock's father's death.

***

He realizes too late that the bag - he shouldn't have touched that.

The "DH" transcribed into the corner is not his signature, nor is the washed out blood that dots the corner.

It's not his fault. It's the first thing Sherlock sees, when the urge rushes uncontrollably into his limbs. He didn't want it. He never wanted it.

But he takes it, because that's all he knows, now.

***

"Does it ever bother you?"

John must fucking know. He must fucking know, or else he wouldn't keep asking.

Sherlock ignores him and hopes to God he doesn't say anything else.

***

The day before the day they're supposed to take a break, John makes sure that Sherlock is okay, even if he insists otherwise. He doesn't know, yet. John doesn't know about the things Sherlock's taken, so his worrisome manner prevails.

This may be the seventeenth time in the last three minutes.

"You sure, Sherlock? You've been off lately."

"Yes, John, I don't know why you keep asking if I've already told you multiple times," Sherlock says bitingly. "It's not as if my mood has changed drastically in the last ten seconds." He pushes John away slightly, and tries to shrug off his hands in the most nonchalant way possible, but it comes off as aggressive and Sherlock can see John twitch out of the corner of his eye.

"It's just..."

"What?"

"You seem... strange." His lips crumple into a puzzled frown that folds up his chin, and after a moment of tense staring, John resigns and walks away.

"Was it something I said?" Sherlock yells dryly into the next room, and he sees a shadow of John shrug his shoulders and rummage in a plastic bag that has a bright yellow smiley face on it. "Have a nice day!" it yells in comic sans.

It speaks volumes about what they do in their spare time.

He comes back out moments later, flipping what appears to be a DVD in his hands. "We're watching a bloody movie," John says, a worried frown passing through his lips.

"John, I haven't any time for lazily made films about explosives. You might as well just order takeaway if you're going to subject me to filth. At least I will be able to get rid of it later-"

"Shut up." John yanks a finger towards his bedroom, where the one TV set sits on a small table. (It's not even plasma. It's a box.) "We're watching it, even if you think it's the soddiest, bloody stupidest, least intellectually gratifying film you've seen in ages. I don't care."

"What even is it, John?"

He looks Sherlock dead in the eyes, and as he does, he hisses through his teeth: "Transformers."

"Is this the one with the talking cars?"

"Yeah, but-"

"First off, John, not only is that unrealistic and childish, it's also ridiculous and unbelievable."

"-they're not cars, they're aliens-"

"How was this ridiculous idea even pitched? 'Oh, please, let me spend millions and millions of dollars on a movie about talking cars.' Only a mentally incapable idiot would let someone make this into a film." Sherlock is certain this movie doesn't entirely sate his cinematic needs. John limps to the DVD player, tapping multiple buttons and then placing it inside, despite the loud and annoyed groans emanating behind him.

"Is this even a good movie?" Sherlock yells.

"Why the bloody fuck would I tell you to watch it if it were a bad movie?"

Sherlock squints. "Your own personal gratification?"

"I'm not a sadist."

"And I'm a drag queen."

"Hey, Sherlock, princess, I don't need to know what you do in your spare time-" Sherlock bats a laughing John across the back of the skull before falling into his bed and crossing his arms behind his head.

When the movie starts, John falls in next to him, strangely familiar. Their bodies are synchronized and hardly moving - deepened breaths heightening when they finally realize that they haven't been watching the movie for a while now. The look that John gives him isn't love - is it? Or is it just used up potential energy? They've peaked and fallen like dewdrops in clouds.

Sherlock knows one thing - he's no longer unattached. He can't pretend anymore. So he doesn't. He watches as John falls asleep, the sheer intimacy trumping anywhere that Sherlock had ever dared to kiss. This is meant to be. This is fate. This is destiny - even if their destiny will leave a taste more bitter than gasoline.

