Fic for beenghosting: Thumbprint - Part 3
Jun. 10th, 2013 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle: Thumbprint - Part 3
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beenghosting (teahigh)
Author:pandoras_chaos
Beta/Brit Pick:aki_hoshi and thesmallhobbit
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word count: ~23,500
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: unhealthy relationships, emotional masochism, explicit sex, anal sex, rimming, unsafe sex, angst
Summary: It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Author’s Note: Dearbeenghosting, I’m really hoping this is up to snuff. I’m not going to lie, I was a little intimidated when I got your name in my prompt, but I’m hoping I did your ideas justice. It kind of turned into a monster of a story and John and I have gotten rather close because of it. Enjoy, love :D
Epic thanks to my lovely betas for their lightnight-fast work and for putting up with my constant demands for attention and opinions. Title borrowed from the wonderful and talented Jason Mraz.
That night had been one of the worst nights of John’s life. Through all the turmoil and rejection Sherlock’s been putting him through, John has still been holding out hope that one day, Sherlock might come to his senses. He knows it’s a futile thought: Sherlock is callous and unapologetic and rude and caustic and even rather morbid on most occasions, but there was always something, some little quirk in his smile or glint in his eye that made John think he was in on the joke; that even if the rest of the world would never understand him, John was allowed access to Sherlock’s inevitable humanity. To have that hope ripped away from him, to find out that he had so miscalculated Sherlock’s feelings for him burns like acid in his veins.
It seems like every time he voices his opinion regarding their... whatever this is, Sherlock cuts him down faster than he can erect a good argument. John’s tried to quell the remorse, tried to tell himself it’s pointless to feel guilty over wanting something every normal human craves, but Sherlock has never been normal, and John feels like he’s asking so much of the man, even when it would be second nature to anyone with a beating heart. He knows Sherlock wants him, cares about him, needs him in a way that’s alarmingly uncomfortable. The evidence is so glaringly obvious, even a mundane mind like John’s can see it. He doesn’t want to push Sherlock, but it’s getting harder every day to justify his own feelings when Sherlock is so blatantly ignoring his. The fact that Sherlock had accused him of not understanding him, of demanding more of him than John had ever dared ask for makes dark tendrils of rage curl through his consciousness. If Sherlock only knew how much John never says, how much he doesn’t ask, how much he wants, but refuses to take, it would have been a very different argument indeed.
And the part that breaks John the most is that despite Sherlock’s ever-changing moods, his flippant regard for John’s emotions and his blatant refusal to acknowledge his own, John finds himself clinging to whatever he can get. It’s sick, the way he’s still trailing after the man, clutching at whatever small bits of sentimentality Sherlock gives to him and working himself up into lathers of emotional masochism when it’s obvious Sherlock doesn’t feel the same. It’s those small glimpses of Sherlock’s soul that keep John hooked on the edge of sanity, the moments when Sherlock seems vulnerable and wanting, that if John were to refuse him, he would shatter into a million pieces. That protective, possessive instinct is what kept John sane through the war, and the feeling of being needed had kept him alive. After his discharge, he’d felt so listless, drifting on a sea of idle uselessness until he’d met this brilliant, broken man. He’d seen it in Sherlock; that base need and John had scrambled to comply.
Now he feels as though he’s failed. If Sherlock doesn’t want him, if he thinks John doesn’t understand his needs anymore, what use is John to anyone?
John had waged a silent war within himself when the door slammed, the cacophony of emotions and unrequited desire clouding his judgment so even time itself seemed distant and unnatural. Nothing had ever shaken him quite so hard. Even Afghanistan had seemed tame compared to the deserted landscape left over when Sherlock had stormed out of the flat after telling John to leave. He’d finally mustered up enough physical strength to get him up the stairs to his room, only to spend the hours tossing and turning, waiting for Sherlock to return.
He’d come home at half four and even John could hear him stumbling as he mounted the stairs, his usual light-footed stride heavy and leaden with something John didn’t want to think about. He’d been peering at Sherlock covertly over the past few days, looking for any sign of a relapse, but either Sherlock had managed to resist the pull of cocaine, or he’d hidden it enough for John’s medically trained surveillance not to notice.
Every time John thinks about the idea of Sherlock slipping back into his drug habits, a hot wave of guilt crashes through him quickly followed by a bright flare of righteous anger. He flat out refuses to feel guilty for standing up for himself, for making his feelings heard, regardless of how reluctant Sherlock is to hear about them. Sherlock is mad, but not nearly as sociopathic as he pretends to be and the fact that he will not even try for John hurts more than he’d ever thought possible. John tries not to worry, but he finds his eyes wandering towards Sherlock’s open shirtsleeves whenever he stands still long enough. Worst still is the fact that John knows Sherlock is aware of his scrutiny, aware of just how much he’s distressing John and doing absolutely nothing to assuage the thoughts running circles in his head.
Three incredibly tense days later and John finds himself at a crime scene, watching from a reluctantly respectful distance as Sherlock pokes and prods at the latest victim while Anderson seethes quietly in the corner. Sherlock is in rare form, swooping through the police officers like a giant overgrown bat. He scarcely spares a glance in John’s direction and even the MET can clearly tell there’s more tension between them than usual.
The past three days have been miserable and John is frankly exhausted. He’s bone-weary with fighting and feels as though something buried deep in his chest has curled up and died, leaving him vulnerable and drained. Sherlock has barely spoken to him at all, passing him in the flat as though he’s not even there. John feels like he’s living with a ghost, the furniture and fixtures moving around the flat without seeing who or what is disturbing them. The one time he did finally deign to communicate was to ask John when he planned on moving out so Sherlock could arrange for a sublet. That had sliced through John like a physical blow.
Despite his current angst, John finds his eyes straying appreciatively over Sherlock’s form as he moves, agile as a cat, his long coat swaying behind him with full dramatic flair. He really is unfairly beautiful, John thinks, watching Sherlock’s long legs unfold as he stands and strides over towards Lestrade, who is watching avidly as Sherlock unravels the whole story without taking a breath.
“Surely even you lot noticed the way his fingers have been wiped clean with antiseptic,” Sherlock is saying, pacing back and forth and studiously ignoring all propriety as he steps over the body. “It was obviously the brother-in-law, judging by the lack of receipts in the wallet and the entry point. Find Nicholas Effington and you’ll have everything you need.”
“Alright,” Lestrade says, managing to sound both put-upon and begrudgingly impressed. “But how did he get out?”
“Ah,” Sherlock says, turning to shoot a positively gleeful look in John’s direction, the left corner of his mouth quirking into an almost indecent smirk. Their eyes catch and John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s gaze flair all the way up his spine, pale irises alive and bright with the thrill of the chase. “That’s the beauty of the locked room mystery. How indeed?”
It’s the first time he’s actually looked at John in days and John feels the familiar curl of delight flare through him like lightning. He’s still angry, but while his temper is short, it’s the residual melancholy that’s been bothering him most. It almost feels normal again and John breathes a sigh of unmitigated relief, tension seeping from shoulders he hadn’t even realized had been seizing all week.
John finds himself grinning back in return, even though he’s completely clueless as to why. He has no idea where the killer could have gone, nor how Sherlock could possibly know it was Effington out of all the possible suspects. Sherlock is still staring at him, eyes gleaming and a high flush spreading across his cheeks. John’s vaguely aware of the buzz of police officers around them, Lestrade barking orders to the rest of his team and the forensic photographers snapping away, lights flashing, but all his attention is arrested by the familiar heat unfurling between them.
John feels trapped--caught in the beam of Sherlock’s incredible focus. He feels flayed open, pinned to a dissecting tray with innards spilling forth, heart and lungs and intestines displayed. Sherlock’s eyes strip him down, tear him open and claim his very being with just one glance. And Christ, how he’d missed this.
Dimly, John’s aware of his own body’s reaction: pupils dilating, limbs tensing in anticipation, pulse thudding loudly in his ears. Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest and his attitude changes from excited frenzy into something feral, carnal desire altering his whole demeanor. John can feel his own libido answering and wonders idly how the rest of the Yard is missing the distinct swirl of pheromones tingeing the very air. Sherlock’s eyes darken and John finds himself biting down on his own lip to stifle the ludicrous groan trying to force its way through his throat.
Something catches in John’s peripheral vision: a small movement that seems at once out of order and completely predictable. His body is moving before he’s even aware of what’s happening, power shifting to his legs as he lunges across the room and rugby tackles Sherlock to the ground, the sound of the shot ringing through the room like a bomb. John feels the sharp sensation of pain in his lower back, a small metal projectile tearing through flesh and bone.
There’s a split second of unnatural silence before all hell breaks loose. John can hear Lestrade shouting, panic and confusion infusing the room as Nicholas Effington is tackled to the ground by no less than four police officers.
