Fic: Your Visible Ghost 3/3 (Sherlock BBC)
Oct. 2nd, 2012 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaTitle: Your Visible Ghost
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Characters/pairing: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Others
Rating: R
Warnings/contains: Non-con, rape aftermath, angst.
Part 1 | Part 2
When John wakes up in the morning, Sherlock’s already gone, and his side of the bed is cold. That’s not unexpected. He’s never been much of a one for lie-ins, unless you count crashing out all day after seventy-two hours running on empty and then emerging like a bear with a sore head at 4 PM, which John doesn’t.
He’s sitting up on the sofa, legs crossed in front of him, curls still damp from the shower and slowly soaking the collar of his shirt. He’s clutching a cup of tea—which he’s apparently made himself, because Mrs Hudson would definitely never use a chipped mug—in one hand, and jabbing at John’s laptop with the other.
“Anything interesting?” John asks, leaning over to peer at the website homepage. Sherlock snorts.
“Two wives having affairs, at least one of whom I frankly don’t blame. One stolen family heirloom which isn’t—the aunt’s in her nineties, she’s forgetful, it’s almost certainly down the back of her dressing table. One City trader who’s been accused of fraud and just can’t understand why someone would want to set him up like this—except for the fact he’s guilty, of course. Dull, dull, dull.”
John grins at the acerbic note in Sherlock’s voice, and thinks that he could put up with all the complaining in the world if it means having Sherlock back. Having him feel safe enough to come out of that lonely mental cell where he’s been walling himself up and look some small part of the world in the eyes again. Not that he’s going to tell Sherlock that, of course. He could put up with it, but he’s not a complete sucker for punishment.
He boils the kettle for coffee, switches on the news, and heads for his armchair. Then Sherlock gives him this mild look, head tilted. It’s not exactly questioning, but not exactly not, and John only hesitates a second before joining him on the sofa instead.
And that’s how things stay. For a little while, at least. They just hang around in the flat, not doing much. Sometimes Sherlock insults the TV and John’s intelligence and that of the people writing in to his website. John grumbles about Sherlock’s apparent inability to put his mugs in the sink or fetch in the milk, and how he’d really quite like the chance to use his own laptop at some point today. Other times, Sherlock goes quiet and still, looking off into some far distance in his mind. All John can do, then, is curl up beside him, encircle him in gentle arms and listen to his breathing and say nothing. Just stay there until whatever has hold of Sherlock releases him and he sinks back into John’s embrace, closing his eyes.
He doesn’t tell John what he’s thinking, and John doesn’t ask.
Aside from Sherlock’s occasional lapses into haunted silence, though, things are kind of, almost, normal. And kind of completely different, the boundaries of their friendship having undergone some subtle but unmistakable shift. It’s not just the cuddling, even—it’s the sense that he’s what Sherlock needs most in the world, and vice versa, and absolutely nothing there is new at all except that it’s been admitted now, and it can’t be escaped from. It almost feels as though they’ve managed to drift into an actual relationship without talking about it. Okay, and without any of the kissing or sex, but John is still pretty sure that ‘I’m not gay’ doesn’t hold much water any more regardless. John finds that he’s surprisingly… alright with that. Okay, they’ll probably have to have some sort of talk about it sooner or later, but for now? He’s content to go with things as they are, at least until something happens to disturb their equilibrium.
Inevitably, ‘until’ is the operative word.
Sherlock sleeps in his bed again that night, and the night after that, and that’s when it starts to go wrong.
It’s late—small hours, not quite yet greying towards dawn—when Sherlock shudders awake, dredging John up out of the depths with him. John’s mind is fogged, and he blinks his way back to awareness slowly.
It takes him a moment to register that Sherlock is lying stiffly on his back, limbs rigid, eyes wide open, gulping in great, shuddering breaths as if he’s just been saved from drowning. When John turns to look at him, he goes still.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is hoarse and scratchy; a threadbare remnant of its usual self. He swallows. “I’m fine,” he says, again.
John frowns, but does his best to keep his own voice steady, his tone mild. “It’s okay,” he says. “So you had a nightmare. That’s understandable, it’s—you don’t need to pretend.”
“John, it’s nothing.” There is a hint of a plea there, this time, and John lets it drop. He reaches over to place a reassuring hand on top of Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock trembles minutely under his touch but doesn’t push him away.
After a moment, he threads his fingers through John’s and rolls over to bury his face in the pillow, taking John’s arm with him. So John just curls around him as best he can until sleep takes them both back again, and thinks about pressing kisses between his shoulder blades and doesn’t.
And that’s okay, too, that’s fine, except that in the morning, he wakes up with a hard-on.
Which is nothing out of the ordinary—happens to most blokes—except that today, Sherlock is still fast asleep beside him, and he’s acutely aware of the way that his erection is pressed into the side of Sherlock’s thigh, and of the fact that it’s not going away. And he feels nonsensically, stupidly guilty, and very glad of the fact that they’re both in pyjamas. And when he moves to extricate himself, and Sherlock shifts and makes a sleep ‘mmf’ sound, John’s heart stutters frantically into his throat until Sherlock’s face relaxes and John is sure he’s sound asleep again.
He picks his way carefully across the floor, avoiding all the creaky bits of floorboard, and down the stairs to the bathroom. It occurs to him that he’s acting like an embarrassed teenager and he feels faintly ridiculous. Still, better safe than sorry, and all that. He’ll just take care of this in the shower, and hopefully Sherlock will stay asleep, and then they can just go about their day as normal.
He turns on the water, strips off his clothes as he’s waiting for it to warm up, and steps under. Settles on Kelly Brook for a mental image—real girl, nice soft curves, not model-skinny and boyish, nothing likely to turn his mind in inappropriate directions—but even so, her limbs keep turning pale and gangly, her tan to white near-translucence, and he doesn’t dare try to picture her face because he just knows what will happen.
Biting off a moan of frustration, he gives his cock one sharp, final tug and gives up, contemplating just turning the temperature dial to the cold end to get rid of his problem the quick way. He grits his teeth, opens his eyes—
—and nearly has a heart attack.
“Jesus, Sherlock!” he sputters, grabbing for a towel. “What the fuck?! Can’t you at least knock or something?”
He mustn’t have heard Sherlock’s footsteps over the water, it’s loud in his ears—what’s he even doing in here anyway—oh, meds, of course—Christ, how long has he been—
Sherlock looks at him. There is a flicker of—what? confusion? pain?—in his eyes before his expression closes itself off. John can actually see the shutters come down. And then he turns on his heel and flees.
John groans, and presses his forehead against the wall tiles. At least his original problem’s disappeared. The slow churn of worry starting in his gut has killed any residue of arousal stone dead.
Well, his brain supplies, that was awkward, and he tries to stick with that thought because awkward is less scary than some of the alternatives.
But it’s worse than awkward. Sherlock doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.
* * *
So. John crept away and hid from him. Possibilities: John desires him and considers him too fragile to deal with the knowledge. John is repulsed by him (and considers him too fragile to deal with the knowledge.) Equally likely. Neither appeals.
Sherlock pulls the blade of the kitchen knife—the one he carelessly abandoned in a bedroom drawer after an experiment weeks ago (John’s already bought a new one and keeps complaining that it doesn’t chop right)—out of the top of his bedside table, then jams it in again. A series of small, parallel marks has already been gouged into the surface of the wood. Splintered in places. (Mrs Hudson will complain. He’ll offer to pay for a new one and she’ll be secretly pleased; gift from her sister, she thinks it’s ugly.) He makes another. The thud of it is rhythmic. Calming.
He can’t get rid of what happened to him. Can’t delete it. He’s tried, repeatedly; he knows what he’ll get. This file is in use by another application and cannot be deleted. Please close the file and try again.
