"I won't leave," John had promised, and he'd lied, because here they were. In the packed underground, bodies pressing against them on every side, stale sweat choking the air, and the promise of goodbye—the most suffocating of all.
15 minutes, now.
Mind the gap.
Infuriating.
Mind the gap.
Another train rushed past and Sherlock understood, for the first time, how that distance could seem so vast as to be dangerous (foolish, of course it wasn't dangerous, per say. It was barely the span of a hand between the white warning line and the train—-no, 29 cm exactly. Then again, a foot might get caught, torn off perhaps, so dangerous it was— And too, one might step off long before any train came, take that plunge, because those of a fatalistic bent could always find their ways…)
"Sherlock," John said and the clipped impatience and unnecessarily loud pitch suggested that it wasn't the first time Sherlock's name had been fallen on deaf ears.
Sherlock blinked rapidly. "Sorry."
"You might pay attention for a bit, seeing as I'll be away for a few years," John said. "I'm sure whatever limb's percolating in the fridge can wait for a couple minutes…"
"An eye," Sherlock corrected. "Not a limb." John's teeth clenched and Sherlock hastened to explain. "No theft involved, Professor Hooper gave them specially to me. She thought I'd like to—examine them. Congenital aniridia… Relatively minor, but missing part of the iris—"
"I know," John said. "Doctor… oh forget it."
He shifted his bag from his shoulder to the floor and pursed his lips and oh, that had been the wrong thing to say.
Fix it, Sherlock, or he'll leave for forever. I'm surprised he's stayed quite so long to begin with—-
Strange, how that chastising voice in his mind always sounded so familiar.
Goldfish never have the brains to know what's good for them anyways…
It didn't matter, if he was good for John. Sherlock was selfish enough to keep him anyways and self-aware enough to realize how not good that was. And yet… John had crossed his arms and was staring up at him expectantly—looking for a sign of—what was it people did?
Affection, you fool. Sentiment that you're clearly not capable of.
Wrong. He could—-Sherlock slipped a hand under John's chin, tilting his head up so that he could peer closely.
Eyes, wide eyes with wide irises… blue with a hint of gray, not quite Venetian blue…
"Gunmetal," he said. No, where had that come from?
Oh. Obvious association, there, but probably not good.
John's shoulder was stiffening under his touch and Sherlock was at a loss once more. He'd fucked up. Already and again.
"I didn't mean to—" he tried.
John merely scowled.
"You smell like cigarettes," he said. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's too-bony wrist and pushed it away. "You said you'd stopped."
"I'll remember it exactly," Sherlock blurted. "I will, John. Please."
John stared up at him.
Freak, ponce, show-off. Selfish and self-destructive. Already, so just imagine the terror he'll grow to be. And yet…you care so much, John Watson…
Sherlock grasped for the last thread of their conversation, eyes, oh yes, "The color. Of your irises. I'll remember—And the way you look. When you're angry, like this, they change—-John."
Storm-colored now, though Sherlock had never understood that adjective before. What color was a storm anyways, how did one quantify that—But John's eyes were the color of a storm, sure enough, the tension in them palpable.
Sherlock swallowed. "Not good?" he asked. It came out far more plaintive than he'd expected and something in John's face cracked open.
"Oh Christ…" John dropped his bag and drew his partner close. Sherlock's head dropped heavily on his shoulder and John carded a small, strong hand up through the dark curls.
"Now listen to me, Sherlock," he said, his lips pressed to the shell of Sherlock's ear. "I'll be back, soon enough, and no one's going to forget anything, you hear me?"
"The human mind forgets astonishingly quickly," Sherlock mumbled into the thick wool of his jumper. "Retroactive interference… new emotional memories that result in a fading of old ones—"
"There's no one else, you git," John said. His arms tightened about Sherlock's back. "You know that." Hesitation. "Tell me you know that…"
Sherlock drew back, ran a hand through his hair. "Mary," he suggested, after a moment of thought."You dated her…"
"A year ago," John replied. "God, you impossible… If anything, it's you who'll forget me, running about after some excitement. Pining'll bore you, soon enough."
"I wouldn't—"
John dragged a finger under Sherlock's eye and dampness streaked coolly across his skin. "Sherlock. Don't," he said."Won't do any good."
"Statistically speaking—-" Sherlock started, unable to help himself. "Statistically— one of us won't be able to resist— but it certainly won't be me, so therefore, it has to be you—"
"Sherlock, I might be an idiot, but I'm pretty sure that's not how logic works, yeah?" John tugged him back down, so that he could kiss his forehead, and then the bow of his lips. "You don't have to say it," he whispered. "I won't make you."
He hadn't been about to say anything—
Idiot. So obvious, really. A chemical defect, Sherlock.
He couldn't.
"You'll write," Sherlock said, instead.
"And you won't ever write back," John confirmed. He raised an eyebrow, a half-hearted smile at his lips. "Yeah, 'course I'll write.
"And this—-"
—- is the Piccadilly line service to Heathrow Terminals 1, 2, and 3—-
"You'd better go—"
"Yes, I'll just—" John reached for his bag, just as Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. Because of course nowhe wanted to say goodbye, but the sentiment still wouldn't come.
"Don't hurt yourself," he said, the words twisting about in his mouth. "No, I meant—"
"Nope. Wouldn't dream of it," John said.
He backed away slowly, stepped on the train, and Sherlock stumbled forwards, one hand keeping the doors from closing.
"I forgot," he said. "John, I forgot…"
"And I love you too," John said. It might have been meant to be a quip, a careless toss of words, perhaps, but it came out raw and unguarded and it surprised them both long enough for the doors to shut and Sherlock to stumble back, dazed.
"I'll miss you," he called after the retreating train. "I"ll—- quit. I promise. And write. And remember—"
Sweet ideas, to be sure. But not likely, is it?
"I will," Sherlock said, aloud. A few people turned and Sherlock ignored them.
He's only been deployed for two years, he'll be fine. And if he's not—-Redbeard, Sherlock. You always knew what would happen.
Sherlock dashed an angry tear from his eye.
"You can just shut the fucking hell up."
Now people really were staring and if he was attracting attention on the London Underground, then he must be making quite the Sherlock merely turned about and left, his fingers already sweeping the pockets of his raggedy jeans for his pack of cigarettes.
You always were predictable, little brother.
Sherlock took one out and slipped it into his back pocket, before binning the rest without so much as pausing in his stride.
And you always were wrong about me, Mycroft.