Sherlock is panting beneath him, his heart beating a rapid tattoo through his ribs and into John’s. There’s raw panic on his face and his lips are moving, eyebrows drawn together in concern and something darker. John’s dimly aware of Sherlock’s long fingers curled tightly around his shoulders, shaking him slightly. His mouth is still working, tongue and teeth forming words that John cannot hear. Why can’t he hear? There’s a buzzing sound drowning out all the noise in the room and small lights seem to be popping in his vision.
John blinks slowly, feeling his limbs slipping into the numbness he’s come to associate with major trauma. He can feel the adrenaline coursing through his system, dissipating as the shock sets in and overwhelms him.
The buzzing is getting worse, though John can vaguely hear Sherlock’s voice rumbling through the white noise, his tone tight and commanding.
“John. Stay awake. John! Don’t you dare leave me...”
But that’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Sherlock told him to leave, doesn’t want him. John’s head feels full of cotton, blinding pain finally catching up with him and searing through his bones like wildfire.
The psychosomatic scent of gunpowder saturates the air and through the haze of pain and shock, John can hear the startlingly loud noise of helicopters overhead and the very air feels charged with the phantom sounds of distant explosions. John blinks heavily, trying to force away the vision of sand and sun, the feeling of heat and exhaustion, rising panic making his breath catch. The hands around his shoulders are not covered in pixilated camouflage, the voice ringing in his head is not of medics or corporals. Long, pale fingers brush the hair off his forehead and John forces himself to focus, Sherlock’s voice cloaking him like warm honey.
“Sherlock,” he starts, but it comes out wet and pathetic, more jumble of consonants than an actual word. There’s a grey fog permeating the edges of his vision, but Sherlock’s irises are a bright, clear blue. John feels the muscles in his face moving, stretching into something resembling a smile.
“’M sorry,” he slurs and slips into darkness.
: :
Cold. John is cold. Itchy, over starched sheets rub against his skin, mouth tastes foul. Blearily, John opens his eyes, vision swimming in stark colors of white and red. Lights pop overhead and he’s distantly aware of people talking all around him, though his own voice seems far away and feeble. He swallows around the dry mouth and recognizes the distinct, antiseptic smell of hospital before he remembers what he’s doing here.
Blinking hard to clear the residual haze, John tries to focus. There’s a figure at his left side, long-limbed and obviously tall. John shakes his head slightly, annoyed with the fog that seems to permeate everything. The man shifts, all long legs and bespoke trousers and mobile phone and... pocket watch. Umbrella. Mycroft.
“Ah, Doctor Watson,” comes the honeyed tones, mock geniality thick over gravel and glass. “Glad to see you’re with us once more.”
“Mycroft,” he grits out. John tries to sit up and winces, falling back onto the bed with a gasp of pain. He’s vaguely aware of the beeping heart rate monitor, the IV drip hanging next to his bed and the needle firmly lodged in the back of his hand. Taking a tentative swipe at the sheets reveals a plethora of gauze wrapping neatly around his right hip and the vague metallic taste on the back of his tongue intensifies.
Snatches of memory are beginning to tug at his mind: crime scene, Anderson looking horrid, Lestrade musing on the locked room, the corpse in the middle of the floor, Sherlock’s eyes boring into John’s, Sherlock’s face as the shot rang out, Sherlock’s voice through the cloud of pain... Sherlock.
“Where is he?” John asks, trying and failing to keep his voice steady.
“Ah,” Mycroft actually looks somewhat uncomfortable for a moment, but the expression clears into bemused indifference seconds later. “I’m afraid he’s been unavoidably detained for the time being. However, I am here should you require any... assistance.” He says it like a malediction and John is embarrassingly aware of how much he probably owes to this man for the hospital bills already. The room is startlingly quiet and the absence of fellow patients positively reeks of expensive private wards and close personal attention.
“He’s alright, though, yeah?” John can’t keep the edge of panic out of his voice. The painkillers are making his defenses slow and his tongue loose.
“He’s perfectly well, Doctor. You managed to successfully impede the oncoming bullet, never fear.”
John feels his chest swell with relief. Trying to diagnose himself is useless, he knows. He cannot reach his charts in this position and is not about to ask Mycroft for anything more than he’s already done. Sighing, John resigns himself to his fate.
“How long have I been out?”
“You were rushed into A&E immediately after you blacked out at the scene,” Mycroft expounds, looking politely disinterested: crossed leg swinging delicately through the air, ubiquitous umbrella twirling lightly on its point. “You were in surgery for six hours and have been asleep for twelve. You were fairly lucky. The bullet passed cleanly through your lower abdomen with a minimal amount of damage to your internal organs. It nicked your lower intestine and caused a mild bout of sepsis, but they have you on steroids and antibiotics for that. Beyond that, you’re miraculously well. They expect a full recovery in a mere matter of weeks.”
John lets the relief wash through him in waves, half glad his injuries hadn’t been overly serious and half annoyed at Sherlock’s absence. “So, what? Sherlock just saw me to hospital and buggered off to finish the case?” John asks with a small self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh.
Mycroft’s eyebrow quirks up in a gesture uncannily like his younger brother. John stares at him for a few minutes before realization dawns cold and harsh. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he voices the idea he already knows to be true. “He hasn’t been at all, has he.”
Mycroft inclines his head with a pitying smile. John wants to hit him. His chest feels constricted, as though he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Sherlock hadn’t been to see him at all. He’d ordered John to remain alive, demanded he stay, but couldn’t be bothered to make sure he followed through with the command. John feels the last restraints in his heart break, but shrugs off the impending tears, blinking rapidly and trying to calm himself.
“Thank you, Mycroft,” John finally murmurs, voice soft and sounding empty even to his own ears. “Your attention is appreciated, but no longer necessary. Did they say when I’d be able to leave?”
Mycroft’s face is inscrutable, but after a moment, his mouth tightens in something that might be resignation. “John...”
John shakes his head stiffly. He doesn’t need Mycroft to make excuses for his brother. Sherlock has quite obviously made his position perfectly clear. “When?”
Mycroft’s sigh sounds put-upon and perhaps a bit impatient. “I rang for the nurse as soon as I saw you begin to wake. The doctor should be in shortly. You can ask him then.”
“Thank you,” John says. Mycroft hovers in his seat for another few minutes before rising gracefully to his feet. John feels numb, emotions bypassing sorrow completely and landing squarely in muted stoicism. He’s vaguely aware of Mycroft collecting his coat from the back of the nondescript waiting chair before turning towards the exit. He pauses at the door, familiar pale gaze sweeping over John in an unnaturally sharp manner.
“Doctor Watson,” he says softly and John feels his head tilt towards him as though in a daze. “My brother exceeds in many things. Where other men fail, he tends to excel without even trying. He’s undeniably brilliant, intelligent and extraordinarily observant. However, when it comes to matters of the heart, he can be unquestionably ignorant. Your patience thus far has been remarkable. I must commend you on your ability to tolerate him when most would have abandoned him as a lost cause.” John can feel his jaw clenching and knows he must be trembling. “All I ask is that you give him another chance. I’ve never seen him better than when he is with you.”
John honestly doesn’t know what to say.
: :
When John finally makes it back to 221 Baker Street, he’s already made his decision. He’d been in hospital for over a week, enduring doctors, nurses, DI Lestrade, half of Scotland Yard, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Harry and even Sarah, but Sherlock never came.
John had hated himself a little more every day; hated that every time the door would creak open, a little flutter of hope would start up in his chest, only to be crushed by the face of whomever was visiting him that wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He’d tried to be pleasant, tried to reassure everyone that he was going to be perfectly fine, that the injuries he’d sustained had been relatively minor compared to what they could be, but the ache in his chest deepened with every new well-wisher and he was sure the pain was showing plainly across his face. For the first time in his life, John was glad he had been injured, if only to have some kind of physical pain to ground himself and act as an excuse to the world for why he grimaced every time someone came in with a bunch of flowers or get-well card.
He doesn’t need much physical therapy, as the bullet had merely grazed the muscles in his lower back before passing through to the other side. He’ll be stiff for another few weeks and he is sporting fourteen stitches that will blossom into two more new and interesting scars, but physically he’s actually doing better than he could have ever expected. Mycroft had come back on the day he was discharged, complete with umbrella and impressively expensive black sedan to escort him home. John had promised the doctors he wouldn’t do any heavy lifting for at least a week while mentally calculating how much it will cost to hire movers. He won’t be able to pack and lift boxes until next week at the earliest, and even then he will have to watch that his stitches don’t pull unnecessarily.
Baker Street is quiet when he opens the door, and he thanks Mycroft for the lift home while avoiding his omniscient gaze. He ignores the overly formal “Take care, Doctor Watson,” and swings the door closed.
The house is oppressively silent. Mrs Hudson is probably out doing the shopping or catching up on the latest gossip with Mrs Turner’s Married Ones. If Sherlock is home, he’s being uncharacteristically quiet. John is almost glad of it. He’s honestly not sure what will happen when he sees Sherlock, but he’d bet another round of stitches whatever it is won’t be pleasant.
