A/N: Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.
Asunder: (adv) apart, divided.
Love breaks my
bones and I
laugh.
-Charles Bukowski
The first time Sherlock writes it, he's lying belly-up on a dingy mattress in a dingy hotel in the middle of Dresden, Germany. Unrest rattles in his bones, so he searches for a pen.
Beneath the dresser, beside an empty carton of cigarettes and a ball of lint, he finds a broken fountain pen spilling blue ink, nearly bent into a right angle, smashed at both ends.
Carefully, with all of the precision of one penning his last words, he writes the phrase on the back of his hand. It's important that he remembers this, because out here, in the dark underbelly of crime and sin and secrets, it's easy to forget oneself; it's easy to get lost. As he traces out the letters, he presses extra hard, hard enough to break skin, because he needs the words to seep into his bones, to become one and the same with the blood beading beneath the dark blue ink.
He writes: My real name is William and I need you.
(It's a secret and a confession all in one, and he promises himself he will say it aloud once he is finally back in London's sweet embrace.)
When he sleeps, he dreams of jumpers and handguns. Of midnight chases and steaming cups of tea. Of strong hands, bullet wounds, and bright, earth-shattering blue eyes.
He wakes up with John's name crumbling in his mouth.
Mycroft: Are you quite sure this is a good plan, Sherlock? I know you are eager to see him, but—
Sherlock: Just tell me the name of the bloody restaurant, would you? I know what I'm doing, Mycroft.
Mycroft: Sherlock.
Sherlock: What?
Mycroft: In your absence, situations have changed. Things are…different, now.
Sherlock: In what way?
Mycroft:
Sherlock: Mycroft.
Mycroft: Mary Morstan.
He interrupts the proposal.
And when John tackles him to the floor of the restaurant, Sherlock thinks he would give anything in the world to be able to freeze this moment right here—to capture it in amber, lock it away—so that he'll never forget the feeling of John's strong, warm palms flattened against his chest, right over his heart.
"You sodding—you bleeding—you lied to me, Sherlock," John shouts. His hands are fisted in the front of Sherlock's suit and his legs are straddling Sherlock's hips.
He grips John's wrists, engulfs those smaller hands within his larger ones, and stares up at John with wide eyes. His mouth is ajar and his breath is caught in his throat. Having John pressed against him, looming over him, breathing the same air, feels intoxicating and surreal. John looks down at him, frozen, and then the anger is washed away by something unreadable. Shock, perhaps.
John swallows, Sherlock watches his throat bob. "You're alive."
Still holding John's hands, Sherlock nods wordlessly.
"You came back."
Again, Sherlock nods.
John doesn't say anymore, but he gets off of him and helps him up.
"I'm still livid, you understand," John says, smoothing down his lapel. He doesn't quite make eye contact. His voice shakes a bit.
"I know."
"And you need to give me one hell of an explanation."
"I know."
"Okay." John exhales. He rubs a hand over his face and sucks in another deep breath, releases it. "Okay."
My real name is William and I am sorry for hurting you.
221B is a strange, half-remembered dream. He could have sworn the wallpaper was brighter, the sitting room bigger, the kitchen neater.
It's odd being here on his own, now.
The nights are long and the silence grows oppressive.
He finds himself surrounded by bittersweet tokens of the past: newspaper clippings, framed photographs, discarded jumpers that he finds at the bottom of John's empty closet. On some days they bring him great comfort. On other days, when storm clouds gather overhead and the world seems to exist only in shades of grey, they make his chest ache with longing. Take John's chair, for example. For weeks, he keeps it right where it's always been, across from his chair, right in front of the fireplace, because that way it feels as if nothing has changed.
But then the day comes when he realizes that John will never come back here, not permanently anyway, and that chair will always remain empty. It becomes a mockery instead of a comfort—a cruel reminder. He ends up having to shove it into John's old bedroom, with the rest of John's things he can no longer bear to look at.
You were gone, gone, gone, the skull on the mantle sings, in the deep, dark oblivion of his dreams. The cresting waves wait for no man, the world keeps spinning. Life has moved on without you.
He receives his invitation to the Watson's engagement party later that week.
"It's so nice to finally spend some time with you, Sherlock," Mary beams over her cup of coffee. "John here always just wants you to himself."
Teasing glance towards John, chuckle, bright smile.
Sherlock feels sick.
"So, how have you been, dear? Any new cases?"
Mary is beautiful, that much is undeniable. Perfect facial proportions, curvy figure, blonde hair, green eyes, dimpled smile, optimistic, intelligent, affectionate, caring, genuine, charming—
"Sherlock?" John asks when silence stretches on.