Nothing works. So his imagery turns violent. He imagines finding the precise location of the incident inside his brain; excising the offending portion with scalpel and tweezers. Or if he could cut himself open and pull out his heart—like a forsaken lover in some sentimental fairytale—would that work? Restore him to factory settings? Stop it from mattering?
People (John) would still know. Still look at him with pity. He’d need to stop caring about that, too. It shouldn’t be so hard.
It shouldn’t be so hard.
He glares at his bedroom door. John hasn’t knocked; hasn’t yelled at him to stop the noise. (Tiptoeing around him. Pitying. Repulsed?) But he hasn’t left the flat, either. He’ll be sitting in his armchair, pretending to read or to watch one of those mindless programmes Sherlock has been tolerating for the sake of his proximity (weak, needy, stupid) for the past three days. Sherlock already knows what his expression will be. Mild and open. If Sherlock stepped into the living room now, he’d fold his newspaper, mute the television, look up slowly, careful not to press too hard. He’d say “Hi,” or “Fancy a cuppa?” before starting in with the “You alright?” His voice would be mild, too. Reasonable; as if to throw into relief how unreasonable Sherlock is being, how badly broken he is.
He’s not broken. Why can’t John just see that?
(Why can’t he just be that?)
It’s getting dark. Sherlock will have to get up to switch the light on, soon. He’ll have to leave his room to get water and take his third tablet of the day. John hasn’t moved all day, except from living room to kitchen and back. He considers, briefly, waiting until John’s gone to bed before he emerges—but John won’t just go to bed, will he? He’ll feel that he has to do something, come knocking on the door with apologies and questions. Better to venture out of his own volition than to wait to be fussed over like a sick child.
Well, then. He jams the knife into the tabletop one final time, presses his eyes momentarily closed. Then he pulls his dressing-gown around himself more tightly, and opens the door.
He ignores the mild, open look, the rustle of the newspaper, the worried “Hey,” (all so obvious, so obvious and why do they hurt?) and stalks straight through to the kitchen, grabbing a glass off the worktop without pausing to check its cleanliness.
“I was going to put some pasta on in a bit,” is the next attempt, when he passes back through the living room. “Shall I make you some?”
“No.”
He yanks the bathroom light cord hard enough that it twangs, fills his water glass, swallows the tablet. Glares at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. (Dark under-eye circles, unshaven, noticeable pallor, prominence of cheekbones increased; clear signs of a lack of food and sleep and a surfeit of stress. His image looks so pitiable, it’s not helping, it’s—)
John’s face in the mirror behind him.
“Sherlock—”
“I’m fine.” He slams the glass down abruptly. “I’m fine, and I can assure you I won’t be repeating any of the mistakes I’ve made over the last three days, so would you please just leave me alone?”
John deflates visibly. But then he looks into the mirror—at Sherlock’s ghostly, traitorous reflection and not his own—and squares his shoulders.
“Fine,” says. “If you’ll just tell me one thing first.” Edge in his voice this time; one that makes Sherlock still and turn to face him despite himself.
“What?”
“I think I at least deserve to know what the fuck I’ve done wrong, don’t you?” Quiet, but the edge is still there. Anger? Perhaps; even John’s patience isn’t infinite, after all.
But good, this is good, he’d rather fight this out than be patronised, be told I understand and it’s nothing personal and I just don’t think we should in some awful, gentle, doctorly tone of voice while John looks at him the way he looks at murder victims.
“Who were you thinking about?” he snaps, before he can change his mind. John’s face clouds, which just doubles the urge to lash out. “Don’t play at being stupider than you are. You know what I mean.”
“Bloody hell, Sherlock, I’m not telling you that!” John’s eyebrows have shot up; he’s starting to flush. “That’s really not the sort of thing you ask your—”
He cuts himself off, and Sherlock does nothing to suppress his sneer.
It’s not the sort of thing you ask your flatmate, or your friend. Is it the sort of thing you ask a romantic partner? He doesn’t actually know. (Is that where they have been heading? Is that what he wants, wanted, could want?)
Uncertainty and nervousness are plain to see on John’s face. So is the exact second that he makes up his mind. He swallows; his knuckles are white.
“You,” he admits, and Sherlock’s heart beats faster and don’t listen to it, don’t analyse it, it means nothing, nothing, nothing.
“I find that hard to believe,” he says, and doesn’t doesn’t doesn’t feel sick at how John’s gaze leaves his face and sinks to the ground.
For a moment, it appears he isn’t going to say anything more. He’ll give up and Sherlock can leave the room and escape this. At least he hasn’t said ‘I’m sorry.’ Then:
“Why?”
“I was right beside you. You chose to leave and masturbate in the shower.”
John sighs aloud; scrubs a hand down his face. Looks back up. “Sherlock. That’s not how this works, and I really hope you don’t think I’m that sort of person. Just because you were there and I’m—attracted to you—that doesn’t give me the right to, you know. Try anything.”
“Even though I’d previously made my wishes perfectly clear?”
“Yes, even though. If they even were your wishes, really, I mean you’re—”
“Damaged goods, yes, thank you, I know.” He aims for flat and cold; the undercurrent of vehemence in his voice is a surprise.
John blinks, twice in quick succession, and just looks at him. He goes quiet again, for a moment, and when he speaks his voice is hushed; shocked, almost. (Shouldn’t be. He ought to know.)
“Sherlock,” he says. “No. No, no.” His whole body is rigid; he’s restraining himself from moving closer. “You’re not goods. You’re you. Why would you think I…” He breaks off, shakes his head. Another try: “The other day. When you tried to… ‘make your wishes clear.’ Your face, you didn’t look like anybody else who’s ever come on to me. You looked more like you were, I don’t know, on your way to the dentist’s. Somewhere you knew you had to go but didn’t really want to. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if even you knew what you wanted.” Exhale. “I didn’t want to risk fucking anything up. Yeah, okay, I’ve gone and done that anyway, but—that’s all it was. Is.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply. (Doesn’t believe him, can’t believe him, wants to wants to wants to no—)
“Even if I were the jealous type,” John goes on, “which, for the record, I’m not, I’d be a complete hypocrite—why the fuck would I blame you for something you had no choice in? It’d make more sense for me to be jealous of the people you’ve willingly—”
The words fall off abruptly.
Penny tumbling through the air.
Mycroft must have said something. Mycroft, with his odious concern and his interfering. He doesn’t have much experience with relationships, Doctor Watson, you’ll need to make allowances for him, God, he can hear it now.
“Oh,” John says, and it’s just a breath, stricken. “Sherlock.”
Penny, meet floor. Well done, John.
“Oh, spare me.” Sherlock folds his arms around himself tightly.
“What?”
“The tears for my precious lost innocence, I assure you it wasn’t.” The words come out dripping with venom. Good. Better that people look at him and see a poisonous snake than the quivering prey animal that is crouched beneath his skin. He will get rid of it, he will hunt it down and flay it himself, he can’t be that, he won’t—
John puts his head on one side. Concerned; questioning. “And you’re okay with losing it like—that?” Bald question; soft voice. Trying to be kind with it. (Don’t be kind with this, please.)
“Virginity has no objective value, John. The importance attached to it is a vestige of outmoded social conventions. Honestly, I would’ve thought you’d understand that. In what way does it make what happened to me any worse?”
John holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, I’m not saying that what they did to you would be okay if you were the sort of person who shagged around, bloody hell. I’m just—” Deep breath. “You don’t have to be the purity police to be upset that something that should’ve been your choice got taken away from you.”
Don’t. Don’t.
“Is it compulsory? Being upset?”
“Sherlock?”
“Would that be better, if I broke down and wept abjectly on your shoulder? Would you feel validated then?”
John ignores the dig. Doesn’t mention, either, that that—sans shoulder—is precisely what he caught Sherlock doing the other day. He could do, Sherlock can see him remembering it, but he won’t bring it up now, won’t use it to hurt him. He’s too good to do that. (Stop it.)