The sitting room is predictably empty. There’s a new set of bullet holes marking the ridiculous wallpaper and the refrigerator has absolutely nothing in it one might label “fit for human consumption.” John sighs and resigns himself to going to the shops in the morning.
What had he expected? To be welcomed home with flowers, balloons and a ticker tape parade? John snorts to himself and limps stiffly to one of the kitchen chairs. It’s not that he’d wanted some kind of monumental event to celebrate his return to the world of the functioning, but he would have appreciated some kind of acknowledgement from Sherlock.
The dark void in his chest seems to swell and John decides to make himself busy in the only way he can. Tugging his laptop from beneath several days’ worth of old newspapers, John opens the browser and begins the arduous task.
Two hours later, John’s set up four different appointments in locations scattered across London. None of the flats are much better than his pension-sponsored bedsit, but there’s no doubt in his mind he needs to get out. The sound of the outer door slamming startles him alert. His whole body tenses without his consent and he forces his shoulders to relax. Light footfalls on the stairs, skipping two at a time. Excited then, or possibly in a hurry.
The door flies open with the usual melodrama. Sherlock stops in the door frame, body completely still and rigid in a way unique only to him. He’s devastatingly beautiful: hair wild and mussed from the frigid, damp wind, mercurial eyes sparkling with interest, dark wool coat billowing out behind him with residual momentum.
“Afternoon,” John says, irrationally proud of how normal his voice sounds.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow to their usual laser-beam caliber and John can practically feel them burning tracks in their wake. It’s the most attention he’s given John in weeks and he feels the small tendrils of emotion flare back into life despite himself.
“You’ve begun looking for a new flat.” It’s not a question, but there’s something that looks suspiciously like disbelief or hurt in Sherlock’s pale gaze.
“I have.”
Sherlock looks momentarily speechless, his mouth opening around no words before his teeth click audibly closed. His jaw clenches and John can see his hands ball into tight fists at his sides.
“You’ll be alright,” he says without a hint of question.
“It appears so.” John tries not to grind his teeth too harshly, but it’s a struggle. “Nine days, Sherlock. I was in hospital nine days.”
“Yes,” Sherlock states as though this fact should be obvious. It is, but that’s not the point.
“Didn’t you even...?” John stops himself with a humorless laugh. “No, of course you didn’t. What am I saying? You barely care if I’m breathing most days.” John knows he’s ranting, knows this line of thought will get him nowhere but furious, but all the tumultuous thoughts that he’d been holding back in the hospital are flooding violently to the surface and it’s all he can do to keep himself from punching Sherlock in his smug, bony jaw. John’s palms itch with repressed sensations. Despite his anger, he’s missed Sherlock: missed the slide of his pale, ethereal skin, he’s missed the silky curls of his wild and impossible-to-tame hair, he’s missed the velvet depth of his voice as it caresses all the curves of John’s name.
“Nine. Days,” he bites out, bitterness laced through every syllable.
“Yes, John.” Sherlock sounds annoyed now, hating to repeat himself and impatient with it all. “And if there was anything seriously wrong, Mycroft would have--”
“Mycroft!” John shouts, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Don’t you care about me at all?”
The minute the words are out of his mouth, John wants to swallow them back in. He can practically see them as they drift across the room and Sherlock appears to physically recoil with their impact. Regret forms hot and acidic in his gut and he knows he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life. Sherlock seems to collapse in on himself, folding back all the vulnerability and affection he’s ever shown to John and replacing it with cold, hard indifference. John can see all his defenses snapping into place like a well-worn suit of armor. It breaks John’s heart.
With obvious calculation, Sherlock strips off his coat, hangs it on the peg by the door and takes measured steps to the sofa, folding himself onto the cushions with meticulous movements. He looks remarkably disinterested and the shuttered, aloof expression makes John’s blood run cold.
“When are you moving out?” Sherlock asks, carefully blank.
There doesn’t seem to be anything to say to that. John feels himself crumbling; all the emotions of the past month suddenly overwhelmingly heavy on his heart. It’s his own fault and he knows it. If he’d just had the self-discipline to either lay off entirely or just tell Sherlock exactly how he felt. Now he’s actually watching his chances slip out of his grasp.
He considers just launching himself forward, falling into Sherlock’s embrace and letting himself go, just once. He eyes the tense set of Sherlock’s shoulders and his rather forbidding expression and disregards that thought entirely. Sherlock won’t let him come within ten meters of him now and the thought sinks sickeningly down beneath John’s lungs and settles there, black and poisonous.
Gathering what’s left of his dignity, John turns towards the hall. “I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
He ignores the soft way Sherlock says his name and moves slowly up the stairs.
: :
John tries to ignore the ache in his chest as he calmly folds up the last of his jumpers and lays them carefully in the oversized cardboard box. Tearing off a piece of packing tape, he seals the box closed and takes one last look around his now bare bedroom. He’d folded Mrs Hudson’s quilt and tucked it along the bottom of the bare mattress, the only splash of color in the otherwise drab room.
Sounds echo unnaturally through the air as he shuffles the box out into the hall, wincing slightly as his stitches pull a little. He peeks into the wardrobe and sees only empty hangers looking strangely bereft without his collection of shirts swinging cheerfully from them. To his immense discomfort, John finds his throat thick and congested. The room seems so large suddenly and he wonders how he’d ever managed to fill all this space with his small collection of worldly possessions. A shaft of light seeps through the curtains, dust motes swirling through the air and sparkling forlornly.
The violin music trailing up the hall sounds disconcertingly melancholy and John feels a phantom pain shoot through his right leg as he dismounts the stairs, box in hand to join his army trunk and battered hand-me-down luggage. He briefly considers just leaving, continuing down the stairs until he reaches the street and making a clean break of the whole mess. He’s hesitating with his hand on the sitting room door when the violin abruptly stops.
The door flies open and John’s breath catches. Sherlock looks terrible; eyes dark and sunken with purple smudges surrounding them, hair a tangled mess, dressing gown trailing off one shoulder and deep frown lines across his brow. He’s got his absurd bottom lip trapped tightly between his teeth, worrying at the skin and causing John’s heart to break all over again. He doesn’t seem inclined to break the strained silence, so John finally sighs and clears his throat.
“Listen,” he starts, not knowing how to proceed.
“Don’t,” Sherlock stops him, hand hovering uncertainly in the air as though he desperately wants to reach out. “Don’t leave, John. Please.”
John closes his eyes against the flood of unwelcome emotions. He has to get out of here before he says or does something he will regret.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he sighs, hating how cracked and broken his voice sounds. He can’t bear to look at Sherlock right now, so he closes his eyes against the fresh swell of emotion and tries to harden his resolve. He needs to get out. Now.
“I know,” Sherlock’s voice sounds closer now, the air between them heating slowly. “I’m not good at this, John. Emotions are just a weakness, distracting me from the work. I have no coping mechanism to deal with how you make me feel, John. It’s distracting and frustrating and intolerable.” He sounds almost as frustrated and confused as John’s been these past months and it’s almost enough to shatter John’s stance. John’s eyes flutter open to lock with Sherlock’s and the lost expression shakes him to the core. “However, I cannot fathom not having you here.”
John feels his heart clench, but he knows this is his last chance to say everything he needs to before he’s gone for good. “It’s not that simple, Sherlock. I’m not just some tool you can use at your disposal. I know you hate to hear about them, but I do in fact have feelings, and I think at this point it’s fairly obvious how you feel as well.” John sighs again and raises his gaze to meet Sherlock’s once more. His eyes are a stormy grey, sharply focused as ever and the look is so quintessentially Sherlock that John feels his heart splinter in his chest.
“John,” he whispers, urgent and sharp and John just can’t.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says, voice thick and heavy with the definite threat of tears. John suddenly realizes he’s lingering with the hope that Sherlock will say something to fix all of this, to take back all the horrible things he’s said and done, to make the hurt go away. But just as quickly, he knows that’s impossible.
John wouldn’t love Sherlock if he were like everyone else. He wouldn’t need him, the way most people need oxygen. However, John also has enough self-preservation to cut off the gangrenous limb when it threatens the whole body, so he turns where he stands, feeling the shattered remains of his heart scatter on the floor and takes the first step towards the stairs.
Sherlock sucks in a shaky breath behind him and John feels his eyelashes flutter closed. Walking away is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but if he has any hope of getting out of this relatively unscathed, he knows it’s now or never. Pain laces up his right leg, and John stumbles, catching himself on the banister as his body threatens to give out.
He’s somewhat surprised at Sherlock’s continued silence, but seconds later the sound of the violin picks up again, low and heartbreakingly sad. John clamps down on the quick rush of anger, clinging to it and pushing it to the surface; anything to drown out the feeling of hopelessness threatening his very breath. Of course Sherlock has already moved on, dismissing John as a failed experiment and carrying on with his life as usual. Would that John could forget so easily.
