Where You Gonna Run To?
Chapter 1
Oh, Sinnerman
John drank in the scenery of the bar he was in. It was loud and crowded, a typical weekend. He sat not far from a group of schoolboys that elicited old memories of his youth, the rowdy nights that passed in a blur, but he was assured had been the best nights of his life. (How many of my best nights consisted of running across town with a consulting detective?) His table was in a corner, somewhat away from the action, but giving him a good view of everything. A pretty girl had her on eye him. He hadn't failed to notice. She was all smiles, nice face, and far too young for him. She was exactly the kind of girl he needed to relax with. She gave a little wave, and John returned a smile.
"John!"
He looked up to see Lestrade standing before him, holding his pint.
"Good to see you, Greg," said John, forcing a smile.
"Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," said Lestrade apologetically.
"Oh, no, I'm fine here," said John, motioning to his beer.
"Yeah, and I saw that girl over at the bar eyeing you," he said with a mischievous smile.
"Oh, she's not really my type."
"Really?" Lestrade snuck a casual glance over to her. "She looks sort of like—well—familiar," he added hastily. (Does she really look that much like him?) (Is that why I'm interested?)
"So how're things down at the Yard?" asked John lightly, as if the previous moment hadn't occurred.
"'Bout the same as usual," said Lestrade, taking a sip of beer. "Bodies keep showing up. I keep arresting people. Donovan is still a pain in my ass. Smug as hell ever since—"
He cut himself off and stared down at his beer, eyes shut. John sighed, feeling his heart sink. He couldn't remember the last time the two of them had had a normal conversation—not that the circumstances under which they knew each other had ever been close to normal in the first place. In the past three years, they had met up like this now and again. Sporadically, occasionally, but Lestrade had tried very hard to keep in touch. John didn't know if it was genuine concern or some kind of misplaced guilt.
"Well, she thinks she was right, doesn't she?" said John.
"John, you have to know—"
"Greg, you've apologized enough."
Lestrade sighed and said, "Yes, I've apologized, but I'm not ever sure it'll be enough."
John said nothing. He pursed his lips and took a long drink of his beer.
"How're the kids?" he asked, wanting the subject to change. It would, but John never knew for how long with Lestrade—maybe a moment, or a few weeks, or months. However, the conversation always came back around.
"Oh, same as always," said Lestrade, a small smile gracing his face. "Raising hell, making my life difficult, getting into all sorts of troubles."
"Sounds about right."
"Yeah, and my youngest reminds me a lot of Sher—"
So it was a moment, that night. John wondered what it was about that day that made it so difficult for Lestrade to stay off the subject. John had done a very good job of not discussing it; he had made it a point to not talk about it. Lestrade seemed to bring it up every time they were together. Whether this was by accident or design, John never knew, and he never cared to ask.
"She's real smart," continued Lestrade. "Very keen, got a good eye for things. I have a feeling she's going to be a pain in my ass," he added with a laugh.
John said nothing and drank his beer. It saddened him to know that the joys of family life would never be part of his life. He had resigned himself to that fact years ago. He didn't even have much of a connection with the family he did have. The average person probably defined themselves through their family, or a close group of friends that functioned liked their family. (Why was he the one person who defined me?)
As those thoughts left John's head, he realized that Lestrade had been talking for a few moments, and John had paid him absolutely no attention. He nodded, as if he had been listening, and wondered if Lestrade had noticed. If he had, he said nothing of it.
"So what's new in your life, John?" he asked casually.
"Still working at the surgery," he replied. "Not much else going on. It keeps me busy. We see tons of people everyday."
"You ever think about something different? Going back to Bart's, maybe?"
"Nah, I'd spend half my time teaching. Not sure I could handle that."
"Prefer to be in the thick of things, eh?"
John shrugged and said nothing.
"I can see you being the man of action type, of course," said Lestrade, "what with being in the army and…"
Lestrade stopped, and John shut his eyes. It wouldn't be so bad if he weren't so damn obvious about it. Every time they saw each other, it somehow came up, in some way or another. Sometimes, just once, but then there were moments like this where it seemed to dominate the whole visit. John could have shrugged it off, could have moved past it, but he always had to harp on it.
