If Tomorrow Never Comes

If Tomorrow Never Comes
Sherlock X Watson

Chapter 1 - Intoxication
If the world was simple, we wouldn't exist. Humans, no matter how much misery we suffer in, no matter how much trouble stares us down and no matter how far we are pushed to the very edges of our worlds,  we less understand that we subconsciously crave for it. We seek it out and call its name from the dark, that way, we can never be bored.

John tapped away at his computer, occasionally rubbing his chin as he was accustomed to doing while deep in thought. A sigh stole away from his thoughts, the notes from the last case scribbled across the laptop screen.
Across the room Sherlock sat still, his morbid expression almost mirrored John's, he mindlessly plucked the string of his violin. He curled his knees to his chest as his mind rubbed itself raw with thoughts. The tension was broken by the muffled vibration in Johns pocket
"Mycroft" Sherlock spat
"Yeah, He wants to know how it's going" John mumbled before shoving the phone back into his pocket.
"Terribly" Sherlock grumbled throwing his violin aside, "We are left with only one option; the mistress"
"Mistress?" Johns brow furrowed, this new case was unusual. A man had been found hung by his shoes off London Bridge he had been suffocated and a pair of socks shoved down his throat.
"The socks had been placed after the murder, he was suffocated no doubt but not by them" Sherlock whispered as he carefully pulled them from the oesophagus of the victim.  
"What?" Lestrade turned to his, his expression in deep distress. "Then why were they in his throat?" he whined. "Whoever murdered this man clearly wanted him to be humiliated."
"Humiliated?"
"Yes, humiliated! He was hung up by his shoes! A brilliant murderer of this particular mental state is often pleased with his achievements, and aims to be caught however this man is wearing a formal business suit, tailored for his body type specifically. Armani watch only released a month ago. So mostly likely he is well off, and like most well off people he will have connections. He will not go unnoticed; therefore we can conclude this was not a random murder. A man like this will have connections and even more likely…"
"Enemies." John breathed.  Sherlock smiled coyly
"Precisely. He was obviously placed this way to be made a fool of. He was obviously used to this sort of trouble though, several scars around the face and wrists, consistent with fighting, so he was skilled in martial arts. However he died from suffocation, how ridiculous, he would have used a hand lock to prevent it, so it's safe to conclude he was drugged at some point"
"Brilliant" John chuckled as he jotted the main points into his iphone notes for later. Sherlock paused in silence to simply stare at John, not only had he stopped his train of thought, but he was also strangely distracting this evening.  
"Also he was hung on London bridge, London bridge for Christ's sake! How could someone not notice it?" He shook his hands outward as he paced between the upside down man and the railing overseeing the well-lit London eye. His thumb toyed his bottom lip "The time of death can be determined from the victims head wound, clear solid cut, not completely healed so obviously occurring before death. Guessing from the size of this man, about 120-40kgs his metabolism is relatively fast and the healing process dealing with a cut this deep would take above a week to heal over. Since it is only slightly covered, as we can measure by the shape and distinct scarring around it, I can say he was murdered early yesterday evening. "

Sherlock had traipsed all over but had found no connections to speak of. The victim, Markus Earl Thomas may have well not existed in the outside world. The yard had managed to track down his wife, Lucinda Maria.
"She was estranged from him" Sherlock muttered bitterly
"What? She was in tears the entire time!" John wobbled after him,
"There was only one cup on the counter, and the other in the cupboard had a thin layer of dust on them. If he had been home like she had said, more than one cup would have been used. Not only that but the study she showed us, according to her he preferred to use ink instead of a laptop because he did not trust the internet."
"Yes his desk was filled with notes"
"Correct however, on the corpse there was no sign of ink on the edge of his right hand. Unlike his wife"
"She wrote the notes?"
"Of course she did!" Sherlock said throwing his hands in the air "They were estranged! Now, why were they estranged? Perhaps because she had lovers? Her family disapproved? The abuse? Or perhaps because he drank?"
"And how do you know this?"
"The carpet is well worn, since they can't have been living there for more than 2 years, judging by the state of the furniture. He wasn't home, and she can't have done that by herself.  And of course there was that masculine odour that lingered on her that did not match the victim. There were no family pictures of either of them, childhood or otherwise, suggesting bad terms with extended relatives."
"What if they're dead?"
"No, it would even more likely if they were dead.  Pictures would be around, sentimentalities and such. No, it's a grudge. Of her marriage, as all the pictures that were around were of only after their marriage."
"And the abuse?" Sherlock stopped, almost annoyed
"Must I explain everything? Its tedious and the answers are obvious"
"It's not obvious to me" John watched Sherlock carefully, intrigued by his intellect he listened intently as he went on. Sherlock watched his companion's reactions as he explained the bruises above the sweater arms of the woman they had just been interviewing. And the empty wine bottles in the garbage that had been abandoned for two weeks at least.  John smiled wryly at these facts; the smile seemed infectious because it spread across Sherlock's face as well.
"You enjoy this don't you?"
"What gave me away?"
"Well the fact you constantly put yourself in danger, despite being sufficiently warned. Your pupils dilate every time I explain the points the yard miss. And you psychosomatic limp only leaves when we are on cases, meaning you are sufficiently distracted only when you are with me." Sherlock brimmed with confidence as they headed back to the flat to figure out the next move.