Taking a deep breath and shaking himself mentally, John bends down to collect the boxes, wondering idly if he’ll be able to fit everything into a single taxi. He’ll have to stay with Harry for at least a couple weeks, enough time to sort out a new flat and possibly a new, steadier job. He vaguely hears the ping of his mobile, but it sounds like it’s coming from inside the flat and he’s not exactly comfortable going in anymore. He briefly considers leaving it behind, but knows Harry will give him an earful if he ends up without it.
It’s rather amazing how quickly this flat, his home has become so foreign to him. Well, he’s invaded foreign lands before, so why stop now? Finding it all rather ridiculous, John steels himself and pushes open the sitting room door. Sherlock is framed in the window, sawing away at his violin and studiously ignoring John as expected. John rummages around, lifting piles of old case files and shifting sheet music off the floor, firmly telling himself it’s absolutely pointless to get sentimental about the box of desiccated beetle eyes. After a quarter of an hour, John’s patience is wearing thin and his mobile is still stubbornly elusive.
Finally giving up on any semblance of a dignified exit, John turns to his former flatmate in resigned desperation. “Sherlock?” he says, proud that it comes out rock-solid.
“John,” Sherlock replies without even turning away from the window. The bow of his violin is perched delicately along the strings, though it’s stilled for the time being.
“Have you seen my mobile?”
“Coat pocket,” he rumbles and drags a long, melodious tone from the A string. John instantly pats his sides, but realizes with a wave of familiar exasperation that of course, Sherlock means his coat pocket. Crossing the room as quickly as his limp will allow, John fishes in the Belstaff for his mobile. His fingers close around the plastic and brush against something soft at the same time. Curious in spite of himself, John pulls out both items, pocketing his phone before turning to the patch of discolored fabric in his hand.
It is a ragged square of cable-knit wool, spattered across with what is unmistakably dried blood. John realizes in a flash of something like panic that it’s the bit of jumper the medics had had to cut off of him to get to the bullet wound the day he was shot. With a wave of nausea, John understands: Sherlock has been carrying this around for a fortnight. He must have felt it every time he reached into his pocket for his mobile or his cigarettes. With creeping realization, John remembers seeing Sherlock shove his hand in his pocket more frequently as of late as though it has become some kind of weird tic he can’t seem to shake. John just assumed he was searching for his mobile, but the idea of him reaching to touch this small piece of John is completely unfathomable.
With dawning horror, John realizes the sounds from the violin have stopped. He swallows down the confused tenderness and turns slowly to face Sherlock. He’s frozen in place, bow raised slightly above the strings, violin still perched precariously on his shoulder. His eyes are wide and a little bit fearful and as John watches, his gaze darts quickly between the fabric in John’s hand and his face before glancing away, a bright flush creeping up his neck.
It’s the most vulnerable John has ever seen him and the part of his heart that still resides in his chest gives a great heave of pressure. He looks back down at the wool, worrying the frayed edge with his thumb and trying to wrap his mind around this new information. It’s so undeniably sentimental that John suspects for a moment that it’s all a malicious joke.
“I...” he starts, feeling his throat constricted and swallowing around the lump of emotion. “Sherlock, I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing, John. Leave it be and get out.” Sherlock’s voice is definitely lacking the venom he intended and John looks up sharply, catching the defeated expression before Sherlock closes his eyes and visibly steels himself.
John narrows his eyes and grips the fabric tighter. “It’s obviously not ‘nothing.’”
Sherlock’s jaw clenches and he lets the violin drop from his shoulder to dangle at his side, bow scraping the sitting room floor slightly. He’s clearly trying to calm himself, taking deep breaths and tensing his shoulders. When he finally looks back up at John, his eyes are hard as cold steel. “I said leave it.”
“Sherlock,” John tries again, taking a tentative step forward.
Sherlock reels back, frigid hostility apparent in every fiber of his being. He’s practically vibrating with tension. “Oh piss off, John. I told you to Get. Out. You clearly made your decision to go a long time ago, so just go and leave me alone.”
John can feel the familiar rise of anger coming to his rescue, frustration and confusion clouding his judgment. “Why didn’t you say something?” he demands, crushing the wool into his tight fist.
“What was I to say?” Sherlock shouts back, violin sailing through the air and coming perilously close to colliding with the table. Startled, Sherlock drops the instrument back into its case before fisting his hands in his hair and groaning loudly. “You obviously weren’t happy with me or our relationship. What more could I do for you than to let you go?”
John feels his head spinning. He suddenly knows with absolute clarity that this is what Sherlock’s been doing: the most unselfish act he could think of. Pushing John away as a self-deprecating act of altruism, knowing he could never give John what he ultimately thought he deserved.
“You,” John says, breathless and heart racing, “are a colossal idiot.”
Sherlock’s head snaps up, eyes wide and uncertain. John feels his face split into a watery grin and he closes the distance between them in two swift strides, practically launching himself into Sherlock’s startled embrace. Sherlock catches him and staggers back, arms instinctively wrapping around John and crushing him into his ribs. He is trembling, John realizes, shaking like a leaf as he smoothes one hand down John’s back and winds his long fingers into the wool of his jumper.
“Please don’t leave me, John,” he whispers into his hair. “Don’t leave.”
John clutches him tighter and buries his face into the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt, reveling in the warmth and smell of him. He can feel his chest expanding with overwhelming emotion and runs his lips lightly across Sherlock’s sharp collarbone. He feels the hitch of breath against his own chest and the spasm that shoots through Sherlock’s arms where they wind tightly around his back.
“I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs into pale skin.
Sherlock tightens his hold, bony ribs and overly pronounced hip bones digging into John’s body in a way far too familiar. John buries his face into Sherlock’s sternum and lets himself breathe. It feels like coming home. All the tension, all the anger and resentment seems to melt as Sherlock squeezes him closer.
“I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock whispers into the top of John’s head. “I can’t bear to think about it, John. I’d be lost without you.”
John feels the giddy happiness bubbling up. Emotional rollercoaster doesn’t even begin to cover it. He feels too much, too many emotions welling up inside his chest, but the incredible relief overwhelms them all.
“I can’t believe you almost let me walk out of here,” John mutters into a sharp collarbone. The words are muffled by the wide grin he can’t seem to suppress. He feels like a fourth former with his first crush.
“You should leave your things down here,” Sherlock breathes, still clearly reluctant to let John out of his tight embrace. There’s no need: John has no intention of going anywhere ever again. Slowly, Sherlock’s words trickle past the shock and drama and John looks up sharply. His startled laughter of utter incredulity is shockingly loud in the small space of the stairwell.
“Sherlock Holmes, did you just ask me to move in with you?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes with the most long-suffering expression John’s ever seen. “Redundant, John, really.”
John knows he’s playing with fire, but he can’t help it as his hands sweep up the long expanse of Sherlock’s back. His voice sounds husky even to his own ears. “If you’re telling me you’d rather I never left your bedroom...”
“Well, it seems a shame to bring everything back up, “ Sherlock says, feigning innocence and ruining it by the upward tilt of his lower lip.
John buries his face into Sherlock’s pale neck and allows his lips to linger against his racing pulse.
“Idiot,” John whispers fondly and it sounds an awful lot like I love you. Sherlock finally lets him go, ducking around John and grabbing a few boxes before sending a cheeky wink over his shoulder and sashaying through to his bedroom. John watches him go with a thrilling sense of wonder. As he’s bending to gather his suitcase, he hears Sherlock pause in the doorway.
“I...” He looks hesitant and unsure and that expression alone makes John uneasy like nothing else. John waits with bated breath as Sherlock clearly steels himself before fixing John with his usual piercing stare. “I can’t promise to be everything you want, John. I’m not saying this is easy for me at all. I’ll probably drive you mad with worry, and don’t expect any overt declarations of emotion or overzealous displays of affection. I won’t change, John, but... I’ll try.”
John lets out a shaky breath and closes the distance between them. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s bony shoulders, he presses a small kiss against his mouth.
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing in a little harder and sweeping his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips. He shivers when Sherlock’s long fingers skim up the back of his neck. “I know.”
They will undoubtedly fight and they will fuck and they will bicker and they will laugh and they will storm out and they will order takeaway and they will survive on adrenaline and danger and it will be glorious. John feels the slow smile spread across his face, full of affection and exasperation. It won’t be easy, but it will be perfect.