“Well, what would be better? What would help, Sherlock? Please, just tell me.”
All this kindness, all this seeing through perfectly good, carefully constructed layers of defence, he can’t stand it. Fight it; it’s all he has. “Perhaps if you’d just fuck me—”
“Sherlock.” John’s eyes. Sad. Sad and kind. “That’s never going to happen.”
Sinking feeling in pit of stomach. Unexpected. (But not really.) He’s suspected the repulsion; has been pushing John away to avoid having it confirmed.
“Then what, exactly, has the point of all this been?” His voice vibrates with rage. (Nothing else. Not pain. No incipient heat behind his eyes to remind him how pathetic he is, how pitiable. No.) He waves a hand to indicate the space between them. “All this pseudo-romantic behaviour, this intimacy, this ‘I don’t see you any differently’.” He keeps his voice icy. “Did it make you feel better? Is that it? At least you’d done something for the poor victim?”
John just shakes his head. “Sherlock. You’ve got to stop putting thoughts in my head.” And then he does take that step closer—just the one. His hands have softened; no longer balled into fists. “That’s not how I feel about you. And I wish to God it wasn’t how you felt about yourself. The reason it’s never going to happen is that just fucking is what you do with people you meet out on the piss and don’t plan on ever seeing again. You are the most important thing in my world. I’m not promising anything, and I’m not—” He swallows. “I’m not ruling anything out, but whatever happens with us, it can’t be just anything.”
Oh. Oh.
Sherlock grasps for a coherent thought but there are none. There’s just confusion, and fear, and—
“See, I’m not trying to—to take care of you out of the goodness of my heart.” John blinks again, rapidly. He’s getting nervous. Sherlock should say something. Can’t. “You know what, this is me being selfish. You’ve let me get used to a world with amazing in it, when everything used to be just grey and shit. I’m spoiled now. And the amazing is you, and I’m not willing to live without that. I’m not losing you.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, if that’s alright with you. If you can. Let me. Take care of you.”
—hope.
And then John does take that step forward. Sherlock finds himself sinking (humiliating, utterly, should surely struggle against it more forcibly?) and has to sit down on the side of the bath to steady himself. John is next to him in an instant. He looks up. (Should push John away. Should say something, anything, to make it stop.)
(Doesn’t want to.)
(He’s ruined.)
“Sherlock.” A note of urgency in his voice, but it’s steady. A voice he might have used on injured soldiers, once, to keep them from falling out of consciousness. A voice for emergencies. (John thinks this is an emergency.) “Sherlock.”
He nods, once.
Apparently, it’s enough. John’s hands are on his shoulders. One of them slides up to nestle in his hair.
“You do know,” John says, after a long pause, “there actually aren’t any emotion police who are going to jump out and arrest you if you admit you’re not fine, right?” The hand stroking his hair pauses to tap one finger against his head. “Except maybe in here.”
Sherlock smiles, faint and painful. (But safe, because no one can see it.) “And how do you suggest I stop them, John?” John presses closer until Sherlock’s head is resting against his middle.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But—” Another tap. “You build palaces, in here. You catch murderers. You see things no one else can. I’m sure a few little imaginary coppers shouldn’t be too much for you.” The tremor in his voice could be from laughter or from nerves, and Sherlock just can’t any more, he can’t, he has to give in. He puts his arms around John’s waist and buries his face in John’s jumper, and John gives a sigh that comes right from the bottom of his chest and stays there with him.
It’s a long while before they move. Once, Sherlock hears John murmur something into his hair, under his breath.
It sounds like, “I would have taken care of you.”
Was he supposed to hear it? He isn’t sure. He holds on a little more tightly, anyway.
* * *
Late that night, John wakes to find Sherlock sitting up in bed, staring at him. He shifts when he sees that John’s awake.
“John,” he says, quietly. “I—”
John hugs him fiercely before he can finish. “If you say ‘thank you,’” he says, “if you suggest that I’m here out of some sense of obligation, or for any reason other than that you are the best and most important thing in my world, then so help me, I will piss in your tea.”
“You buy PG Tips, I don’t see what difference it would make.”
“Git,” John says. His voice comes out pitched a touch too high, almost hysterical with relief, but he can’t bring himself to care. Sherlock’s answering smile is weak and watery, but it’s a real one, and John never wants to let him go.
* * *
A couple of weeks later, John gets a text.
Since ninety percent of his texts are case-related demands from Sherlock—with the remainder being guilt-prompted catch-up messages from Harry, and the occasional drinks invitation from Mike—the message itself is surprising enough. Even more surprising is that it’s from Lestrade. Too soon for them to be allowed anywhere near the Met’s cases, surely? He opens it.
Going to be in your neck of the woods tonight. Fancy a pint?
It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure out that it’s an excuse to check up on them. Lestrade’s a good bloke, solid, but John doesn’t exactly socialise with him outside of cases.
He’s almost tempted to say yes, though. Not that he wants to spend time talking about what happened—fuck, no—but not having to worry about hiding it, hiding his anger; that would be something. Still. Not his pain to discuss, not really. Not his decision. And the thought of leaving Sherlock alone still occasions a nervous twist in his guts, a brief, insane desire to lock the door and close the curtains and shut out the world, keep both of them safe forever.
Safe at home isn’t what he wants. Not really. It’s not what they do, not who they are. It’s just—
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Sherlock is scowling at him. “Go. I’m sure I can last one evening without flinging myself out of the window in despair.”
John shakes his head, is on the verge of saying, no, it’s okay, but Sherlock’s glare stops him. And he might actually have a point. John knows that the world’s not going to end while he’s out having a beer, but it still bloody well feels like it might.
Sherlock might not be the only one who’s been looking at the world askew. And letting that carry on—well, it’d be like letting them win, wouldn’t it?
You’re on, he texts back. 8 in the Castle?
“While you’re there,” Sherlock says, “do try to remind Lestrade of his division’s staggering incompetence and the fact that I’m just sitting here.”
“Look, if you want to come—”
“I can’t think of anything more tedious.”
* * *
For the first pint and a half, they chat about nothing, really: the football; the cuts and how much harder they’re going to make Lestrade’s job; what a bag of bollocks the last series of Red Dwarf was. Only, then, John finds himself staring into his drink, shoulders slumping.
Lestrade goes quiet, obviously deciding that the world can manage without hearing whatever it was he was about to say on the subject of Dave’s programming schedule.
“I’m so fucking angry,” John says, at last. “Really. I mean, things are better than they were, but sometimes.” He swallows. “Sometimes I want to kill something.”
“Have you told him?”
“Don’t think he needs an exploding flatmate to deal with on top of everything else right now.” The thing is, Sherlock doesn’t deal with things. He reasons them out of existence, or he ignores them. That’s half the problem, and John doesn’t want to add to it.
“Suppose not,” Lestrade concedes. “Don’t know if a support group’s your thing, either?”
“Not really.” He’s thought about it, but there’s something about the idea of joining a group—a community defined by trauma—that doesn’t quite sit right with him. It would feel like acknowledging something as broken, and it’s not. (They’re not.)
“Fair enough. If you ever need to get out, though—give us a call, alright? I know you want to be there for him, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to let him drive you mad.” Lestrade gets up, and plucks John’s empty pint glass out of his hands. “Here, I’ll get you another.”
John smiles up at him, faintly. “Cheers.”
And he means it.
Still, when he gets home and finds Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, making narky notes in the margins of John’s BMJ, he feels his heart expand a little with relief.
Sherlock sits up to make room for him without looking up from the journal. John sits, leaning into him half-consciously—seeking warmth and solidity. A reminder that his world hasn’t ended; it’s still sitting right here.