"Mistress? What mistress?" John cried.
"His wife was estranged. He drank, he was never home, his ring was worn. Of course he had a mistress! Now, to go find her."
"How?"
"Markus's shirt was smudged with a small bit of lipstick on the collar and he faintly smelled of the fragrance 'Red Door' and Whiskey.  Since both on are the high expense listings, which places him, allowing social appearance; around West London."
"Right. But there are a lot of girls that wear that brand of perfume and lipstick"
"Who hang around rich men in bars, fully aware they are married? There are only a handful of women who would stoop to such lengths in that area. And considering the amount he drank, I imagine he would be a frequent customer there."

It took them an hour and a half before Markus's name was recognised.
"Yeah it's Michelle you're looking for. She was always hanging 'round 'im, whisperin' in 'is ear, stuff like that."
"And where is she now?" Sherlock smacked his fist on the counter as the brutish barman stared on, almost beyond the men in front of him.
"Dunno, haven't seen her lately" he mumbled, polishing the whiskey glass in his hand
"Great" Sherlock sighed as he slumped on to the bar stool. His palms held his face for a moment as John took the stool beside him. "What can I get you?"
"3 shots of gin and tonic" he mumbled to the man.
"Sherlock? What are you doing?"
It wasn't long before all three shots sank back into Sherlocks burning throat. The mistress was the key, and she would be back. Until then they would have to sit and wait.
"Another" He stammered, the burn hindering his speech. An hour went by like this, no sign of any woman who wore that particular lipstick, let alone perfume.  The hour had passed in almost silence, apart from some mumbling on Sherlocks part.
"And you?" The barman slid another past John and Sherlock threw back yet another.
"No I'm fine. Sherlock are you okay?"
"I'm fine. You see?" Sherlock tried to stand from the stool, but he fumbled about before remembering the stool was screwed into the floor. He was perhaps a little more of a light weight than he remembered. It had been awhile since he had had a drink.
"Okay, okay. Time to go home" John muttered catching his blundering friend from falling to the floor.
"I'm fiiine." Sherlock protested as he attempted to stand on his own. He stood over John, close enough to feel his breath on his neck. The sensation was almost intoxicating, even more than the alcohol.  With a shove he had him against the wall, all of his lost strength had returned tenfold, with a wrist in each arm.
"Sherlock!"  John cried as his back smacked the wall behind him, "What are you-?" Sherlock was so close now. He stared into John, with a strange intensity and softness John had only seen when Sherlock had found a case after a long dry spell.  It was Johns turn for confusion. He watched his friend relax as their foreheads gently touched. His soft curls draped over his eyes a bit. The light contoured Sherlocks handsome face and his hands were growing hot on his wrists.
What could he possibly be thinking?

Was it the light, or the alcohol on his breath but for some reason John relaxed a little, and attempted no mount to resist.  
"John..." Sherlock whispered in a deep rumbling voice.  That moment John lost himself in the commotion as Sherlock leaned in and gently kissed him.
It was soft and tender.  Sherlock gripped John's wrists slightly tighter as he pulled away for a moment, almost as if he were scared he would run.
John breathed heavy, like he had been running just as fast as his mind had been going.
It wasn't nearly enough and he met the distance Sherlock had put between them. This time it was more intense as the walls crumbled around them and the world was forgotten.
Sherlock released John's wrists and went for his neck, refusing their lips to be separated.  For a moment they stayed like that. The kiss had cleared John's head of all thought but also had a sobering effect.

Sherlock released John and before he could form the words in his head he had grabbed his coat and run out the door.
Jon breathed heavily as his ran his hand through his short blonde hair. His thoughts traced over the last few minutes. What had come over Sherlock? And even more importantly, himself.


Chapter 2 – Dark Circles
The rain had settled into the early morning hours as a loud knocking came from the door.
"What is it?" Lestrade cried as he thrust open the door. Sherlock stood there completely soaked through. His eyes blank and overflowing. "Sherlock? What happened?"

The overbearing, confident Sherlock that Lestrade knew was the shadow of the man standing before him, who quietly entered he premises without a word.

Lestrade quietly prepared a cup of tea as Sherlock did not move a muscle on his couch. "Sherlock, please tell me why you are here." He said offering the cup towards him
"To think." He said frankly. His face was pale as he took the cup.
"Think? Then go home" Sherlock flinched, the idea was horrific. What would he say to John? What possible explanations for his actions would suffice? Of course he could blame most of his behaviour on the alcohol but that would not be completely true.
"Did you and John have a falling out?" Lestrade sat forward in his chair, with almost a patronising tone to the question.
"No!" Sherlock snapped. "I simply needed the space to think"
"Fine he said, getting up from the chair, I'm going back to bed. There are some blankets in the cupboard over there if you get tired. Goodnight" he said as he marched up the stairs.