"…and I really hate to do this."
"What?"
John snapped from his thought process to see Lestrade standing and pulling on his coat. He was unaware of how long he'd been thinking about it, but then, that must be why Lestrade was leaving. It had been a long time since John had been a fun person to be around, and just the slightest mention of Sherlock sent his mind flying away.
"One of the kids is a bit ill," he said apologetically. "The wife is fine without me, but she keeps texting asking a few things, so I think she needs my help, just isn't asking."
"Oh, yeah, another time." John plastered a grin on his face, and it was probably obvious from how wide it was that he didn't mean it. "Just let me know, yeah?"
"Yeah, of course," said Lestrade.
He looked regretful, but anxious, making John realize that it was less his sick child, and more of John's demeanor that was sending Lestrade away. (Is he afraid of losing those precious moments?) (Why did I have to tell him he was a machine?)
"Maybe in a few weeks, when the kids are with their mum again."
They said their farewells and promised to meet up again soon. John continued nursing his pint, planning only on finishing the one. But one pint turned into two, three, and suddenly his head was fuzzy. The world turned a bit as he looked around, his eyes roving over the bar again. He spied the girl who had been eyeing him earlier. She was leaning over to talk to one of her friends, cleavage spilling out about. It captured his gaze, and when John managed to pull away, they made eye contact again. He watched her as she sauntered over to his table. His mind tried to move, but the alcohol slowed it to the point that all he could think about was cleavage and legs and curly hair and blue eyes and cheekbones.
"This seat taken?" she asked, cocking her head lazily, some kind of fruity cocktail in her hand.
"Not at all."
John smiled. She seemed nice enough, although she looked to be barely out of university; perfect teeth, made-up, nice lipstick that made her lips look large and tempting. She wore a fair amount of jewelry, the kind that he would fiddle with in the cab back home. He had it planned out in his mind. He would tease her with light kisses and strokes, make her laugh, make her want him, and then in the morning, he would be gone, and he hoped she wouldn't care. He didn't want to hurt her. He tried not to think about that. (Why would I care about a stranger?)
Caring was the problem. It always was. He had cared so much that he tried to forget with a night of drunken debauchery the likes of which he hadn't encountered since his school days. She seemed up for it, so what was the problem? The problem, of course, was the he didn't want to shag her. He just wanted to do anything to forget, even if it was just for a little while.
They laughed and flirted. He was charming, smiling, making her laugh, doing exactly what he knew would work on her. She had approached him, so that made it easier. If she thought he was attractive enough, and if she had a few more drinks, then it would be easy. Simple.
It was almost too easy really. It was getting late, she should be getting home, but oh, how a woman like her should have someone to take her home. Wouldn't want anything to happen to her. Needs someone to protect her. Had he mentioned he was in the military? Now there is a line he hadn't used in a while. Women seemed so impressed. Smart and brave, the kind of guy you would take home at least once, and who the hell knows, might stick around for a bit.
All according to plan. Her hand was on his knee, he had an arm around her. A kiss on the cheek here, a light stroke of her wrist there. Her face was flushed, pupils dilated, just enough alcohol in their systems that neither of them really cared what would happen in the morning. All that mattered was that moment in the cab, not anything else going on. That was the point, wasn't it? She was fresh out of law school, trying to make her way up in the world. She needed to blow off steam. He needed anything to make him forget.
The problem was he really didn't want to. (Would it make it easier if I did?)
As soon as they entered her flat, he knew it was a mistake. She was kissing him, and her lips were so soft and so divine, but he knew that he didn't want her lips. He thought he needed any pair of lips to make him feel better. How wrong he was. His mind told him to stop. This was a betrayal. (How can I betray someone whose dead, someone whose lips I never kissed?)
"I'm sorry."