* * *
“I’m back.” John plonks his carton of chips down on the table, as far as possible from the end where Sherlock is doing something unspeakable to a severed ear. Yes, it’s a heartening sight—Sherlock acting like something close to his old self, engaging with something outside of his own skull—but that doesn’t mean he wants it anywhere near his lunch. “And I got you your disgusting energy drink. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone can drink these things.”
Sherlock holds out his hand for the can. “The taste is hardly the point, John.”
“Yes, because you really need help not sleeping. That stuff is not good for you. I’d make you a list of reasons why, only I expect you’d take it as the basis for your next experiment.” He clatters around the kitchen, finally managing to locate a clean (he hopes) knife and fork. “Where’s the vinegar?”
“I used it.”
John pokes his head out of the kitchen. “You used a whole bottle of malt vinegar? What for?”
“Science, obviously.”
“The same science you’re doing now?” Then John stops short, and holds up a hand. “Actually, don’t tell me. If there were severed body parts involved, I don’t want to know. It’ll put me right off my food.”
Molly turned up earlier this morning, bearing a small collection of what she cheerfully referred to as ‘offcuts’ from the morgue in a cooler. If that didn’t cheer Sherlock up—it’s still hard to tell what he’s feeling most of the time; he’s making progress, he hasn’t had a personality transplant—it certainly kept him busy for most of the morning. Busy enough that, when John announced he was off to the chippy, he’d just waved an impatient hand and said, “Caffeine. Red Bull, not Coke,” and then gone back to whatever he was doing.
As far as Molly’s concerned, he’s got ‘flu. She’d actually brought Lemsip with her, too, saying, “These new ones are quite good, I thought maybe you’d want to try them.” When Sherlock summarily ignored her in favour of the deceased and dismembered, she’d frowned at John in confusion.
“Are you sure he’s really ill?” she’d asked. “He seems alright.” John had felt momentarily sick, not knowing how to answer, and then she’d gone on: “I don’t know, I suppose I just always thought he’d think he was above man-flu.”
John had to grin at that, even as his insides ached at just how far off the mark she was.
He heads downstairs to beg condiments from Mrs Hudson, and ends up having to trade a promise to get her shopping this afternoon for some salt and vinegar. That’s okay; he’s cooking tonight, so he needs to go, anyway. Sherlock’s appetite seems to have improved a little since he finished his meds (which, okay, in his case means slightly less scowling at his plate like a bratty teenager than usual, but John will take what he can get) and John intends to take full advantage of the opportunity to make him eat a decent meal or two.
He sits back down at the table—God, he’s starving, he got up too late for breakfast—
Oh. Didn’t he have more chips than that?
John actually finds himself blinking in astonishment. Then he looks at Sherlock.
“I thought you were too engrossed in the life of the mind for pedestrian things like lunch,” he accuses.
Looking thoroughly unrepentant, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Honestly, John. I take your advice, and you complain about it. Remind me not to listen to you in future.”
“As if you ever do.” John shakes his head. Sherlock just raises an eyebrow and sips primly at his Red Bull. And that’s daft, isn’t it, Red Bull isn’t something you’re supposed to sip primly, only Sherlock never does anything like he’s supposed to.
Except that sometimes, now, he does listen to John, when it’s important. When it’s late at night and he’s in the throes of a bad dream, and needs to be pulled out; when he’s been staring vacantly into space, at nothing, for too long, and needs John’s voice and John’s hands to revive him. And that, surely, is about as close to ‘how it’s supposed to be’ as they can hope for right now.
Suddenly John wants, very badly, to kiss him.
Then he flushes, and wonders just how obvious that thought is on his face.
Quite obvious, apparently, because Sherlock goes still. And lays his right hand on the table, stretched out halfway towards John, and waits. John feels his pulse quicken—the background hum of nervousness he feels every time he touches Sherlock, because it would be so fucking awful if he pushed too far, got things wrong—but he does his best to ignore it. Instead he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand, gently runs the pad of his thumb across the knuckles, and raises it to his lips, watching Sherlock’s face all the time.
He gets a small, opaque smile in return, and Sherlock squeezes his hand briefly before letting go. “Your chips are getting cold,” he says.
John smiles back.
Then he remembers the severed ear, and thinks, Oh, that was a bit unhygienic, wasn’t it?
Then he decides he doesn’t care.
* * *
Sherlock blinks as he wakes. Daylight filtering in between the blinds. Traffic noise, car horns, pedestrian chatter; London on a busy weekday at 8:30. Clank of pipes in the walls as decades-old central heating struggles to function. Mrs Hudson’s kettle boiling for her second cup of tea. The walls: blank, familiar. John’s room. John’s possessions, ranged neatly on shelves or stacked in corners, in sober contrast to his own sprawling system of organisation (taken always, by outside eyes, for chaos.)
Warm body curled into his side; face pressed to the juncture of neck and shoulder. John.
Inventory. It helps. Reminds him where he is. (Here, home, not alone, John.) (Not coming round on a concrete floor or in a hospital bed.)
One day, perhaps, the solid weight of John sleeping beside him will be the only marker he needs.
He isn’t sure how he feels about this. He knows that he feels something. Thinks that John would, perhaps, tell him that’s enough.
* * *
It’s music that pulls John out of sleep, a little while later, and his heart skips when he wakes up enough to realise it’s a violin. He hasn’t heard Sherlock play since—since before.
The tune isn’t one he recognises, but it’s something slow and contemplative. At a stretch, he might even say… peaceful?
He pulls on his dressing gown and slippers, and pads down into the living room. Sherlock’s sitting in the window, already dressed. He glances in John’s direction, but doesn’t stop playing, and after a moment he turns to look out of the window, surveying Baker Street as if he owns it.
He might have looked cold or distant, like this, once. John might’ve been intimidated. What he feels now, though, is something much more overwhelming. He knows exactly how vulnerable this man is—and how much stronger than even he knows. How broken, and how not. Sometimes he feels like he might overflow just with knowing that, or burst like an over-filled balloon.
“John?” The music stops, abruptly. “You’re gawping. What is it?”
“Hmm? Oh.” He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just. You. You’re—you.”
Sherlock glances down at himself as if to make certain before doing the you’re an idiot look. “So it would appear.” He lifts his bow again, and John heads into the kitchen to forage for breakfast.
He hears the text alert while he’s contemplating exactly how much mould it’s permissible to cut off the bread before you have to consign it to the bin. Sherlock’s phone, not his. And a moment later Sherlock is in the doorway, saying, “Breakfast will have to wait, John, get dressed,” and he’s grinning. Excitement is visible in his eager stance, in every little movement of his hands. It’s the first time John’s seen that in what feels like centuries, and it is the best thing in the whole fucking world.
“Lestrade?” he asks, daring to let himself hope.
“Five weeks without me? He’s completely at sea. Of course it’s Lestrade, and why are you still standing there?”
John’s not thick. He knows that being distracted with a case isn’t the same as being okay. This isn’t going to be a magic fix. Things are better, but it still feels like one step forward, two steps back a lot of the time. There are shit days; a lot of shit days. But both of them have had enough misery to last a lifetime in recent weeks, and damn it, just for now, he’s going to let himself be happy about this for as long as Sherlock is.
* * *
In the cab, he looks down in surprise when Sherlock reaches over and takes his hand.
“People will talk,” he says, and it’s not a joke anymore now that there’s something to talk about. He doesn’t let go, though.
“That’s the idea,” Sherlock says, quietly, eyes dead ahead, and John gets it then. Give them something else to talk about. Lestrade’s the only person from the Yard who’s been in touch, recently; the last time most of them saw Sherlock he was—
He pushes the thought away, and squeezes Sherlock’s hand more tightly, just hoping that Sherlock knows what language he’s speaking, that it gets across everything he wants to say.
Anything you need, I’m here. I know I couldn’t keep you safe if I tried, and you’d hate me if I did, but I can promise that wherever you go, I’m coming with you. Like it should be. Me and you, running straight into danger, together.