The white noise of explosives isn't exactly what John would call a picnic. And when you are touching a lit stick of dynamite, something liable to explode at any moment - when you're gambling with the Devil, one might not call that a sodding day out in the country either.

But John has played poker with The Fates, and he's nailed himself to a cross before, and he knows how it sounds when blood bubbles at the lips of everything he's ever known, everything that's kept him grounded. He knows how to roll the dice and come out on top. And he's not saying, per se, that Sherlock is a lit stick of dynamite, but God, he is explosive. And the things that have recently unrooted him now keep him grounded - like tea that tastes of the dregs of yesterday's coffee, and carnation pink lips. He's safe, now, and he knows it. Even around lit sticks of dynamite, and eyes as sharp as bullets cutting through air, he is safe.

***

When Sherlock stares at all that he's stolen from John in the last few days, (a necklace, some books, and John's fucking bag) he feels the most disgusted emotion churning in the rancid depths of his stomach. Why did it happen this way; why did the materials matter more than the relief of John's touch?

He's going to lose John, someday, and that's the truth - it's better, though, because John's not safe.

Sometimes he imagines the day where John finds out where he lives. Where he stashes hoards and hoards of superficial things. Things that he had once thought of as (how could he?) assets, things that he had once valued and been proud of. Unimaginable, maybe, but still imagined. Imagined constantly. Fantasized over, even - his eyes, and the betrayal, and the knowing.

If he gets rid of what he's stolen, then he has nothing. And if he keeps what he's stolen, he'll lose his everything; so he loses and loses and fails and fails and fails until he just resolves to give up, it isn't worth it anyway.

He thinks of the words John will say. Caustic and bitter and trying to hide the hurt; like knives that have been stuck in icy hot fires. "How could you?" he'd say. "How could you?"

And he won't ask why, even though he wants to. And he won't tell him that it hurts, because walls are not meant to be taken down, and he won't say that he loved him, because he doesn't.

Sherlock plays this scenario over and over, and every single time the words sound the same. "How could you?" John will say. And then he will leave Sherlock's life exactly how he came into it:

Running.

A/N: first order of business:

Colorblind.

In case you haven't heard, lovelies *clears throat* Colorblind is set in the past, when it was illegal to be gay. :/ John is a painter that is married to his wonderful fianceé before he meets the elusive Sherlock Holmes, who also happens to be gorgeous and an amazing violin player.

It's sexy.

I know.

Mayhem strikes when police find out about their affair.

OOoHzjhOoooohohhh! let's see how heart-wrenching and sad I can make it :)

You guys have gotten me fucking - 800 reads on that - JUST THE PREFACE! Which is "??????" and amazing thxsomuch

AS SOON AS I'M DONE WITH KLEPTO I WILL GET STARTED ON IT I SWEAR TO YOU

also??? I'm really trying to make this quite novelish, so it may have more adult themes u feel

Okay

NEXT ORDER OF BUSINESS!

my phone's screen broke

NEXT ORDER!

school is so stressful i am sorry for not updating quicker

Next:

Ily guys

So much

The few hundred people that have stayed with me since when I first posted this story in august - I am indebted. Thank you. We're NEARLY AT 20000 READS HOLY SHITAKUSHHDJSJDHC

I will be adding songs to this fic i think but after it's finished so

Also the climax is quickly approaching. Actually it's next chapter. WhatEEVER

last order of business:

My friends have the RADDEST FICS IN EXISTENCE like these are currently my very very very favorite fics atm and while you're waiting for me to update because i take ages you need to read

The Art of Pretense: @dearwatson

It's like this amazing teenlock and i sorta helped make half the plot but it's a DAMN GOOD PLOT OKAY

One Last Dance: @Closet_Sociopath

So good

Sosoaoososooaoaosoaooaoaoa good

ballet!lock is love

They're WOP's so hopefully with the three of them combined you will survive

*whispers*

Also "master and a hound" by joolabee on ao3 is probably my favorite johnlock one-shot of all time

Okay bye