You left your thumbprint inside me
Now for months it seems
But mine only brushes your soft surface
And somehow, somehow it leaves me listless
My tongue curls under my lips, oh yes
So I can’t speak to tell you of the months before when I met you, love
~Jason Mraz, 0% Interest
Recipient:
beenghosting (teahigh)Author:
pandoras_chaosBeta/Brit Pick:
aki_hoshi and thesmallhobbitPairing: Holmes/Watson
Word count: ~23,500
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: unhealthy relationships, emotional masochism, explicit sex, anal sex, rimming, unsafe sex, angst
Summary: It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Author’s Note: Dear
beenghosting, I’m really hoping this is up to snuff. I’m not going to lie, I was a little intimidated when I got your name in my prompt, but I’m hoping I did your ideas justice. It kind of turned into a monster of a story and John and I have gotten rather close because of it. Enjoy, love :DEpic thanks to my lovely betas for their lightnight-fast work and for putting up with my constant demands for attention and opinions. Title borrowed from the wonderful and talented Jason Mraz.
That night had been one of the worst nights of John’s life. Through all the turmoil and rejection Sherlock’s been putting him through, John has still been holding out hope that one day, Sherlock might come to his senses. He knows it’s a futile thought: Sherlock is callous and unapologetic and rude and caustic and even rather morbid on most occasions, but there was always something, some little quirk in his smile or glint in his eye that made John think he was in on the joke; that even if the rest of the world would never understand him, John was allowed access to Sherlock’s inevitable humanity. To have that hope ripped away from him, to find out that he had so miscalculated Sherlock’s feelings for him burns like acid in his veins.
It seems like every time he voices his opinion regarding their... whatever this is, Sherlock cuts him down faster than he can erect a good argument. John’s tried to quell the remorse, tried to tell himself it’s pointless to feel guilty over wanting something every normal human craves, but Sherlock has never been normal, and John feels like he’s asking so much of the man, even when it would be second nature to anyone with a beating heart. He knows Sherlock wants him, cares about him, needs him in a way that’s alarmingly uncomfortable. The evidence is so glaringly obvious, even a mundane mind like John’s can see it. He doesn’t want to push Sherlock, but it’s getting harder every day to justify his own feelings when Sherlock is so blatantly ignoring his. The fact that Sherlock had accused him of not understanding him, of demanding more of him than John had ever dared ask for makes dark tendrils of rage curl through his consciousness. If Sherlock only knew how much John never says, how much he doesn’t ask, how much he wants, but refuses to take, it would have been a very different argument indeed.
And the part that breaks John the most is that despite Sherlock’s ever-changing moods, his flippant regard for John’s emotions and his blatant refusal to acknowledge his own, John finds himself clinging to whatever he can get. It’s sick, the way he’s still trailing after the man, clutching at whatever small bits of sentimentality Sherlock gives to him and working himself up into lathers of emotional masochism when it’s obvious Sherlock doesn’t feel the same. It’s those small glimpses of Sherlock’s soul that keep John hooked on the edge of sanity, the moments when Sherlock seems vulnerable and wanting, that if John were to refuse him, he would shatter into a million pieces. That protective, possessive instinct is what kept John sane through the war, and the feeling of being needed had kept him alive. After his discharge, he’d felt so listless, drifting on a sea of idle uselessness until he’d met this brilliant, broken man. He’d seen it in Sherlock; that base need and John had scrambled to comply.
Now he feels as though he’s failed. If Sherlock doesn’t want him, if he thinks John doesn’t understand his needs anymore, what use is John to anyone?
John had waged a silent war within himself when the door slammed, the cacophony of emotions and unrequited desire clouding his judgment so even time itself seemed distant and unnatural. Nothing had ever shaken him quite so hard. Even Afghanistan had seemed tame compared to the deserted landscape left over when Sherlock had stormed out of the flat after telling John to leave. He’d finally mustered up enough physical strength to get him up the stairs to his room, only to spend the hours tossing and turning, waiting for Sherlock to return.
He’d come home at half four and even John could hear him stumbling as he mounted the stairs, his usual light-footed stride heavy and leaden with something John didn’t want to think about. He’d been peering at Sherlock covertly over the past few days, looking for any sign of a relapse, but either Sherlock had managed to resist the pull of cocaine, or he’d hidden it enough for John’s medically trained surveillance not to notice.
Every time John thinks about the idea of Sherlock slipping back into his drug habits, a hot wave of guilt crashes through him quickly followed by a bright flare of righteous anger. He flat out refuses to feel guilty for standing up for himself, for making his feelings heard, regardless of how reluctant Sherlock is to hear about them. Sherlock is mad, but not nearly as sociopathic as he pretends to be and the fact that he will not even try for John hurts more than he’d ever thought possible. John tries not to worry, but he finds his eyes wandering towards Sherlock’s open shirtsleeves whenever he stands still long enough. Worst still is the fact that John knows Sherlock is aware of his scrutiny, aware of just how much he’s distressing John and doing absolutely nothing to assuage the thoughts running circles in his head.
Three incredibly tense days later and John finds himself at a crime scene, watching from a reluctantly respectful distance as Sherlock pokes and prods at the latest victim while Anderson seethes quietly in the corner. Sherlock is in rare form, swooping through the police officers like a giant overgrown bat. He scarcely spares a glance in John’s direction and even the MET can clearly tell there’s more tension between them than usual.
The past three days have been miserable and John is frankly exhausted. He’s bone-weary with fighting and feels as though something buried deep in his chest has curled up and died, leaving him vulnerable and drained. Sherlock has barely spoken to him at all, passing him in the flat as though he’s not even there. John feels like he’s living with a ghost, the furniture and fixtures moving around the flat without seeing who or what is disturbing them. The one time he did finally deign to communicate was to ask John when he planned on moving out so Sherlock could arrange for a sublet. That had sliced through John like a physical blow.
Despite his current angst, John finds his eyes straying appreciatively over Sherlock’s form as he moves, agile as a cat, his long coat swaying behind him with full dramatic flair. He really is unfairly beautiful, John thinks, watching Sherlock’s long legs unfold as he stands and strides over towards Lestrade, who is watching avidly as Sherlock unravels the whole story without taking a breath.
“Surely even you lot noticed the way his fingers have been wiped clean with antiseptic,” Sherlock is saying, pacing back and forth and studiously ignoring all propriety as he steps over the body. “It was obviously the brother-in-law, judging by the lack of receipts in the wallet and the entry point. Find Nicholas Effington and you’ll have everything you need.”
“Alright,” Lestrade says, managing to sound both put-upon and begrudgingly impressed. “But how did he get out?”
“Ah,” Sherlock says, turning to shoot a positively gleeful look in John’s direction, the left corner of his mouth quirking into an almost indecent smirk. Their eyes catch and John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s gaze flair all the way up his spine, pale irises alive and bright with the thrill of the chase. “That’s the beauty of the locked room mystery. How indeed?”
It’s the first time he’s actually looked at John in days and John feels the familiar curl of delight flare through him like lightning. He’s still angry, but while his temper is short, it’s the residual melancholy that’s been bothering him most. It almost feels normal again and John breathes a sigh of unmitigated relief, tension seeping from shoulders he hadn’t even realized had been seizing all week.
John finds himself grinning back in return, even though he’s completely clueless as to why. He has no idea where the killer could have gone, nor how Sherlock could possibly know it was Effington out of all the possible suspects. Sherlock is still staring at him, eyes gleaming and a high flush spreading across his cheeks. John’s vaguely aware of the buzz of police officers around them, Lestrade barking orders to the rest of his team and the forensic photographers snapping away, lights flashing, but all his attention is arrested by the familiar heat unfurling between them.
John feels trapped--caught in the beam of Sherlock’s incredible focus. He feels flayed open, pinned to a dissecting tray with innards spilling forth, heart and lungs and intestines displayed. Sherlock’s eyes strip him down, tear him open and claim his very being with just one glance. And Christ, how he’d missed this.
Dimly, John’s aware of his own body’s reaction: pupils dilating, limbs tensing in anticipation, pulse thudding loudly in his ears. Sherlock’s breath catches in his chest and his attitude changes from excited frenzy into something feral, carnal desire altering his whole demeanor. John can feel his own libido answering and wonders idly how the rest of the Yard is missing the distinct swirl of pheromones tingeing the very air. Sherlock’s eyes darken and John finds himself biting down on his own lip to stifle the ludicrous groan trying to force its way through his throat.
Something catches in John’s peripheral vision: a small movement that seems at once out of order and completely predictable. His body is moving before he’s even aware of what’s happening, power shifting to his legs as he lunges across the room and rugby tackles Sherlock to the ground, the sound of the shot ringing through the room like a bomb. John feels the sharp sensation of pain in his lower back, a small metal projectile tearing through flesh and bone.
There’s a split second of unnatural silence before all hell breaks loose. John can hear Lestrade shouting, panic and confusion infusing the room as Nicholas Effington is tackled to the ground by no less than four police officers.
Sherlock is panting beneath him, his heart beating a rapid tattoo through his ribs and into John’s. There’s raw panic on his face and his lips are moving, eyebrows drawn together in concern and something darker. John’s dimly aware of Sherlock’s long fingers curled tightly around his shoulders, shaking him slightly. His mouth is still working, tongue and teeth forming words that John cannot hear. Why can’t he hear? There’s a buzzing sound drowning out all the noise in the room and small lights seem to be popping in his vision.