Author:
anactoria Characters/pairing: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Others
Rating: R
Warnings/contains: Non-con, rape aftermath, angst.
Part 1 | Part 2
When John wakes up in the morning, Sherlock’s already gone, and his side of the bed is cold. That’s not unexpected. He’s never been much of a one for lie-ins, unless you count crashing out all day after seventy-two hours running on empty and then emerging like a bear with a sore head at 4 PM, which John doesn’t.
He’s sitting up on the sofa, legs crossed in front of him, curls still damp from the shower and slowly soaking the collar of his shirt. He’s clutching a cup of tea—which he’s apparently made himself, because Mrs Hudson would definitely never use a chipped mug—in one hand, and jabbing at John’s laptop with the other.
“Anything interesting?” John asks, leaning over to peer at the website homepage. Sherlock snorts.
“Two wives having affairs, at least one of whom I frankly don’t blame. One stolen family heirloom which isn’t—the aunt’s in her nineties, she’s forgetful, it’s almost certainly down the back of her dressing table. One City trader who’s been accused of fraud and just can’t understand why someone would want to set him up like this—except for the fact he’s guilty, of course. Dull, dull, dull.”
John grins at the acerbic note in Sherlock’s voice, and thinks that he could put up with all the complaining in the world if it means having Sherlock back. Having him feel safe enough to come out of that lonely mental cell where he’s been walling himself up and look some small part of the world in the eyes again. Not that he’s going to tell Sherlock that, of course. He could put up with it, but he’s not a complete sucker for punishment.
He boils the kettle for coffee, switches on the news, and heads for his armchair. Then Sherlock gives him this mild look, head tilted. It’s not exactly questioning, but not exactly not, and John only hesitates a second before joining him on the sofa instead.
And that’s how things stay. For a little while, at least. They just hang around in the flat, not doing much. Sometimes Sherlock insults the TV and John’s intelligence and that of the people writing in to his website. John grumbles about Sherlock’s apparent inability to put his mugs in the sink or fetch in the milk, and how he’d really quite like the chance to use his own laptop at some point today. Other times, Sherlock goes quiet and still, looking off into some far distance in his mind. All John can do, then, is curl up beside him, encircle him in gentle arms and listen to his breathing and say nothing. Just stay there until whatever has hold of Sherlock releases him and he sinks back into John’s embrace, closing his eyes.
He doesn’t tell John what he’s thinking, and John doesn’t ask.
Aside from Sherlock’s occasional lapses into haunted silence, though, things are kind of, almost, normal. And kind of completely different, the boundaries of their friendship having undergone some subtle but unmistakable shift. It’s not just the cuddling, even—it’s the sense that he’s what Sherlock needs most in the world, and vice versa, and absolutely nothing there is new at all except that it’s been admitted now, and it can’t be escaped from. It almost feels as though they’ve managed to drift into an actual relationship without talking about it. Okay, and without any of the kissing or sex, but John is still pretty sure that ‘I’m not gay’ doesn’t hold much water any more regardless. John finds that he’s surprisingly… alright with that. Okay, they’ll probably have to have some sort of talk about it sooner or later, but for now? He’s content to go with things as they are, at least until something happens to disturb their equilibrium.
Inevitably, ‘until’ is the operative word.
Sherlock sleeps in his bed again that night, and the night after that, and that’s when it starts to go wrong.
It’s late—small hours, not quite yet greying towards dawn—when Sherlock shudders awake, dredging John up out of the depths with him. John’s mind is fogged, and he blinks his way back to awareness slowly.
It takes him a moment to register that Sherlock is lying stiffly on his back, limbs rigid, eyes wide open, gulping in great, shuddering breaths as if he’s just been saved from drowning. When John turns to look at him, he goes still.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is hoarse and scratchy; a threadbare remnant of its usual self. He swallows. “I’m fine,” he says, again.
John frowns, but does his best to keep his own voice steady, his tone mild. “It’s okay,” he says. “So you had a nightmare. That’s understandable, it’s—you don’t need to pretend.”
“John, it’s nothing.” There is a hint of a plea there, this time, and John lets it drop. He reaches over to place a reassuring hand on top of Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock trembles minutely under his touch but doesn’t push him away.
After a moment, he threads his fingers through John’s and rolls over to bury his face in the pillow, taking John’s arm with him. So John just curls around him as best he can until sleep takes them both back again, and thinks about pressing kisses between his shoulder blades and doesn’t.
And that’s okay, too, that’s fine, except that in the morning, he wakes up with a hard-on.
Which is nothing out of the ordinary—happens to most blokes—except that today, Sherlock is still fast asleep beside him, and he’s acutely aware of the way that his erection is pressed into the side of Sherlock’s thigh, and of the fact that it’s not going away. And he feels nonsensically, stupidly guilty, and very glad of the fact that they’re both in pyjamas. And when he moves to extricate himself, and Sherlock shifts and makes a sleep ‘mmf’ sound, John’s heart stutters frantically into his throat until Sherlock’s face relaxes and John is sure he’s sound asleep again.
He picks his way carefully across the floor, avoiding all the creaky bits of floorboard, and down the stairs to the bathroom. It occurs to him that he’s acting like an embarrassed teenager and he feels faintly ridiculous. Still, better safe than sorry, and all that. He’ll just take care of this in the shower, and hopefully Sherlock will stay asleep, and then they can just go about their day as normal.
He turns on the water, strips off his clothes as he’s waiting for it to warm up, and steps under. Settles on Kelly Brook for a mental image—real girl, nice soft curves, not model-skinny and boyish, nothing likely to turn his mind in inappropriate directions—but even so, her limbs keep turning pale and gangly, her tan to white near-translucence, and he doesn’t dare try to picture her face because he just knows what will happen.
Biting off a moan of frustration, he gives his cock one sharp, final tug and gives up, contemplating just turning the temperature dial to the cold end to get rid of his problem the quick way. He grits his teeth, opens his eyes—
—and nearly has a heart attack.
“Jesus, Sherlock!” he sputters, grabbing for a towel. “What the fuck?! Can’t you at least knock or something?”
He mustn’t have heard Sherlock’s footsteps over the water, it’s loud in his ears—what’s he even doing in here anyway—oh, meds, of course—Christ, how long has he been—
Sherlock looks at him. There is a flicker of—what? confusion? pain?—in his eyes before his expression closes itself off. John can actually see the shutters come down. And then he turns on his heel and flees.
John groans, and presses his forehead against the wall tiles. At least his original problem’s disappeared. The slow churn of worry starting in his gut has killed any residue of arousal stone dead.
Well, his brain supplies, that was awkward, and he tries to stick with that thought because awkward is less scary than some of the alternatives.
But it’s worse than awkward. Sherlock doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.
So. John crept away and hid from him. Possibilities: John desires him and considers him too fragile to deal with the knowledge. John is repulsed by him (and considers him too fragile to deal with the knowledge.) Equally likely. Neither appeals.
Sherlock pulls the blade of the kitchen knife—the one he carelessly abandoned in a bedroom drawer after an experiment weeks ago (John’s already bought a new one and keeps complaining that it doesn’t chop right)—out of the top of his bedside table, then jams it in again. A series of small, parallel marks has already been gouged into the surface of the wood. Splintered in places. (Mrs Hudson will complain. He’ll offer to pay for a new one and she’ll be secretly pleased; gift from her sister, she thinks it’s ugly.) He makes another. The thud of it is rhythmic. Calming.
He can’t get rid of what happened to him. Can’t delete it. He’s tried, repeatedly; he knows what he’ll get. This file is in use by another application and cannot be deleted. Please close the file and try again.