He blinks out of his reverie and stares at John. He tries to see through John, beneath the fiancé and the wedding ring and the new clothes, beneath the new life and the new flat and the wide smile, but he can't. All he can see is a ghost of Old John—the one who put Sherlock at the center of his universe and looked at him as if he were the sun.
"I'm fine," Sherlock assures him, with a quick smile. "Just fine."
My real name is William and I wish you didn't love her.
John: Huh.
Sherlock: What is it?
John: Nothing, it's just—well, I haven't been here in ages. Everything looks the same but…different at the same time, you know?
Sherlock: Yes, things have certainly changed.
John: I see you moved my chair.
Sherlock: It was blocking my view.
John: Of what?
Sherlock: The kitchen.
John: Ah.
Sherlock: Yes.
John: It's probably been a lot easier to live here now that I'm not around, right?
Sherlock: Why would it be?
John: More space, less nagging about mess.
Sherlock: There's too much space, and now it's very quiet.
John: But the quiet is good, isn't it? It's easier to think?
Sherlock: Yes, I…certainly have time to think.
John: Well, that's good.
Sherlock: Yes.
My real name is William and—
With his finger, he traces the remaining words on his thigh.
I-l-o-v-e-y-o-u
Stag night: drinking, laughing, clumsily bumping shoulders. They amble up the stairway and play a silly guessing game because John wants to and Sherlock always finds himself agreeing to silly things when John asks them of him. A lone lamp glows dimly in the corner, casting low, intimate light through the flat. The world is hush with the late hour; they are alone.
"You're not very good at this game are you?" John giggles. His laughter is like chiming bells.
Feigned indignation spills into Sherlock mumbled reply. "Hey, I've never played before, alright? I cannot be expected to be an expert."
John hums and smiles, drinks from his glass. Unfolding his legs, he leans forward until he is sitting right on the edge of his seat. He instantly starts to slide off and reaches out to brace himself with one hand on Sherlock's right knee. A beat passes, then two.
Guileless, John looks down at his hand and shrugs. "I don't mind."
Love unfurls helplessly from the wound of Sherlock's soul. He grabs his glass from the table and drinks until he can't remember the rules, the boundaries, the unspoken lines. The alcohol burns through his body like fire, hot and engulfing.
John's hand is on his knee, warm and strong and steady. Heat bleeds from his palm and seeps into Sherlock's skin like liquid gold. The look on John's face is one of rejuvenation: of fledgling things and shining, new-born dawn.
I don't mind.
More laughter, more liquor. The sitting room swirls around him like an impressionistic painting, all blotchy colors and blurry strokes, but John never wavers out of focus. Every line of his visage is sharp and precise. Sherlock could draw his face from memory without ever looking at him again.
John's fingers flex around his kneecap. "Tell me something, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiles lazily and swirls his whiskey, listens to the ice clink against the glass. "Hm?"
"Are you happy right now?"
Here, now? Of course. "Yes."
John's thumb sweeps back and forth over his knee, hypnotic and slow. "Good."
The lightheartedness evaporates from the room and something heavier, headier, pervades the air. John's hand no longer feels teasing and silly, it feels heavy. It feels like an anchor tethering Sherlock to earth, like a promise glittering with potential.
"John," Sherlock murmurs, his voice dark with alcohol. John stares back at him, eyes half-lidded in the dim light of the room, waiting.
This moment is suspended: hung in the air like bated breath. Anything can happen, anything is possible: the heavens hold the limits.
"John, I—" the words are there, waiting on his tongue. "I…"
"Hm?" John asks softly. His glass is held loosely in his left hand, about to slip free and spill. He frowns when Sherlock doesn't continue. "What is it?"
"It's…I."
John flexes his hand, reminding Sherlock that it's still there, holding onto him. "Tell me. Whatever it is, tell me."
The truth crackles behind his teeth, sets fire along his tongue. "John…"
But then Tessa knocks, and reality snaps back into place like a rubber band.
…
John: This was fun, Sherlock, really.
Sherlock: It's fine, John, no need to humor me. I know it was a mess.
John: It wasn't a mess, Sherlock, I had a good time—
Sherlock: Then stay.
John: Pardon?
Sherlock: Stay, John. It's two in the morning, there's no sense in going back home this late.
John: Sherlock…
Sherlock: What?
John: I can't.
Sherlock: Why?
John: I need to go home.
Sherlock: Why?
John: Mary. I have Mary, now. I can't just stay out at all hours anymore.
Sherlock:
John: Sherlock, I'm not saying I don't want to spend time with you—
Sherlock: I understand.
