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Hacked	By : SoftPurpleSherlockian Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4354 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters and am making no money off of this story.

Chapter List
- 18
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- 20
Of course the mad bastard could paint! John mused as he sat back in his chair and watched the image, though he wasn’t quite sure what the image was, taking shape on the canvas in front of Sherlock. He focused on the way his friend curled his long fingers around the brush, how each stroke brought life to the colours, how Sherlock appeared lost in the image that was forming.
John didn’t know the first thing about art. He never claimed to be as cultured as his flatmate, having come from two opposite backgrounds, but he had a hard time understanding how this was considered art. What lay before him was a combination of shapes and colours that had no rhyme or reason. Still, John was a gentleman at heart and he didn’t want to insult Sherlock, especially after the awkward exchange that took place while setting the easel up. He muttered something along the lines of “lovely” or “very nice” which only earned him a snort from the taller man in front of him.
“There’s no need to lie, John. I can hear it in your voice. Not to worry,” Sherlock rambled on without turning to face the doctor. “I’m not offended. It’s absolutely atrocious, a disgrace to the masters to classify this as art!” The detective sounded disgusted and John was wholeheartedly confused.
“Right. So let me get this straight. You actually painted something that ugly on purpose?”
“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “The paintings in Alexander Jean’s flat all appeared to be modern art.” You could hear the distain dripping from his words as he forced himself to call what they had seen in the victim’s flat art. “This was as close to the manner I could replicate. Clearly Hance is drawn to this type of style. The pieces themselves are of little to no consequence, but Hance does appear to stick with what he likes.
John threw his head back and laughed. Of course Sherlock had been twenty steps ahead; he always was with a case. Clearly he had worked something out that he had yet to share, but John could wait. He enjoyed seeing Sherlock in his element, and it was a lot better than the sulk he would be having if they had nothing else to do. “You’re absolutely brilliant.”
Sherlock turned to smile at John, “now that one, I do believe” and beamed at the compliment.
John grinned as he made his way into the kitchen to start on dinner, which consisted of heating up leftovers. He turned the microwave on, thankful there were no surprises hiding inside when he opened it, and waited for their food to warm up. Ever looking after Sherlock’s well-being, he dutifully piled a generous helping of Chinese onto two plates, hoping that Sherlock would tear himself away from his project long enough to take a few bites.
John balanced both plates and walked back into the sitting room, where Sherlock was setting up yet another blank canvas. “Sherlock?”
“Not now, John.”
“Yes now. You haven’t eaten all day, you know you haven’t.”
“I’ll be fine for a few more days.”
“Nope.” John was getting increasingly annoyed, although there really wasn’t anything surprising about the exchange. The detective rarely ate when he was working and John shouldn’t be as put off as he was. Given the change in the nature of their relationship, however one sided it was at the moment, John had a strong moral obligation to take care of the man who was, very soon, going to be trusting him with his body completely. Trying another tactic, one that aimed for more of a positive response, John lowered his voice. “Please, Sherlock? It would make me happy to see you eat.”
Without a word, Sherlock walked over to the sofa and plucked the plate away from John, forcing several forkfuls down before pausing to look down at the doctor.
John simply nodded his head and rose to retrieve the plate from Sherlock’s outstretched hand.
“Anything else?” Sherlock asked.
He was really making this too easy, and John smiled as he locked eyes with his flatmate. Deciding that a lighthearted approach was probably in his best interest at this point, he let out a small chuckle, “yeah, you can say thank you for taking care of me and making sure I don’t starve to death, John.” John watched closely, he wasn’t the detective that Sherlock was, but even he couldn’t miss the glassy expression that washed over the face of the man standing I front of him.
“Thank you for taking care of me, John.” Sherlock replied, his already deep honey voice taking on a more breathy tone that went straight to John’s cock.
The doctor grinned up at Sherlock and answered “it’s my job,” before walking back into the kitchen to place the dirty dishes in the sink, leaving Sherlock to ponder the the meaning of that statement alone in the sitting room.
******
The sound of the shower running could be heard downstairs, and Sherlock tried to will the images of John standing under the spray out of his head. His flatmate, having washed up the dishes, retreated to the bathroom, as he did every night before turning in.