Nothing works. So his imagery turns violent. He imagines finding the precise location of the incident inside his brain; excising the offending portion with scalpel and tweezers. Or if he could cut himself open and pull out his heart—like a forsaken lover in some sentimental fairytale—would that work? Restore him to factory settings? Stop it from mattering?
People (John) would still know. Still look at him with pity. He’d need to stop caring about that, too. It shouldn’t be so hard.
It shouldn’t be so hard.
He glares at his bedroom door. John hasn’t knocked; hasn’t yelled at him to stop the noise. (Tiptoeing around him. Pitying. Repulsed?) But he hasn’t left the flat, either. He’ll be sitting in his armchair, pretending to read or to watch one of those mindless programmes Sherlock has been tolerating for the sake of his proximity (weak, needy, stupid) for the past three days. Sherlock already knows what his expression will be. Mild and open. If Sherlock stepped into the living room now, he’d fold his newspaper, mute the television, look up slowly, careful not to press too hard. He’d say “Hi,” or “Fancy a cuppa?” before starting in with the “You alright?” His voice would be mild, too. Reasonable; as if to throw into relief how unreasonable Sherlock is being, how badly broken he is.
He’s not broken. Why can’t John just see that?
(Why can’t he just be that?)
It’s getting dark. Sherlock will have to get up to switch the light on, soon. He’ll have to leave his room to get water and take his third tablet of the day. John hasn’t moved all day, except from living room to kitchen and back. He considers, briefly, waiting until John’s gone to bed before he emerges—but John won’t just go to bed, will he? He’ll feel that he has to do something, come knocking on the door with apologies and questions. Better to venture out of his own volition than to wait to be fussed over like a sick child.
Well, then. He jams the knife into the tabletop one final time, presses his eyes momentarily closed. Then he pulls his dressing-gown around himself more tightly, and opens the door.
He ignores the mild, open look, the rustle of the newspaper, the worried “Hey,” (all so obvious, so obvious and why do they hurt?) and stalks straight through to the kitchen, grabbing a glass off the worktop without pausing to check its cleanliness.
“I was going to put some pasta on in a bit,” is the next attempt, when he passes back through the living room. “Shall I make you some?”
“No.”
He yanks the bathroom light cord hard enough that it twangs, fills his water glass, swallows the tablet. Glares at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. (Dark under-eye circles, unshaven, noticeable pallor, prominence of cheekbones increased; clear signs of a lack of food and sleep and a surfeit of stress. His image looks so pitiable, it’s not helping, it’s—)
John’s face in the mirror behind him.
“Sherlock—”
“I’m fine.” He slams the glass down abruptly. “I’m fine, and I can assure you I won’t be repeating any of the mistakes I’ve made over the last three days, so would you please just leave me alone?”
John deflates visibly. But then he looks into the mirror—at Sherlock’s ghostly, traitorous reflection and not his own—and squares his shoulders.
“Fine,” says. “If you’ll just tell me one thing first.” Edge in his voice this time; one that makes Sherlock still and turn to face him despite himself.
“What?”
“I think I at least deserve to know what the fuck I’ve done wrong, don’t you?” Quiet, but the edge is still there. Anger? Perhaps; even John’s patience isn’t infinite, after all.
But good, this is good, he’d rather fight this out than be patronised, be told I understand and it’s nothing personal and I just don’t think we should in some awful, gentle, doctorly tone of voice while John looks at him the way he looks at murder victims.
“Who were you thinking about?” he snaps, before he can change his mind. John’s face clouds, which just doubles the urge to lash out. “Don’t play at being stupider than you are. You know what I mean.”
“Bloody hell, Sherlock, I’m not telling you that!” John’s eyebrows have shot up; he’s starting to flush. “That’s really not the sort of thing you ask your—”
He cuts himself off, and Sherlock does nothing to suppress his sneer.
It’s not the sort of thing you ask your flatmate, or your friend. Is it the sort of thing you ask a romantic partner? He doesn’t actually know. (Is that where they have been heading? Is that what he wants, wanted, could want?)
Uncertainty and nervousness are plain to see on John’s face. So is the exact second that he makes up his mind. He swallows; his knuckles are white.
“You,” he admits, and Sherlock’s heart beats faster and don’t listen to it, don’t analyse it, it means nothing, nothing, nothing.
“I find that hard to believe,” he says, and doesn’t doesn’t doesn’t feel sick at how John’s gaze leaves his face and sinks to the ground.
For a moment, it appears he isn’t going to say anything more. He’ll give up and Sherlock can leave the room and escape this. At least he hasn’t said ‘I’m sorry.’ Then:
“Why?”
“I was right beside you. You chose to leave and masturbate in the shower.”
John sighs aloud; scrubs a hand down his face. Looks back up. “Sherlock. That’s not how this works, and I really hope you don’t think I’m that sort of person. Just because you were there and I’m—attracted to you—that doesn’t give me the right to, you know. Try anything.”
“Even though I’d previously made my wishes perfectly clear?”
“Yes, even though. If they even were your wishes, really, I mean you’re—”
“Damaged goods, yes, thank you, I know.” He aims for flat and cold; the undercurrent of vehemence in his voice is a surprise.
John blinks, twice in quick succession, and just looks at him. He goes quiet again, for a moment, and when he speaks his voice is hushed; shocked, almost. (Shouldn’t be. He ought to know.)
“Sherlock,” he says. “No. No, no.” His whole body is rigid; he’s restraining himself from moving closer. “You’re not goods. You’re you. Why would you think I…” He breaks off, shakes his head. Another try: “The other day. When you tried to… ‘make your wishes clear.’ Your face, you didn’t look like anybody else who’s ever come on to me. You looked more like you were, I don’t know, on your way to the dentist’s. Somewhere you knew you had to go but didn’t really want to. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if even you knew what you wanted.” Exhale. “I didn’t want to risk fucking anything up. Yeah, okay, I’ve gone and done that anyway, but—that’s all it was. Is.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply. (Doesn’t believe him, can’t believe him, wants to wants to wants to no—)
“Even if I were the jealous type,” John goes on, “which, for the record, I’m not, I’d be a complete hypocrite—why the fuck would I blame you for something you had no choice in? It’d make more sense for me to be jealous of the people you’ve willingly—”
The words fall off abruptly.
Penny tumbling through the air.
Mycroft must have said something. Mycroft, with his odious concern and his interfering. He doesn’t have much experience with relationships, Doctor Watson, you’ll need to make allowances for him, God, he can hear it now.
“Oh,” John says, and it’s just a breath, stricken. “Sherlock.”
Penny, meet floor. Well done, John.
“Oh, spare me.” Sherlock folds his arms around himself tightly.
“What?”
“The tears for my precious lost innocence, I assure you it wasn’t.” The words come out dripping with venom. Good. Better that people look at him and see a poisonous snake than the quivering prey animal that is crouched beneath his skin. He will get rid of it, he will hunt it down and flay it himself, he can’t be that, he won’t—
John puts his head on one side. Concerned; questioning. “And you’re okay with losing it like—that?” Bald question; soft voice. Trying to be kind with it. (Don’t be kind with this, please.)
“Virginity has no objective value, John. The importance attached to it is a vestige of outmoded social conventions. Honestly, I would’ve thought you’d understand that. In what way does it make what happened to me any worse?”
John holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, I’m not saying that what they did to you would be okay if you were the sort of person who shagged around, bloody hell. I’m just—” Deep breath. “You don’t have to be the purity police to be upset that something that should’ve been your choice got taken away from you.”
Don’t. Don’t.
“Is it compulsory? Being upset?”
“Sherlock?”
“Would that be better, if I broke down and wept abjectly on your shoulder? Would you feel validated then?”
John ignores the dig. Doesn’t mention, either, that that—sans shoulder—is precisely what he caught Sherlock doing the other day. He could do, Sherlock can see him remembering it, but he won’t bring it up now, won’t use it to hurt him. He’s too good to do that. (Stop it.)