John blinks slowly, feeling his limbs slipping into the numbness he’s come to associate with major trauma. He can feel the adrenaline coursing through his system, dissipating as the shock sets in and overwhelms him.
The buzzing is getting worse, though John can vaguely hear Sherlock’s voice rumbling through the white noise, his tone tight and commanding.
“John. Stay awake. John! Don’t you dare leave me...”
But that’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Sherlock told him to leave, doesn’t want him. John’s head feels full of cotton, blinding pain finally catching up with him and searing through his bones like wildfire.
The psychosomatic scent of gunpowder saturates the air and through the haze of pain and shock, John can hear the startlingly loud noise of helicopters overhead and the very air feels charged with the phantom sounds of distant explosions. John blinks heavily, trying to force away the vision of sand and sun, the feeling of heat and exhaustion, rising panic making his breath catch. The hands around his shoulders are not covered in pixilated camouflage, the voice ringing in his head is not of medics or corporals. Long, pale fingers brush the hair off his forehead and John forces himself to focus, Sherlock’s voice cloaking him like warm honey.
“Sherlock,” he starts, but it comes out wet and pathetic, more jumble of consonants than an actual word. There’s a grey fog permeating the edges of his vision, but Sherlock’s irises are a bright, clear blue. John feels the muscles in his face moving, stretching into something resembling a smile.
“’M sorry,” he slurs and slips into darkness.
: :
Cold. John is cold. Itchy, over starched sheets rub against his skin, mouth tastes foul. Blearily, John opens his eyes, vision swimming in stark colors of white and red. Lights pop overhead and he’s distantly aware of people talking all around him, though his own voice seems far away and feeble. He swallows around the dry mouth and recognizes the distinct, antiseptic smell of hospital before he remembers what he’s doing here.
Blinking hard to clear the residual haze, John tries to focus. There’s a figure at his left side, long-limbed and obviously tall. John shakes his head slightly, annoyed with the fog that seems to permeate everything. The man shifts, all long legs and bespoke trousers and mobile phone and... pocket watch. Umbrella. Mycroft.
“Ah, Doctor Watson,” comes the honeyed tones, mock geniality thick over gravel and glass. “Glad to see you’re with us once more.”
“Mycroft,” he grits out. John tries to sit up and winces, falling back onto the bed with a gasp of pain. He’s vaguely aware of the beeping heart rate monitor, the IV drip hanging next to his bed and the needle firmly lodged in the back of his hand. Taking a tentative swipe at the sheets reveals a plethora of gauze wrapping neatly around his right hip and the vague metallic taste on the back of his tongue intensifies.
Snatches of memory are beginning to tug at his mind: crime scene, Anderson looking horrid, Lestrade musing on the locked room, the corpse in the middle of the floor, Sherlock’s eyes boring into John’s, Sherlock’s face as the shot rang out, Sherlock’s voice through the cloud of pain... Sherlock.
“Where is he?” John asks, trying and failing to keep his voice steady.
“Ah,” Mycroft actually looks somewhat uncomfortable for a moment, but the expression clears into bemused indifference seconds later. “I’m afraid he’s been unavoidably detained for the time being. However, I am here should you require any... assistance.” He says it like a malediction and John is embarrassingly aware of how much he probably owes to this man for the hospital bills already. The room is startlingly quiet and the absence of fellow patients positively reeks of expensive private wards and close personal attention.
“He’s alright, though, yeah?” John can’t keep the edge of panic out of his voice. The painkillers are making his defenses slow and his tongue loose.
“He’s perfectly well, Doctor. You managed to successfully impede the oncoming bullet, never fear.”
John feels his chest swell with relief. Trying to diagnose himself is useless, he knows. He cannot reach his charts in this position and is not about to ask Mycroft for anything more than he’s already done. Sighing, John resigns himself to his fate.
“How long have I been out?”
“You were rushed into A&E immediately after you blacked out at the scene,” Mycroft expounds, looking politely disinterested: crossed leg swinging delicately through the air, ubiquitous umbrella twirling lightly on its point. “You were in surgery for six hours and have been asleep for twelve. You were fairly lucky. The bullet passed cleanly through your lower abdomen with a minimal amount of damage to your internal organs. It nicked your lower intestine and caused a mild bout of sepsis, but they have you on steroids and antibiotics for that. Beyond that, you’re miraculously well. They expect a full recovery in a mere matter of weeks.”
John lets the relief wash through him in waves, half glad his injuries hadn’t been overly serious and half annoyed at Sherlock’s absence. “So, what? Sherlock just saw me to hospital and buggered off to finish the case?” John asks with a small self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh.
Mycroft’s eyebrow quirks up in a gesture uncannily like his younger brother. John stares at him for a few minutes before realization dawns cold and harsh. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he voices the idea he already knows to be true. “He hasn’t been at all, has he.”
Mycroft inclines his head with a pitying smile. John wants to hit him. His chest feels constricted, as though he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Sherlock hadn’t been to see him at all. He’d ordered John to remain alive, demanded he stay, but couldn’t be bothered to make sure he followed through with the command. John feels the last restraints in his heart break, but shrugs off the impending tears, blinking rapidly and trying to calm himself.
“Thank you, Mycroft,” John finally murmurs, voice soft and sounding empty even to his own ears. “Your attention is appreciated, but no longer necessary. Did they say when I’d be able to leave?”
Mycroft’s face is inscrutable, but after a moment, his mouth tightens in something that might be resignation. “John...”
John shakes his head stiffly. He doesn’t need Mycroft to make excuses for his brother. Sherlock has quite obviously made his position perfectly clear. “When?”
Mycroft’s sigh sounds put-upon and perhaps a bit impatient. “I rang for the nurse as soon as I saw you begin to wake. The doctor should be in shortly. You can ask him then.”
“Thank you,” John says. Mycroft hovers in his seat for another few minutes before rising gracefully to his feet. John feels numb, emotions bypassing sorrow completely and landing squarely in muted stoicism. He’s vaguely aware of Mycroft collecting his coat from the back of the nondescript waiting chair before turning towards the exit. He pauses at the door, familiar pale gaze sweeping over John in an unnaturally sharp manner.
“Doctor Watson,” he says softly and John feels his head tilt towards him as though in a daze. “My brother exceeds in many things. Where other men fail, he tends to excel without even trying. He’s undeniably brilliant, intelligent and extraordinarily observant. However, when it comes to matters of the heart, he can be unquestionably ignorant. Your patience thus far has been remarkable. I must commend you on your ability to tolerate him when most would have abandoned him as a lost cause.” John can feel his jaw clenching and knows he must be trembling. “All I ask is that you give him another chance. I’ve never seen him better than when he is with you.”
John honestly doesn’t know what to say.
: :
When John finally makes it back to 221 Baker Street, he’s already made his decision. He’d been in hospital for over a week, enduring doctors, nurses, DI Lestrade, half of Scotland Yard, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Harry and even Sarah, but Sherlock never came.
John had hated himself a little more every day; hated that every time the door would creak open, a little flutter of hope would start up in his chest, only to be crushed by the face of whomever was visiting him that wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He’d tried to be pleasant, tried to reassure everyone that he was going to be perfectly fine, that the injuries he’d sustained had been relatively minor compared to what they could be, but the ache in his chest deepened with every new well-wisher and he was sure the pain was showing plainly across his face. For the first time in his life, John was glad he had been injured, if only to have some kind of physical pain to ground himself and act as an excuse to the world for why he grimaced every time someone came in with a bunch of flowers or get-well card.
He doesn’t need much physical therapy, as the bullet had merely grazed the muscles in his lower back before passing through to the other side. He’ll be stiff for another few weeks and he is sporting fourteen stitches that will blossom into two more new and interesting scars, but physically he’s actually doing better than he could have ever expected. Mycroft had come back on the day he was discharged, complete with umbrella and impressively expensive black sedan to escort him home. John had promised the doctors he wouldn’t do any heavy lifting for at least a week while mentally calculating how much it will cost to hire movers. He won’t be able to pack and lift boxes until next week at the earliest, and even then he will have to watch that his stitches don’t pull unnecessarily.
Baker Street is quiet when he opens the door, and he thanks Mycroft for the lift home while avoiding his omniscient gaze. He ignores the overly formal “Take care, Doctor Watson,” and swings the door closed.
The house is oppressively silent. Mrs Hudson is probably out doing the shopping or catching up on the latest gossip with Mrs Turner’s Married Ones. If Sherlock is home, he’s being uncharacteristically quiet. John is almost glad of it. He’s honestly not sure what will happen when he sees Sherlock, but he’d bet another round of stitches whatever it is won’t be pleasant.