John backed away quickly. She looked startled. She said it was okay, put her arms around him, kissed his cheek, and told him they could go a little slower. More rushed apologies, picked his jumper off the floor, and left her flat as fast as he possibly could. He wasn't the one-night stand type, he told her, he couldn't do it like this, couldn't do it at all. It wasn't fair. He cared too much. (Why couldn't he forget?) (Why is it so hard to walk straight?)
Once on the street, John vomited into the first rubbish bin he saw across the road. He thought it would never stop. The poison exited him quickly, uncontrollably, and when it finished, he collapsed on the pavement, gasping for breath, the world spinning around him. He laid back, staring up at the sky. A few stars peeked through the clouds. He smiled wistfully, remembering a detective's comments about appreciating the beauty. (Why couldn't I appreciate the beauty of that girl upstairs with his lips and body?)
John sat up, looking around him. The street was deserted. Why did this neighborhood seem so familiar? He tried to focus his vision, but the world kept spinning around and around. It took a herculean effort to pull himself up, and he had to stand for several seconds to keep himself from vomiting again. His hands gripped the edge of the bin, and he stared at a pillar of a house, trying to focus his vision. At that moment, the pieces fell into place. His eyes fell upon the sign of the Diogenes Club.
How an upstart lawyer could afford a flat in this neighborhood was anybody's guess. He felt a surge of regret at leaving a rich girl's place, but he was drunk enough to stop caring about her almost instantly. He smiled and stumbled up the steps of the club. Mycroft probably wasn't there, but he didn't care. He never cared much anymore.
But you do, said a nagging voice in the back of his head. You care so much, and you're trying to hard to forget, not to be human. (Not that easy, is it?)
"Mycroft!"
He nearly tripped over his own feet entering Mycroft's…office? Talking room? John was surprised to find the remaining Holmes brother there at that time of night.
"Little late to be here, isn't it?" he asked loudly as the door fell shut behind him.
"Little strange for you to be here, John." Mycroft looked him up and down. "Have a seat." He motioned to the chair before him, not looking at all surprised that John had just drunkenly stumbled into the club at that time of night completely pissed.
John threw himself in the chair, staring Mycroft down as he poured John a cup of tea.
"Got anything a bit stronger? I know you're a scotch fan."
"I think you've had quite enough for tonight." Mycroft held out the cup. "Here."
John sat up and took the cup.
"So what is it that brings you here this time of night?"
"Shagging a young woman who happened to be in the vicinity."
"You were in her flat less than five minutes. Either she's very disappointed or you didn't actually share her bed."
"Disappointment either way." He took a sip. "How would you know, anyway?"
"CCTV caught you going into the building. I happened to notice you leave rather soon, and you were just across the street." Mycroft paused, staring at John as he set down his cup of tea. "So what brings you here in your intoxicated state at this time of night?"
"I told you."
"I don't mean the neighborhood I mean to me."
"I was in a bad mood, since I found myself unable to be the kind of dick who has a one-time shag. I realized where I was and thought what the hell. I like irritating you."
"Why are you here?" asked Mycroft in a polite voice, although his eyes carried obvious signs of disgruntlement.
John shrugged. Truth be told, he had planned on shouting at Mycroft about how it was all his fault, how his life was ruined, how he sometimes put his gun in his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to pull the trigger, and why he cared so damn much that he couldn't bear to do it.
"I was having a bad day. I thought I'd make it worse."
Mycroft sighed and put his face in his hands. As successful as Operation: Piss Off Mycroft was, John suddenly regretted it. He hadn't seen Mycroft since a few days after Sherlock died. The lines on his face had deepened, and he had lost weight. His suit was nearly hanging off of him. For a man usually impeccably dressed, and looking smart as he manipulated world politics, it was unlike him not to have had his suits taken in. As Mycroft dropped his hand, John saw a flash of something in his eyes, (Was it sadness, regret, exhaustion, fear, all, or none?) but a second later, it was gone.
"Unless you'd like to move this conversation in a purposeful direction, I'll call for a car to take you home."
"Nope. It won't take me home."
"Yes, it will."