For hours Sherlock sat in complete silence, he has had completely sobered up by now. His mind ran wild with possible explanations and ways he could face John again. He could come to no possible solution aside from the fact he wanted to. The alcohol may had inhibited his ability of self-control, but there was no denying it's what he had intended.
He sighed awkwardly, as his rubbed his palms over his eyes, tears swelling within them. His chest was heavy and it was somehow strangely hard to breathe when he thought of John now.
"How can I explain?" The thought of John's disapproval ached his body.

Meanwhile John had made a slow way back to the flat, where he had hoped Sherlock had returned to. The rain melted the windows as he waited for his friend to return.
It's all fine, anything is fine he repeated in his head. Obscuring any thoughts of the nights preceding's, figuring they would cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, he would watch and wait for him to come home.

Chapter 3 – Damned if I do, Damned if I don't

John swallowed hard as the morning poured into the living room of the flat. Sherlock was still missing and he had not slept in over 36 hours. His mind was numb and he hadn't shifted from that spot since he returned home. It was time to move.  But if I find him, what do I say to him?
He grabbed his coat and headed down the stairs.

The cold breeze swept over Sherlock's face, his eyes were red and swollen. He had left Lestrades shortly after and had been wandering the streets for some time. Aimlessly he wandered on, his mind rubbing itself raw. The peace was hateful, but the chaos between his ears was far worse. For now, the easiest thing to do was to run. His pocket vibrated, and instinctively he went to answer it.

Where are you?  - JW
Around. –SH
Around? Sherlock be serious! Where can I find you? Come home! – JW
I can't. – SH
Sherlock? ¬– JW
I have no explanations for last night. And as the circumstances, I think I'd be best if I didn't return to the flat. I shall find somewhere else to stay. Goodbye John. –SH

"Dammit Sherlock!!"  John dialled the number but there was no answer. "Where are you?" he paced the London streets, not sure where to turn. He wandered on silently praying that Sherlock would be around the next corner.
It was clear that he had no intention of answering his phone. And he thinks he can leave just like that? He pulled out his phone again, there was always one person who had eyes on him, whether he liked it or not.
"Yeah, I need to speak with your boss" He spat into the phone. His frustration grated on the echo.
"Ah, Mr Watson, how unusual," The sly voice of Mycroft vibrated through the tone
"Yes it is rather, listen I need to ask a favour."
"A favour?"
"Your brother, can you tell me where he is? I know you keep watch on him, GPS or something?"
"GPS? Not quite, but something the government have been dying to try out. Oh, I see he's run off has he?"
"Yes, something like that… Can you help?"
"Well, I suppose I owe you for keeping an eye on him until now…" Tapping filled the silence that had taken over the conversation, John agitation grew into his throat. He knew asking a favour from Mycroft came with a price. One he was sure he would pay for a thousand times over later.
"Hmm, my reading says he is on London bridge."
"Thanks"
"And when you find him, be sure not to mention of this conversation. Oh and mummy wants him to visit next week" and with that the phone went dead. Sure.
Now with direction and momentum, John raced off down the cobbled streets.

The wind was calm over the morning of London, as Sherlock watched the cars chase each other one after another as the minutes past. How dull. So much life was passing them, how could they not see?
His phone rang loud in his ears, it was sure to be John again.
He couldn't find the strength to answer it, he could stand the sound of John's voice, but there wasn't anything he wanted more.
He stared into the deep waters below and wondered at what trajectory he'd need to safely die from this height. Hm, suicide. Boring. It wasn't him, but the feeling in his chest didn't get any lighter. It wavered with the enclosing sight of John who was now beside him, equally out of breath.

"How did you-?"
"Long story" John panted, struggling to get his breath back. His relief burst through his breath. "What are you doing here?"
"Not sure, " Sherlock said calmly, looking out to the horizon. "Besides, why are you here? I said all that was needed to be said when-"
"No, not all of it" John shook his head. "You said all you wanted to say, doesn't mean I did."
"Oh?"
"Sherlock, you-"
"Are resourceful-"
"A giant pain most times"
"Ah." His head dropped allowing that idea to take on his shoulders.
"You lead me around, withholding your plans from me; you're arrogant and childish at times. You try so hard to remind us that you are the best, you pride yourself in the fact you know more. You are stubborn and obnoxious and yet…"
"I get it"
"Wait! I haven't finished" Sherlock shut his mouth and indicated John to continue, "And yet, you are brilliant. There is nothing more fascinating to me than when you are working on a case. You are the most amazing, brilliant person I have ever met. Despite, you know, the sour milk experiments, the violin at 3am and the severed heads in the fridge…" John chuckled.

John quickly strode up to Sherlock, his heart beating just as hard as he had been running to get here. Hastily he yanked at Sherlock's scarf forcing his knees to lock. With that he brushed his lips, softly against Sherlock's. Almost thoughtlessly Sherlock returned the kiss, slowly increasing the intensity.  Their breath and tongues explored one another, allowing their senses to hone into the slightest twitches and moans. John pulled away to catch his breath, but only far enough so their foreheads touched.
Sherlock caressed John's cheek.
"Did you regret that?"
"No. And if you are looking for an apology, you're not going to get one." Sherlock chuckled softly, his raspy breath filled with relief.
"Good." He smiled.