The sitting room is predictably empty. There’s a new set of bullet holes marking the ridiculous wallpaper and the refrigerator has absolutely nothing in it one might label “fit for human consumption.” John sighs and resigns himself to going to the shops in the morning.
What had he expected? To be welcomed home with flowers, balloons and a ticker tape parade? John snorts to himself and limps stiffly to one of the kitchen chairs. It’s not that he’d wanted some kind of monumental event to celebrate his return to the world of the functioning, but he would have appreciated some kind of acknowledgement from Sherlock.
The dark void in his chest seems to swell and John decides to make himself busy in the only way he can. Tugging his laptop from beneath several days’ worth of old newspapers, John opens the browser and begins the arduous task.
Two hours later, John’s set up four different appointments in locations scattered across London. None of the flats are much better than his pension-sponsored bedsit, but there’s no doubt in his mind he needs to get out. The sound of the outer door slamming startles him alert. His whole body tenses without his consent and he forces his shoulders to relax. Light footfalls on the stairs, skipping two at a time. Excited then, or possibly in a hurry.
The door flies open with the usual melodrama. Sherlock stops in the door frame, body completely still and rigid in a way unique only to him. He’s devastatingly beautiful: hair wild and mussed from the frigid, damp wind, mercurial eyes sparkling with interest, dark wool coat billowing out behind him with residual momentum.
“Afternoon,” John says, irrationally proud of how normal his voice sounds.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow to their usual laser-beam caliber and John can practically feel them burning tracks in their wake. It’s the most attention he’s given John in weeks and he feels the small tendrils of emotion flare back into life despite himself.
“You’ve begun looking for a new flat.” It’s not a question, but there’s something that looks suspiciously like disbelief or hurt in Sherlock’s pale gaze.
“I have.”
Sherlock looks momentarily speechless, his mouth opening around no words before his teeth click audibly closed. His jaw clenches and John can see his hands ball into tight fists at his sides.
“You’ll be alright,” he says without a hint of question.
“It appears so.” John tries not to grind his teeth too harshly, but it’s a struggle. “Nine days, Sherlock. I was in hospital nine days.”
“Yes,” Sherlock states as though this fact should be obvious. It is, but that’s not the point.
“Didn’t you even...?” John stops himself with a humorless laugh. “No, of course you didn’t. What am I saying? You barely care if I’m breathing most days.” John knows he’s ranting, knows this line of thought will get him nowhere but furious, but all the tumultuous thoughts that he’d been holding back in the hospital are flooding violently to the surface and it’s all he can do to keep himself from punching Sherlock in his smug, bony jaw. John’s palms itch with repressed sensations. Despite his anger, he’s missed Sherlock: missed the slide of his pale, ethereal skin, he’s missed the silky curls of his wild and impossible-to-tame hair, he’s missed the velvet depth of his voice as it caresses all the curves of John’s name.
“Nine. Days,” he bites out, bitterness laced through every syllable.
“Yes, John.” Sherlock sounds annoyed now, hating to repeat himself and impatient with it all. “And if there was anything seriously wrong, Mycroft would have--”
“Mycroft!” John shouts, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Don’t you care about me at all?”
The minute the words are out of his mouth, John wants to swallow them back in. He can practically see them as they drift across the room and Sherlock appears to physically recoil with their impact. Regret forms hot and acidic in his gut and he knows he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life. Sherlock seems to collapse in on himself, folding back all the vulnerability and affection he’s ever shown to John and replacing it with cold, hard indifference. John can see all his defenses snapping into place like a well-worn suit of armor. It breaks John’s heart.
With obvious calculation, Sherlock strips off his coat, hangs it on the peg by the door and takes measured steps to the sofa, folding himself onto the cushions with meticulous movements. He looks remarkably disinterested and the shuttered, aloof expression makes John’s blood run cold.
“When are you moving out?” Sherlock asks, carefully blank.
There doesn’t seem to be anything to say to that. John feels himself crumbling; all the emotions of the past month suddenly overwhelmingly heavy on his heart. It’s his own fault and he knows it. If he’d just had the self-discipline to either lay off entirely or just tell Sherlock exactly how he felt. Now he’s actually watching his chances slip out of his grasp.
He considers just launching himself forward, falling into Sherlock’s embrace and letting himself go, just once. He eyes the tense set of Sherlock’s shoulders and his rather forbidding expression and disregards that thought entirely. Sherlock won’t let him come within ten meters of him now and the thought sinks sickeningly down beneath John’s lungs and settles there, black and poisonous.
Gathering what’s left of his dignity, John turns towards the hall. “I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
He ignores the soft way Sherlock says his name and moves slowly up the stairs.
: :
John tries to ignore the ache in his chest as he calmly folds up the last of his jumpers and lays them carefully in the oversized cardboard box. Tearing off a piece of packing tape, he seals the box closed and takes one last look around his now bare bedroom. He’d folded Mrs Hudson’s quilt and tucked it along the bottom of the bare mattress, the only splash of color in the otherwise drab room.
Sounds echo unnaturally through the air as he shuffles the box out into the hall, wincing slightly as his stitches pull a little. He peeks into the wardrobe and sees only empty hangers looking strangely bereft without his collection of shirts swinging cheerfully from them. To his immense discomfort, John finds his throat thick and congested. The room seems so large suddenly and he wonders how he’d ever managed to fill all this space with his small collection of worldly possessions. A shaft of light seeps through the curtains, dust motes swirling through the air and sparkling forlornly.
The violin music trailing up the hall sounds disconcertingly melancholy and John feels a phantom pain shoot through his right leg as he dismounts the stairs, box in hand to join his army trunk and battered hand-me-down luggage. He briefly considers just leaving, continuing down the stairs until he reaches the street and making a clean break of the whole mess. He’s hesitating with his hand on the sitting room door when the violin abruptly stops.
The door flies open and John’s breath catches. Sherlock looks terrible; eyes dark and sunken with purple smudges surrounding them, hair a tangled mess, dressing gown trailing off one shoulder and deep frown lines across his brow. He’s got his absurd bottom lip trapped tightly between his teeth, worrying at the skin and causing John’s heart to break all over again. He doesn’t seem inclined to break the strained silence, so John finally sighs and clears his throat.
“Listen,” he starts, not knowing how to proceed.
“Don’t,” Sherlock stops him, hand hovering uncertainly in the air as though he desperately wants to reach out. “Don’t leave, John. Please.”
John closes his eyes against the flood of unwelcome emotions. He has to get out of here before he says or does something he will regret.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he sighs, hating how cracked and broken his voice sounds. He can’t bear to look at Sherlock right now, so he closes his eyes against the fresh swell of emotion and tries to harden his resolve. He needs to get out. Now.
“I know,” Sherlock’s voice sounds closer now, the air between them heating slowly. “I’m not good at this, John. Emotions are just a weakness, distracting me from the work. I have no coping mechanism to deal with how you make me feel, John. It’s distracting and frustrating and intolerable.” He sounds almost as frustrated and confused as John’s been these past months and it’s almost enough to shatter John’s stance. John’s eyes flutter open to lock with Sherlock’s and the lost expression shakes him to the core. “However, I cannot fathom not having you here.”
John feels his heart clench, but he knows this is his last chance to say everything he needs to before he’s gone for good. “It’s not that simple, Sherlock. I’m not just some tool you can use at your disposal. I know you hate to hear about them, but I do in fact have feelings, and I think at this point it’s fairly obvious how you feel as well.” John sighs again and raises his gaze to meet Sherlock’s once more. His eyes are a stormy grey, sharply focused as ever and the look is so quintessentially Sherlock that John feels his heart splinter in his chest.
“John,” he whispers, urgent and sharp and John just can’t.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says, voice thick and heavy with the definite threat of tears. John suddenly realizes he’s lingering with the hope that Sherlock will say something to fix all of this, to take back all the horrible things he’s said and done, to make the hurt go away. But just as quickly, he knows that’s impossible.
John wouldn’t love Sherlock if he were like everyone else. He wouldn’t need him, the way most people need oxygen. However, John also has enough self-preservation to cut off the gangrenous limb when it threatens the whole body, so he turns where he stands, feeling the shattered remains of his heart scatter on the floor and takes the first step towards the stairs.
Sherlock sucks in a shaky breath behind him and John feels his eyelashes flutter closed. Walking away is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but if he has any hope of getting out of this relatively unscathed, he knows it’s now or never. Pain laces up his right leg, and John stumbles, catching himself on the banister as his body threatens to give out.
He’s somewhat surprised at Sherlock’s continued silence, but seconds later the sound of the violin picks up again, low and heartbreakingly sad. John clamps down on the quick rush of anger, clinging to it and pushing it to the surface; anything to drown out the feeling of hopelessness threatening his very breath. Of course Sherlock has already moved on, dismissing John as a failed experiment and carrying on with his life as usual. Would that John could forget so easily.