“Well, what would be better? What would help, Sherlock? Please, just tell me.”
All this kindness, all this seeing through perfectly good, carefully constructed layers of defence, he can’t stand it. Fight it; it’s all he has. “Perhaps if you’d just fuck me—”
“Sherlock.” John’s eyes. Sad. Sad and kind. “That’s never going to happen.”
Sinking feeling in pit of stomach. Unexpected. (But not really.) He’s suspected the repulsion; has been pushing John away to avoid having it confirmed.
“Then what, exactly, has the point of all this been?” His voice vibrates with rage. (Nothing else. Not pain. No incipient heat behind his eyes to remind him how pathetic he is, how pitiable. No.) He waves a hand to indicate the space between them. “All this pseudo-romantic behaviour, this intimacy, this ‘I don’t see you any differently’.” He keeps his voice icy. “Did it make you feel better? Is that it? At least you’d done something for the poor victim?”
John just shakes his head. “Sherlock. You’ve got to stop putting thoughts in my head.” And then he does take that step closer—just the one. His hands have softened; no longer balled into fists. “That’s not how I feel about you. And I wish to God it wasn’t how you felt about yourself. The reason it’s never going to happen is that just fucking is what you do with people you meet out on the piss and don’t plan on ever seeing again. You are the most important thing in my world. I’m not promising anything, and I’m not—” He swallows. “I’m not ruling anything out, but whatever happens with us, it can’t be just anything.”
Oh. Oh.
Sherlock grasps for a coherent thought but there are none. There’s just confusion, and fear, and—
“See, I’m not trying to—to take care of you out of the goodness of my heart.” John blinks again, rapidly. He’s getting nervous. Sherlock should say something. Can’t. “You know what, this is me being selfish. You’ve let me get used to a world with amazing in it, when everything used to be just grey and shit. I’m spoiled now. And the amazing is you, and I’m not willing to live without that. I’m not losing you.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, if that’s alright with you. If you can. Let me. Take care of you.”
—hope.
And then John does take that step forward. Sherlock finds himself sinking (humiliating, utterly, should surely struggle against it more forcibly?) and has to sit down on the side of the bath to steady himself. John is next to him in an instant. He looks up. (Should push John away. Should say something, anything, to make it stop.)
(Doesn’t want to.)
(He’s ruined.)
“Sherlock.” A note of urgency in his voice, but it’s steady. A voice he might have used on injured soldiers, once, to keep them from falling out of consciousness. A voice for emergencies. (John thinks this is an emergency.) “Sherlock.”
He nods, once.
Apparently, it’s enough. John’s hands are on his shoulders. One of them slides up to nestle in his hair.
“You do know,” John says, after a long pause, “there actually aren’t any emotion police who are going to jump out and arrest you if you admit you’re not fine, right?” The hand stroking his hair pauses to tap one finger against his head. “Except maybe in here.”
Sherlock smiles, faint and painful. (But safe, because no one can see it.) “And how do you suggest I stop them, John?” John presses closer until Sherlock’s head is resting against his middle.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But—” Another tap. “You build palaces, in here. You catch murderers. You see things no one else can. I’m sure a few little imaginary coppers shouldn’t be too much for you.” The tremor in his voice could be from laughter or from nerves, and Sherlock just can’t any more, he can’t, he has to give in. He puts his arms around John’s waist and buries his face in John’s jumper, and John gives a sigh that comes right from the bottom of his chest and stays there with him.
It’s a long while before they move. Once, Sherlock hears John murmur something into his hair, under his breath.
It sounds like, “I would have taken care of you.”
Was he supposed to hear it? He isn’t sure. He holds on a little more tightly, anyway.
Late that night, John wakes to find Sherlock sitting up in bed, staring at him. He shifts when he sees that John’s awake.
“John,” he says, quietly. “I—”
John hugs him fiercely before he can finish. “If you say ‘thank you,’” he says, “if you suggest that I’m here out of some sense of obligation, or for any reason other than that you are the best and most important thing in my world, then so help me, I will piss in your tea.”
“You buy PG Tips, I don’t see what difference it would make.”
“Git,” John says. His voice comes out pitched a touch too high, almost hysterical with relief, but he can’t bring himself to care. Sherlock’s answering smile is weak and watery, but it’s a real one, and John never wants to let him go.
A couple of weeks later, John gets a text.
Since ninety percent of his texts are case-related demands from Sherlock—with the remainder being guilt-prompted catch-up messages from Harry, and the occasional drinks invitation from Mike—the message itself is surprising enough. Even more surprising is that it’s from Lestrade. Too soon for them to be allowed anywhere near the Met’s cases, surely? He opens it.
Going to be in your neck of the woods tonight. Fancy a pint?
It doesn’t take Sherlock to figure out that it’s an excuse to check up on them. Lestrade’s a good bloke, solid, but John doesn’t exactly socialise with him outside of cases.
He’s almost tempted to say yes, though. Not that he wants to spend time talking about what happened—fuck, no—but not having to worry about hiding it, hiding his anger; that would be something. Still. Not his pain to discuss, not really. Not his decision. And the thought of leaving Sherlock alone still occasions a nervous twist in his guts, a brief, insane desire to lock the door and close the curtains and shut out the world, keep both of them safe forever.
Safe at home isn’t what he wants. Not really. It’s not what they do, not who they are. It’s just—
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Sherlock is scowling at him. “Go. I’m sure I can last one evening without flinging myself out of the window in despair.”
John shakes his head, is on the verge of saying, no, it’s okay, but Sherlock’s glare stops him. And he might actually have a point. John knows that the world’s not going to end while he’s out having a beer, but it still bloody well feels like it might.
Sherlock might not be the only one who’s been looking at the world askew. And letting that carry on—well, it’d be like letting them win, wouldn’t it?
You’re on, he texts back. 8 in the Castle?
“While you’re there,” Sherlock says, “do try to remind Lestrade of his division’s staggering incompetence and the fact that I’m just sitting here.”
“Look, if you want to come—”
“I can’t think of anything more tedious.”
For the first pint and a half, they chat about nothing, really: the football; the cuts and how much harder they’re going to make Lestrade’s job; what a bag of bollocks the last series of Red Dwarf was. Only, then, John finds himself staring into his drink, shoulders slumping.
Lestrade goes quiet, obviously deciding that the world can manage without hearing whatever it was he was about to say on the subject of Dave’s programming schedule.
“I’m so fucking angry,” John says, at last. “Really. I mean, things are better than they were, but sometimes.” He swallows. “Sometimes I want to kill something.”
“Have you told him?”
“Don’t think he needs an exploding flatmate to deal with on top of everything else right now.” The thing is, Sherlock doesn’t deal with things. He reasons them out of existence, or he ignores them. That’s half the problem, and John doesn’t want to add to it.
“Suppose not,” Lestrade concedes. “Don’t know if a support group’s your thing, either?”
“Not really.” He’s thought about it, but there’s something about the idea of joining a group—a community defined by trauma—that doesn’t quite sit right with him. It would feel like acknowledging something as broken, and it’s not. (They’re not.)
“Fair enough. If you ever need to get out, though—give us a call, alright? I know you want to be there for him, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to let him drive you mad.” Lestrade gets up, and plucks John’s empty pint glass out of his hands. “Here, I’ll get you another.”
John smiles up at him, faintly. “Cheers.”
And he means it.
Still, when he gets home and finds Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, making narky notes in the margins of John’s BMJ, he feels his heart expand a little with relief.
Sherlock sits up to make room for him without looking up from the journal. John sits, leaning into him half-consciously—seeking warmth and solidity. A reminder that his world hasn’t ended; it’s still sitting right here.