"No, it'll take me the shitty flat I live in." John stared off into space, the urge to vomit rising again. "That's not home." (Do I know where home is?)
When John awoke the next morning, he felt a variety of different things, although they were feelings he often encountered; shame, self-loathing, regret, the usual cocktail of depression. However, his normal cornucopia of feelings in life post-Baker Street was accompanied by physical ailments that he hadn't experience in quite a long time. Every time he moved his head even an inch, it felt as if it nearly burst open. The nausea rocking his stomach threatened to exit him in waves of vomit (Haven't I thrown up enough?), and his whole body felt as if it had been put through a meat processor. Was it possible for skin to actually hurt from drinking too much? That was certainly how it felt at the moment.
He was lying on top of the covers, still in last night's clothing, and feeling worse than he had in weeks. Not only did his body hate him, but he hated himself even more than usual. His pathetic attempt at forgetting his feelings worked for maybe a few minutes with that woman, but he hadn't gone through with it. To be honest, he never really wanted to. He had known it wouldn't work all along, but that didn't mean he couldn't try.
He reached for his phone lying on the bedside table. There was a text from Lestrade asking if he made it home okay, then one from later this morning asking if he was alive. He also had a text from Mycroft, which was baffling in and of itself. John only recalled bits and pieces of their conversation, but he was quite certain that he had spent most of it insulting the elder Holmes brother.
It took a while for him to gather the strength to pop a few painkillers and step into the shower. The hot water was soothing on his tired muscles. (When did I get so old?) After giving himself a head rub with shampoo, he began to wash himself. John sighed. As he cleansed, another thought popped into his head. He began to think of the girl from the bar (What was her name?), and it didn't take long for him to become aroused. He told himself that she was the one who was getting him off. She had dark, curly hair; and the most gorgeous, light blue eyes he had ever seen, with an intense, piercing gaze. They sat above high cheekbones, elegant lips, such a defined cupid's bow. His hand gripped himself and began to move, and he moaned, his voice echoing off the shower walls. He imagined what it would be like to moan into that elegant neck, to leave marks on it, to let the world know that he had beheld that body. He imagined what it would be like to grip those dark curls in the throes of ecstasy. He imagined what it would be like to suck on that cupid's bow and to taste it with his tongue.
As John came, he told himself that he got off on the girl from the bar. That voice in the back of his head told him it wasn't true. Normally, he told the voice to sod off. But that morning, as he washed away the signs of his release with the soap, relishing in the relaxing feeling of the water, and the endorphins pulsing through his brain, he didn't really care. (Did he ever want me too?)
Several hours passed before John felt like a functioning human being again. The headache eased after several hours, and he managed to swallow some eggs and a sports drink before spending most of the day laying around to watch the telly. He fired off a text to Lestrade saying he was all right and deleted the well wishes from Mycroft. John was surprised to find a text from an unknown number on his phone. It read: Gorgeous sunset in the American southwest. You'd appreciate it.
Brow furrowed, he quickly replied: Wrong number. Sorry.
John lazily scrolled through his emails, none of which held much interest for him. A short message from Harry detailed her latest romantic tryst ("She's really great! You should meet her!), a few words from Mrs. Hudson ("You must come around for tea."), an apology from Lestrade ("The wife was having a problem, you know how women can be…"), and a comment notification from his blog.
John did a triple take when he saw the email. He opened and read it several times, shook his head, and then read through it another ten times. The comment came from the second-to-last post of his blog. While he had never shut the blog down, he had only updated it once since Sherlock had left him. There had seemed no point to it anymore.
The comment simply read, "I'm so sorry."
It was signed Richard Brook.
Author's Note: I have to thank the lovely Eternal Contradiction (whose written some fantastic Big Bang Theory, Glee, and a few other stories that everyone should go read immediately) and my dear friend Emily for reading this over and giving me great notes! I'd be lost without their thoughts! The title for this story is taken from the song "Sinnerman" by Nina Simone, which you all heard in Reichenbach when they are going to the trial. I highly recommend listening to the full song (it's about ten minutes). It's a great piece of jazz. Please review!