Taking a deep breath and shaking himself mentally, John bends down to collect the boxes, wondering idly if he’ll be able to fit everything into a single taxi. He’ll have to stay with Harry for at least a couple weeks, enough time to sort out a new flat and possibly a new, steadier job. He vaguely hears the ping of his mobile, but it sounds like it’s coming from inside the flat and he’s not exactly comfortable going in anymore. He briefly considers leaving it behind, but knows Harry will give him an earful if he ends up without it.
It’s rather amazing how quickly this flat, his home has become so foreign to him. Well, he’s invaded foreign lands before, so why stop now? Finding it all rather ridiculous, John steels himself and pushes open the sitting room door. Sherlock is framed in the window, sawing away at his violin and studiously ignoring John as expected. John rummages around, lifting piles of old case files and shifting sheet music off the floor, firmly telling himself it’s absolutely pointless to get sentimental about the box of desiccated beetle eyes. After a quarter of an hour, John’s patience is wearing thin and his mobile is still stubbornly elusive.
Finally giving up on any semblance of a dignified exit, John turns to his former flatmate in resigned desperation. “Sherlock?” he says, proud that it comes out rock-solid.
“John,” Sherlock replies without even turning away from the window. The bow of his violin is perched delicately along the strings, though it’s stilled for the time being.
“Have you seen my mobile?”
“Coat pocket,” he rumbles and drags a long, melodious tone from the A string. John instantly pats his sides, but realizes with a wave of familiar exasperation that of course, Sherlock means his coat pocket. Crossing the room as quickly as his limp will allow, John fishes in the Belstaff for his mobile. His fingers close around the plastic and brush against something soft at the same time. Curious in spite of himself, John pulls out both items, pocketing his phone before turning to the patch of discolored fabric in his hand.
It is a ragged square of cable-knit wool, spattered across with what is unmistakably dried blood. John realizes in a flash of something like panic that it’s the bit of jumper the medics had had to cut off of him to get to the bullet wound the day he was shot. With a wave of nausea, John understands: Sherlock has been carrying this around for a fortnight. He must have felt it every time he reached into his pocket for his mobile or his cigarettes. With creeping realization, John remembers seeing Sherlock shove his hand in his pocket more frequently as of late as though it has become some kind of weird tic he can’t seem to shake. John just assumed he was searching for his mobile, but the idea of him reaching to touch this small piece of John is completely unfathomable.
With dawning horror, John realizes the sounds from the violin have stopped. He swallows down the confused tenderness and turns slowly to face Sherlock. He’s frozen in place, bow raised slightly above the strings, violin still perched precariously on his shoulder. His eyes are wide and a little bit fearful and as John watches, his gaze darts quickly between the fabric in John’s hand and his face before glancing away, a bright flush creeping up his neck.
It’s the most vulnerable John has ever seen him and the part of his heart that still resides in his chest gives a great heave of pressure. He looks back down at the wool, worrying the frayed edge with his thumb and trying to wrap his mind around this new information. It’s so undeniably sentimental that John suspects for a moment that it’s all a malicious joke.
“I...” he starts, feeling his throat constricted and swallowing around the lump of emotion. “Sherlock, I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing, John. Leave it be and get out.” Sherlock’s voice is definitely lacking the venom he intended and John looks up sharply, catching the defeated expression before Sherlock closes his eyes and visibly steels himself.
John narrows his eyes and grips the fabric tighter. “It’s obviously not ‘nothing.’”
Sherlock’s jaw clenches and he lets the violin drop from his shoulder to dangle at his side, bow scraping the sitting room floor slightly. He’s clearly trying to calm himself, taking deep breaths and tensing his shoulders. When he finally looks back up at John, his eyes are hard as cold steel. “I said leave it.”
“Sherlock,” John tries again, taking a tentative step forward.
Sherlock reels back, frigid hostility apparent in every fiber of his being. He’s practically vibrating with tension. “Oh piss off, John. I told you to Get. Out. You clearly made your decision to go a long time ago, so just go and leave me alone.”
John can feel the familiar rise of anger coming to his rescue, frustration and confusion clouding his judgment. “Why didn’t you say something?” he demands, crushing the wool into his tight fist.
“What was I to say?” Sherlock shouts back, violin sailing through the air and coming perilously close to colliding with the table. Startled, Sherlock drops the instrument back into its case before fisting his hands in his hair and groaning loudly. “You obviously weren’t happy with me or our relationship. What more could I do for you than to let you go?”
John feels his head spinning. He suddenly knows with absolute clarity that this is what Sherlock’s been doing: the most unselfish act he could think of. Pushing John away as a self-deprecating act of altruism, knowing he could never give John what he ultimately thought he deserved.
“You,” John says, breathless and heart racing, “are a colossal idiot.”
Sherlock’s head snaps up, eyes wide and uncertain. John feels his face split into a watery grin and he closes the distance between them in two swift strides, practically launching himself into Sherlock’s startled embrace. Sherlock catches him and staggers back, arms instinctively wrapping around John and crushing him into his ribs. He is trembling, John realizes, shaking like a leaf as he smoothes one hand down John’s back and winds his long fingers into the wool of his jumper.
“Please don’t leave me, John,” he whispers into his hair. “Don’t leave.”
John clutches him tighter and buries his face into the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt, reveling in the warmth and smell of him. He can feel his chest expanding with overwhelming emotion and runs his lips lightly across Sherlock’s sharp collarbone. He feels the hitch of breath against his own chest and the spasm that shoots through Sherlock’s arms where they wind tightly around his back.
“I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs into pale skin.
Sherlock tightens his hold, bony ribs and overly pronounced hip bones digging into John’s body in a way far too familiar. John buries his face into Sherlock’s sternum and lets himself breathe. It feels like coming home. All the tension, all the anger and resentment seems to melt as Sherlock squeezes him closer.
“I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock whispers into the top of John’s head. “I can’t bear to think about it, John. I’d be lost without you.”
John feels the giddy happiness bubbling up. Emotional rollercoaster doesn’t even begin to cover it. He feels too much, too many emotions welling up inside his chest, but the incredible relief overwhelms them all.
“I can’t believe you almost let me walk out of here,” John mutters into a sharp collarbone. The words are muffled by the wide grin he can’t seem to suppress. He feels like a fourth former with his first crush.
“You should leave your things down here,” Sherlock breathes, still clearly reluctant to let John out of his tight embrace. There’s no need: John has no intention of going anywhere ever again. Slowly, Sherlock’s words trickle past the shock and drama and John looks up sharply. His startled laughter of utter incredulity is shockingly loud in the small space of the stairwell.
“Sherlock Holmes, did you just ask me to move in with you?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes with the most long-suffering expression John’s ever seen. “Redundant, John, really.”
John knows he’s playing with fire, but he can’t help it as his hands sweep up the long expanse of Sherlock’s back. His voice sounds husky even to his own ears. “If you’re telling me you’d rather I never left your bedroom...”
“Well, it seems a shame to bring everything back up, “ Sherlock says, feigning innocence and ruining it by the upward tilt of his lower lip.
John buries his face into Sherlock’s pale neck and allows his lips to linger against his racing pulse.
“Idiot,” John whispers fondly and it sounds an awful lot like I love you. Sherlock finally lets him go, ducking around John and grabbing a few boxes before sending a cheeky wink over his shoulder and sashaying through to his bedroom. John watches him go with a thrilling sense of wonder. As he’s bending to gather his suitcase, he hears Sherlock pause in the doorway.
“I...” He looks hesitant and unsure and that expression alone makes John uneasy like nothing else. John waits with bated breath as Sherlock clearly steels himself before fixing John with his usual piercing stare. “I can’t promise to be everything you want, John. I’m not saying this is easy for me at all. I’ll probably drive you mad with worry, and don’t expect any overt declarations of emotion or overzealous displays of affection. I won’t change, John, but... I’ll try.”
John lets out a shaky breath and closes the distance between them. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s bony shoulders, he presses a small kiss against his mouth.
“I know,” he murmurs, pressing in a little harder and sweeping his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips. He shivers when Sherlock’s long fingers skim up the back of his neck. “I know.”
They will undoubtedly fight and they will fuck and they will bicker and they will laugh and they will storm out and they will order takeaway and they will survive on adrenaline and danger and it will be glorious. John feels the slow smile spread across his face, full of affection and exasperation. It won’t be easy, but it will be perfect.
You left your thumbprint inside me
Now for months it seems
But mine only brushes your soft surface
And somehow, somehow it leaves me listless
My tongue curls under my lips, oh yes
So I can’t speak to tell you of the months before when I met you, love
~Jason Mraz, 0% Interest
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Date: 2013-07-03 01:17 am (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it!
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Date: 2013-06-28 12:17 am (UTC)*nods* As you, dear author, kept me hooked on this emotional and sexy journey. I felt for them both. Well done!
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Date: 2013-07-08 08:11 pm (UTC)