The detective stared at the blank canvas in front of him, urging his fingers to move and bring some sort of life to the vast emptiness before him. The knowledge that he needed to complete these pieces tonight did little to ease or inspire him to produce anything on the textured paper. He was far too distracted to think about the task at hand.
True, Sherlock had very little experience with relationships; he preferred a theoretical approach to such things. Still, even he, with his limited knowledge, knew that something had transpired within the last few days in the dynamics of his and John’s unconventional partnership. Retrieving the Blackberry from the pocket of his trousers, Sherlock signed into John’s account without so much as glancing at the keys. Looking over everything helped calm him down some. Nothing seemed out of place, and all of the folders were empty of any incriminating evidence. The only thing Sherlock had to go on was the possessiveness that had swept over John in the gallery when that girl, whatever her name was, had been unabashedly flirting with him. John stepped in when she had touched Sherlock, and the detective quite enjoyed it.
A plan had formulated regarding the case and Sherlock hadn’t given the exchange a second thought, instead, tucking it away where he could properly analyse it later and give it the focus it deserved. That was, until the detective had found himself on his knees looking up at John earlier that very afternoon. That had captured Sherlock’s attention, and he still stood shirtless in front of the easel as a result of the exchange.
The shower had been turned off, and Sherlock willed himself to produce anything on the canvas. Bringing the brush up, he swept it across the textured surface in one fluid movement, not caring what the end result was. The painting he came up with this evening had little to no merit on the actual case, he just needed a reason meet with Hance. Whether the gallery owner decided to display anything was not his main concern.
By the time John padded barefoot out of the bathroom, Sherlock had succeeded in adding several more lines and splashes of colour here and there, not really caring what the finished product looked like at this point. The heat being emitted from John’s body was enveloping Sherlock as he felt the doctor standing behind him to glance at the progress that had been made.
“That’s ghastly.”
“Mmm, I’m glad you agree.”
“Why not paint something else then?”
“We’ve been through this. This is the style that Hance apparently likes. Besides, anything more elaborate isn’t worth my time.”
John merely made a sound of acknowledgement and stalked into the kitchen for his cuppa before bed. He was a creature of habit, his John and Sherlock welcomed the familiar sounds stirring from the other room.
When the doctor emerged, he was carrying two mugs. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as he sat one of them on the corner of the end table, just within Sherlock’s reach without a word and then turned to head upstairs. Facing Sherlock before he entered his room he said “G’night. Wake me in plenty of time to get ready without me needing to rush.”
“Of course.”
“And don’t stay up all night, Sherlock. Seriously, at least try to grab a few hours of sleep, yeah?” John turned and walked into his room without a backwards glance and closed the door behind him.
Without his flatmate’s looming presence invading his senses, Sherlock tried again to focus on the task that lay in front of him. Content that he had enough rubbish smeared on the canvas in front of him to pass as “art”, he took it off the easel and leaned it against the wall to dry before reaching down to produce another blank one and set it up.
The detective took a moment to marvel at the emptiness of it. As if it had a life of its own, it stared back at him, full of potential and hope. In that brief span of time Sherlock felt several pointless emotions wash over him at once, and he tried desperately to ignore them. They served no purpose here and were only delaying him from what he should be doing. Instead of slapping some paint on it and calling it a day, he found himself looking at the blank canvas like a dewy eyed school girl.
Tentatively he brought the tip of the brush to the paint and dipped it in, He allowed the bristles to take on a soul of their own as they swept moved across the canvas. Sherlock had so many feelings running through him, and at the heart of every one was a single word: John.
He allowed himself to bask in the emotions as he continued to paint, repeatedly returning the brush to the acrylics he had laid out before him. The piece was beginning to take shape, though it still had a long way to go. Sherlock could see it in his head; a warm cave, safe from the harsh London rain that lay just outside the entrance. Inside the safe harbour was bursting with warmth; hues of reds, oranges, and golds. The feeling of security trying to burst through the colours and convey every emotion painted there. Just beyond the doorway was cold and ugly. Blues, blacks, and greys that wanted to cut through you. All of the harshness and cruelty lay just beyond the threshold, but inside, inside was purely John. Warm, inviting, secure… safe.