John: No, you don't, I—
Sherlock: I said I understand, John.
...
In the morning, crows gather on the telephone wire outside, solemn and black again the chipper blue sky, crowded together, wing to wing, as if in mourning. Black birds, he thinks, are signs of doom. Signs of dark omens and dead things. Broken bones, punctured organs, ominous dreams. Abandonment. Loneliness. Loss.
Sherlock drinks lukewarm coffee alone at the kitchen table and does not leave the flat for the rest of the day.
The wedding invitations are printed on expensive white parchment varnished with gold trim. In curling lilac script, the card announces the union between John Hamish Watson and Mary Elizabeth Morstan on June 10th of this summer.
The dates sneaks up without warning and the wedding goes without a hitch. The music is upbeat, the guests are all grinning, and Mary is pregnant with John's baby.
Sherlock leaves early.
His mind is an archipelago of disjointed thoughts, of half-remembered dreams and stale, bitter longings.
His soul coils-and-twists-and-breaks and then reconvenes, like a lava lamp. The world feels too small, these days. The walls close in and the ceiling pushes down on his skull. Everything sounds like static and the world melts into indistinguishable shades of grey.
My real name is William and I can't stop loving you.
Despite what he tells John and Mycroft and even himself, he doesn't do it for Mary. Standing over Magnussen's dead body with John's Sig Sauer cooling in his hand, he knows there is only one reason why he's done this—one reason why he's done anything, really—and that reason is standing an arm's length away, staring at him, mumbling 'Oh Christ, Oh Sherlock, what have you done'.
Sherlock drops the gun and puts his hands up, half hoping the wall of helicopters and snipers will open fire.
Sherlock: Did you invite me here just to watch you pace, Mycroft?
Mycroft: Don't act as if you don't care about this, Sherlock. I know you.
Sherlock: Fine.
Mycroft: Sherlock, I just—I cannot possibly fathom why on earth you would do something so bloody reckless and stupid. I truly cannot.
Sherlock:
Mycroft: Do not just sit there, Sherlock. Not after this. Not now.
Sherlock: I know what I did, Mycroft. I'll accept whatever the punishment may be.
Mycroft: I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. You killed a man.
Sherlock: You know why I did it.
Mycroft: I suppose I do. That does not mean I understand it.
Sherlock: You don't need to understand it.
Mycroft:
Sherlock: I don't understand it.
The tarmac, a final goodbye. Mycroft and his private jet wait behind Sherlock, and Mary stands several meters behind John. Cold autumn wind swirls around them.
He shoves his gloved hands into his coat pockets and stares at the space over John's shoulder. "John, there is something I've always meant to tell you, but never quite got the chance to say."
John tilts his head and looks at him, his focus resting solely on Sherlock for the first time in ages. The full force of his blue gaze is as terrifying as it is intoxicating.
"My real name is William and," he stops.
The world slows and tilts on its axis. John's eyes are vortexes: black holes that suck him in, pull him towards their center, swallow him whole. He finds himself choked by the reality of the situation. Behind him stands Mary, the wife, the pregnant wife. He thinks about the Watson's flat, the matching toothbrushes on the sink, his and her towels in the loo, color-coordinated bed sheets, wedding bands, John smiling, John touching her, John loving her, the coldness of 221B, the absence of John's chair, life speeding by in a blur of color and sound and nothing—nothing should ever hurt this much, yet it does, and that tangible, pulsating ache behind his ribcage is like a cancer spreading all along his limbs, into his brain, behind his eyes, in his throat; how can he speak when John has a family standing behind him? How can he speak when he knows how flat his words will fall?
"And?" John prompts
John's eyes, as Sherlock will always recall, look so open in this moment that he feels as if he could crawl right into them and drown. He could get lost in that eternal blue, sink to the bottom of that bright, endless cerulean.
"And I just thought you should know my real name," he says in an exhale. The air around them grows colder. John shivers and puts his own hands in his pockets.
"The game is over," John says quietly.
Sherlock forces himself to smile, take John's hand and shake it. "The game is never over, John."
A beat of silence.
"Six months?"
"Six months," Sherlock nods. He steps back and shoves his hands deep into his coat. "I'll write you," he promises.
(He won't.)
…
Sherlock carries the rest of the words in his mouth, sticks them to the backs of his teeth, hides them deep down in the caverns of his soul, where no light will ever touch them. Where John will never see. Where reality will never burn them away.
My real name is William and I love you, John, he thinks, as the plane takes off and leaves the universe in its wake.
A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! I'd love to hear your feedback/opinions, so please let me know what you think in the comments!