A/N: My first Johnlock fic ever, so please please please tell me if I got them right? Sorry, a bit angsty; I tried to write anything but angst, but I was listening to "Exit Wounds" by the Script, and it just wrote itself.
Exit Wounds
Another night spent alone. He's sitting in his chair, knees pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around his legs. There's a fire in the hearth, and the light of the dancing flames reflects in his eyes. He's glad for the warmth this night though it does no good to warm him in the one way he wants it to. Not even a shock blanket could do the job. As he stares into the flames, half wondering to himself if his soul will meet that demise when the time comes, memories rise unbidden to the forefront of his mind.
"John, be rational," he began, "How many more times must I apologize? I couldn't very well-"
"It isn't about the apologies, Sherlock!" John snapped. "It's you. Your forgiveness-is-better-than-permission m.o. There you go excusing yourself when you abruptly dropped out of my life and reappeared two years later. Two years. I thought you were—you were dead."
"Not dead!" Sherlock re-affirmed, offering him a small smile despite the tangible volatile state of the conversation. "Now, to address the purpose of my visit. Another case."
"No," John answered promptly. "Nope. Hm, no.I put that aside long ago, Sherlock. No cases. Not anymore."
"But I haven't even explained what it involves," Sherlock responded with some confusion.
"I don't fucking care!" the other man shouted, balling his hands into fists. "I don't care. I'm angry at you, and I will probably be angry for a good long while. So I advise you take your leave."
"You're being irrational, John. Your anger is coloring your judgement, and I shall wait it out," Sherlock remarked calmly. John dropped his head into his hands and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, losing the fight to control his temper.
"There's nothing to wait out, don't you get it? I'm done. You cannot just swoop back into my life like that, Sherlock." John had stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind him and leaving a befuddled detective in his wake. He watched the doctor leave, and even after the latter left, his gaze still remained on the door.
His brilliant mind now set itself to analyzing the emotional reaction brought on by John's outburst. Sharp and stinging were the first adjectives to offer an explanation; hurt, he decided. That's what it was. His left eyebrow twitched in a detached curiosity at how the fleeting feeling held his interest. He hadn't felt like this in such a long time that he had quite forgotten what it felt like. Yet again Mycroft was right. Would he really have been in this situation if he hadn't allowed himself to feel? He thought not.
His long fingers curled around a glass tumbler and lifted the glass to his lips. He let the amber liquid slide down his throat as he drank, welcoming its burn. He swallowed thickly and set the glass back down, fixing his steel gaze on the hearth again. There it was again, the hurt, returned like an annoying insect buzzing just out of reach. He growled and tightened his grip on the glass until his knuckles began to whiten. 'Apathy seems better to me still than a masochistic desire to force myself into social interaction which may only result in my own discomfort,' he thought to himself. At the thought of it, his mind drifted to yet another memory—this of John's wedding. He couldn't even congratulate the man at first, given that he himself couldn't bear the thought of losing his army doctor or much less having to live a life with less of him in it.
He'd stood up there, still as a statue but for the elegant strokes of his arm as he carefully drew out of the violin the notes of the waltz he had composed for this very occasion. His gaze had been fixed on the sheet music before him, but on the floor below, John and his newly wedded wife swayed alone to the beautiful music. When the music had finished and the other guests had begun to dance, Sherlock had folded the waltz neatly and left it on the stand before quietly slipping into the crowd. Even in the midst of them, as he watched John dancing with Mary, Janine with another man, Molly with her ungainly duplicate of himself, he felt quite alone. He cast one last gaze towards the bride and groom, giving them a faint smile, and made his exit. He pulled his thick black coat over his shoulders and drew the collar up, shoving his hands into the pockets. Alone again, he found his way back to the flat.
That was how he'd found himself here, on another night spent alone. Not brooding because God knows that's boring, but merely running through the events of the night and breaking them into little tiny pieces, analyzing them, studying them. After all, that was what he did best.
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