“I’m back.” John plonks his carton of chips down on the table, as far as possible from the end where Sherlock is doing something unspeakable to a severed ear. Yes, it’s a heartening sight—Sherlock acting like something close to his old self, engaging with something outside of his own skull—but that doesn’t mean he wants it anywhere near his lunch. “And I got you your disgusting energy drink. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone can drink these things.”
Sherlock holds out his hand for the can. “The taste is hardly the point, John.”
“Yes, because you really need help not sleeping. That stuff is not good for you. I’d make you a list of reasons why, only I expect you’d take it as the basis for your next experiment.” He clatters around the kitchen, finally managing to locate a clean (he hopes) knife and fork. “Where’s the vinegar?”
“I used it.”
John pokes his head out of the kitchen. “You used a whole bottle of malt vinegar? What for?”
“Science, obviously.”
“The same science you’re doing now?” Then John stops short, and holds up a hand. “Actually, don’t tell me. If there were severed body parts involved, I don’t want to know. It’ll put me right off my food.”
Molly turned up earlier this morning, bearing a small collection of what she cheerfully referred to as ‘offcuts’ from the morgue in a cooler. If that didn’t cheer Sherlock up—it’s still hard to tell what he’s feeling most of the time; he’s making progress, he hasn’t had a personality transplant—it certainly kept him busy for most of the morning. Busy enough that, when John announced he was off to the chippy, he’d just waved an impatient hand and said, “Caffeine. Red Bull, not Coke,” and then gone back to whatever he was doing.
As far as Molly’s concerned, he’s got ‘flu. She’d actually brought Lemsip with her, too, saying, “These new ones are quite good, I thought maybe you’d want to try them.” When Sherlock summarily ignored her in favour of the deceased and dismembered, she’d frowned at John in confusion.
“Are you sure he’s really ill?” she’d asked. “He seems alright.” John had felt momentarily sick, not knowing how to answer, and then she’d gone on: “I don’t know, I suppose I just always thought he’d think he was above man-flu.”
John had to grin at that, even as his insides ached at just how far off the mark she was.
He heads downstairs to beg condiments from Mrs Hudson, and ends up having to trade a promise to get her shopping this afternoon for some salt and vinegar. That’s okay; he’s cooking tonight, so he needs to go, anyway. Sherlock’s appetite seems to have improved a little since he finished his meds (which, okay, in his case means slightly less scowling at his plate like a bratty teenager than usual, but John will take what he can get) and John intends to take full advantage of the opportunity to make him eat a decent meal or two.
He sits back down at the table—God, he’s starving, he got up too late for breakfast—
Oh. Didn’t he have more chips than that?
John actually finds himself blinking in astonishment. Then he looks at Sherlock.
“I thought you were too engrossed in the life of the mind for pedestrian things like lunch,” he accuses.
Looking thoroughly unrepentant, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Honestly, John. I take your advice, and you complain about it. Remind me not to listen to you in future.”
“As if you ever do.” John shakes his head. Sherlock just raises an eyebrow and sips primly at his Red Bull. And that’s daft, isn’t it, Red Bull isn’t something you’re supposed to sip primly, only Sherlock never does anything like he’s supposed to.
Except that sometimes, now, he does listen to John, when it’s important. When it’s late at night and he’s in the throes of a bad dream, and needs to be pulled out; when he’s been staring vacantly into space, at nothing, for too long, and needs John’s voice and John’s hands to revive him. And that, surely, is about as close to ‘how it’s supposed to be’ as they can hope for right now.
Suddenly John wants, very badly, to kiss him.
Then he flushes, and wonders just how obvious that thought is on his face.
Quite obvious, apparently, because Sherlock goes still. And lays his right hand on the table, stretched out halfway towards John, and waits. John feels his pulse quicken—the background hum of nervousness he feels every time he touches Sherlock, because it would be so fucking awful if he pushed too far, got things wrong—but he does his best to ignore it. Instead he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand, gently runs the pad of his thumb across the knuckles, and raises it to his lips, watching Sherlock’s face all the time.
He gets a small, opaque smile in return, and Sherlock squeezes his hand briefly before letting go. “Your chips are getting cold,” he says.
John smiles back.
Then he remembers the severed ear, and thinks, Oh, that was a bit unhygienic, wasn’t it?
Then he decides he doesn’t care.
Sherlock blinks as he wakes. Daylight filtering in between the blinds. Traffic noise, car horns, pedestrian chatter; London on a busy weekday at 8:30. Clank of pipes in the walls as decades-old central heating struggles to function. Mrs Hudson’s kettle boiling for her second cup of tea. The walls: blank, familiar. John’s room. John’s possessions, ranged neatly on shelves or stacked in corners, in sober contrast to his own sprawling system of organisation (taken always, by outside eyes, for chaos.)
Warm body curled into his side; face pressed to the juncture of neck and shoulder. John.
Inventory. It helps. Reminds him where he is. (Here, home, not alone, John.) (Not coming round on a concrete floor or in a hospital bed.)
One day, perhaps, the solid weight of John sleeping beside him will be the only marker he needs.
He isn’t sure how he feels about this. He knows that he feels something. Thinks that John would, perhaps, tell him that’s enough.
It’s music that pulls John out of sleep, a little while later, and his heart skips when he wakes up enough to realise it’s a violin. He hasn’t heard Sherlock play since—since before.
The tune isn’t one he recognises, but it’s something slow and contemplative. At a stretch, he might even say… peaceful?
He pulls on his dressing gown and slippers, and pads down into the living room. Sherlock’s sitting in the window, already dressed. He glances in John’s direction, but doesn’t stop playing, and after a moment he turns to look out of the window, surveying Baker Street as if he owns it.
He might have looked cold or distant, like this, once. John might’ve been intimidated. What he feels now, though, is something much more overwhelming. He knows exactly how vulnerable this man is—and how much stronger than even he knows. How broken, and how not. Sometimes he feels like he might overflow just with knowing that, or burst like an over-filled balloon.
“John?” The music stops, abruptly. “You’re gawping. What is it?”
“Hmm? Oh.” He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just. You. You’re—you.”
Sherlock glances down at himself as if to make certain before doing the you’re an idiot look. “So it would appear.” He lifts his bow again, and John heads into the kitchen to forage for breakfast.
He hears the text alert while he’s contemplating exactly how much mould it’s permissible to cut off the bread before you have to consign it to the bin. Sherlock’s phone, not his. And a moment later Sherlock is in the doorway, saying, “Breakfast will have to wait, John, get dressed,” and he’s grinning. Excitement is visible in his eager stance, in every little movement of his hands. It’s the first time John’s seen that in what feels like centuries, and it is the best thing in the whole fucking world.
“Lestrade?” he asks, daring to let himself hope.
“Five weeks without me? He’s completely at sea. Of course it’s Lestrade, and why are you still standing there?”
John’s not thick. He knows that being distracted with a case isn’t the same as being okay. This isn’t going to be a magic fix. Things are better, but it still feels like one step forward, two steps back a lot of the time. There are shit days; a lot of shit days. But both of them have had enough misery to last a lifetime in recent weeks, and damn it, just for now, he’s going to let himself be happy about this for as long as Sherlock is.
In the cab, he looks down in surprise when Sherlock reaches over and takes his hand.
“People will talk,” he says, and it’s not a joke anymore now that there’s something to talk about. He doesn’t let go, though.
“That’s the idea,” Sherlock says, quietly, eyes dead ahead, and John gets it then. Give them something else to talk about. Lestrade’s the only person from the Yard who’s been in touch, recently; the last time most of them saw Sherlock he was—
He pushes the thought away, and squeezes Sherlock’s hand more tightly, just hoping that Sherlock knows what language he’s speaking, that it gets across everything he wants to say.
Anything you need, I’m here. I know I couldn’t keep you safe if I tried, and you’d hate me if I did, but I can promise that wherever you go, I’m coming with you. Like it should be. Me and you, running straight into danger, together.