Sherlock painted it as he saw it in his mind; a fortress of love that succeeded in keeping away all of the hurt that the outside world threw his way. In every stroke of red there was the wool of one of John’s jumpers. In every brown or gold lay the hint of John’s favourite tea. The oranges of the flowers in bloom were the exact shade of the worn out medical books that lined their bookshelves.
Subconsciously Sherlock had been melding himself into the painting without realising it as well. When he took a step back to admire his work, he noted the deep chocolates favoured the shade of his violin, and that the earthy hues of the moss resembled the slides under his microscope in the kitchen. Their life, his and John’s, woven together seamlessly in an array of colours and textures that protected them from the bitterness of the world beyond the sanctuary they built together.
The sun was rising and London was waking up in the streets below, yet Sherlock remained aloof to this fact, concentrating on the finishing touches of the scene he had been working on all through the night. Only when he was satisfied that it was perfect did he sit the paintbrush down and step away from the easel. He could hear John stirring upstairs, the noises from the streets below wrestling him out of his slumber. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and paused outside of his flatmate’s bedroom door before bringing his fist up to knock against the wood. “John,” he called. “John, you should probably get up now.”
A muffled groan came from the other side and Sherlock could hear the sleepy steps drag across the floor, moving closer to where he stood. The door separating the pair had opened, and John peered up at Sherlock. As his friend rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the detective took the opportunity to look at him and smiled at the sight. The shorter man was missing a sock, lost among the blankets and his plaid pyjama bottoms were twisted at the waist, making the seam run along his thigh. The rumpled grey shirt was wrinkled and had a crease that matched the one on John’s right cheek. His hair was in complete disarray as it stood straight out on the left side and was flattened against his skull on the right. Sherlock gave a small but hearty chuckle before asking, “I trust you slept well?”
“Sh’up ‘Lock,” came the groggy response of his doctor, which made Sherlock smile even wider.
Composing himself, Sherlock watched as John straightened up and eyed the taller man in front of him. Upon seeing the bare chest and the paint speckled trousers, he frowned. “You didn’t sleep.”
Sherlock at least has the good sense to pretend to be embarrassed, after all, John had asked him to do something that he ignored, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. He simply shifted his weight and angled his body so that John could follow his gaze downstairs where the easel sat. “Yes, well… As you can clearly see, I’ve been a bit busy.”
John brushed past him and went down the stairs to stand in front of the painting. “Sherlock,” the detective watched him turn to stare up at him and follow his movement as he made his way to the sitting room and came to stand next to John, “Sherlock,” he started again. “This is amazing.”
“You think so?” The detective asked, please that John apparently appreciated the piece he had spent the last several hours working on. He hadn’t realised how much he craved John’s approval until he actually had it, and he was elated.
“Absolutely, quite remarkable. Seems a shame to turn it over to that Hance fellow.”
“Oh no, John. This piece isn’t for Hance.” Struck with a realisation, Sherlock frowned. “However, that does leave me with a slight problem.”
John looked up at Sherlock and waited for him to elaborate.
“James Hance is expecting three pieces and obviously there are…” He trailed off as he carefully removed the still wet painting off the easel and set it down to finish drying before replacing it with another blank slate.
Quickly he dipped the biggest brush he had into the deepest red paint and took a step back. Sherlock raised his arm up over his head and brought it down with such speed that the paint in it splattered across the canvas in a way that reminded both men of some of the more grotesque crime scenes they visited together.
“There,” Sherlock said and smiled down at John. “That takes care of that. Three paintings finished and ready to show.” The detective clasped his hands together before continuing. “Well, we should probably get ready. We’re supposed to meet him in just over an hour.” He watched John nod and turn to head back up to his bedroom. “Oh, John? I should warn you that Hance is under the impression that you’re my, for lack of a better word, boyfriend. As such, dress accordingly, will you? Something that says you don’t get dressed in the dark.’ Sherlock turned back around as if the sentence that had just left his mouth had been the most normal thing in the world.
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