Title:
"Alone Is What We Have"
Summary:
Sherlock's part of the story in"Verita Liberabit Vos". None of them can't remember the day John was left behind, but they can remember the moment when he decided to surrender. And John Watson has to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost, because from the shadows, the detective moved his own strings to help John to break free. Warnings: Angst/dead character.
Rated:
M
Genre:
Angst/Hurt/Comfort
Warnings:
Angst, death character. Psychological/Physical violence. Unspoken words and broken hearts.
Disclaimer:
Neither Sherlock (BBC) nor the respective characters belong to me.
Author's Note:
I'm not an English speaker, apologies in advance for my mistakes. For those who wanted more after "Verita Liberabit Vos", I hope this new fic answersall the reviewers' questions in "Verita..." If not, don't hesitate to ask and leave a review! Please don't hate me! It looks confusing now, but things will get clear soon!
Beta:
librarianmum
CHAPTER I:
SILENCE
"Silence is the relative or total lack of audible sound. It could also refer to the absence of communication.
Silence refers to non verbal communication and spiritual connection"
The two first fingers of his right hand are holding the pill. He takes it and then he hides the rest of them inside his pillow and let them rest between the feathers and takes two to five sips of water before closing his eyes. He knows half of a pill will guarantee him eight hours of an uninterrupted sleep, therefore, no matter how many times the man sleeping beside him tossed and turned, he won't wake up. Not even if the ceiling is falling over them.
The shower before going to bed relaxed his body. But his skin is still red and sore. The friction he provoked using his strong soap to erase any trace of the- lover? Can a man be considered a lover when they only spent fifteen minutes in which their human and primal needs were satisfied? No, he can't be a lover. Sherlock only used him to fill a need. A need.
Sherlock has two to three minutes to think of something before the pill takes effect over him and he finally can close his greyish eyes and sleep. He is lying over his right side on his bed, because it was and it still being his bed, and when he glues his hands together he sees the ring. A heavy, gold and unpolished ring he has been wearing on his ring finger of his left hand for what? Ten years?, he wonders. It depends on the situation; the ring would be loose or tight on his finger. It was tight when he was doing things people don't do when they wear those rings. Then, the ring would be loose when he was being the husband every woman or man would expect him to be.
The ring works as an attachment no matter how many books he read or how much time he spends observing, he will never understand the attachment, the bond the ring provides for two people. A single piece of jewellery, cheap or expensive, thin or wide, it does not matter; the ring has a power to manipulate people's mind in a very understandable way.
Three minutes passed.
A blondish man, approximately in his late forties, early fifties comes in and when he looks at him, he is sleeping. The only audible sounds between them are the taller man's light snoring and the hateful sound the mattress makes when he joins to sleep on the other side to be forgotten again.
Dreams are not his area of expertise. A fat book he found in the library of his house revealed to him that dreams were successions of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. The average person has about three to five dreams per night, but some may have up to seven dreams in one night.
But then again, Sherlock can't be catalogued as an average person, no.
We have to talk about the connection of dreams and the unconscious. There is a connection and the consulting detective does not see it.
In Sherlock's dreams, he is flawless. He can fly, jump, run and chase any criminal he wants to catch and he can inject himself with all the cocaine he wants and avoid death. However, a ghost haunts him in his dreams. And that ghost has a name; its name is John Watson.
There is one dream he can't either erase or delete from his hard drive. He remembers it every time he looks at his husband and it is a premonition. A premonition of the end he will not believe in. A premonition of something he can't believe will happen. A message his unconscious is trying to send to him, to make him understand the gravity of their present actions and most important, the gravity of his future actions. There is going to be blood on his hands, and it is going to be too late to wash them and ask for redemption and forgiveness.
In his dream, Sherlock's is playing the violin facing the window, with his back to the bed. He walks inside his own room and he sees himself facing the window, not being able to turn around and face the bed and the lifeless body on it. He wants to walk, he wants to know who is dead, what killed him and who did it. He wants to solve the case and when he tries to make his other self turn and face it, he can't succeed. His other self continues playing the violin strongly, pressing his fingers with more strength than necessary until his fingertips bleed. For some reason, every time he wants to take a look over the dead man on the bed, he sees nothing. All he can see are dark shadows and his other self playing the violin.
He will not shout to his other self. He will not beg either. For some reason he does not want to solve the case of that man dead on his own bed. Maybe because it is too domestic, not worth his time.
As he predicted, eight hours later he wakes up. He wakes up when he feels the other side of the bed and it's cold. It's quite early, but it doesn't matter if he wants to go out and pretend the impossible.
He walks past the kitchen and sees his husband sitting in his usual, worn armchair with a cup of tea on his hands. He has been counting and breathing, following his walking pattern. John has been counting his steps and he has his eyes closed. He has bags under his eyes. He is frowning. The wrinkle in the middle of his eyebrows is deep, almost cutting his white skin.
He doesn't give a fuck and goes out taking his coat and his blue scarf with him.
Sherlock knows John can't remember when was the last time they had shared a conversation. Neither can he. Can John remember his voice? Surely he can't. Can Sherlock remember John's voice? No, he can't. Does he care? Does Sherlock care at all?
Sherlock gives a fuck.
The problem is not finding what they have lost. The problem is forgetting it. The problem is trying to get a solution to end something that does not have any possible way to cure, to fix and to heal. There is a wound, two in fact. Each man has a wound and there must be a cure to fix it. They share a wound very deep inside their hearts and there must be a way to fix them. There must be a way to shoot their pain out of their souls before things get worse. Before one of them literally shoots it out all by himself.
And that moment is going to happen soon.
It will be too late for one of them.
Lestrade doesn't blink when he sees him so early at the Yard. It had been years and years so he is used to him and his antics.
For some reason the D.I of the New Scotland Yard hasn't seen John in weeks, months maybe? He has learned he cannot ask for the medical man and ex-army soldier, decides to stay away. It is not his division, but he was very fond of John. He was - he is - a very good man with a good heart. Actually, he was the only one who seemed to genuinely care for the tall man with the long coat.
When Sherlock asks him for cases, he hands him some folders and his dark eyes glance at the tan line of Sherlock's ring finger. He is not wearing it anymore.
And that is not new.
Greg Lestrade had been present when John was given his new diploma which certificated he was a pediatrician. Actually, he wonders if Sherlock knows. He wonders if Sherlock gives a fuck.
"How's John?"
He challenges his own luck.
The consulting detective continues staring and glancing at some pictures from cold cases and smiles. He fucking smiles and then moves some folders off the desk using his left hand, with his chin up, showing proudly that he's not wearing the ring both men exchanged on the day of their wedding, and he does it in a way Greg wants to pull out his own gun and kill him.
The heartless bastard smiles as if he's not the one to blame. He smiles proudly. How dare he?
"He's fine. Perfectly fine."
That's all he says. And Lestrade decides he doesn't want to know more. He does not want to hear more lies, because he knows those are lies. He has been following John, he knows he is walking among the streets like a ghost, like a soulless person. John was more than that. An Army Doctor, a surgeon in fact. One of the bravest men he had ever met. And he knew John had been the one who rescued Sherlock from his own and private hell - he was the one there when the detective refused to eat, sleep and be a normal person. He was the one who loved him. He was the one who provided him with the love no one could. John should be treated as the good person he was, as the only person in the world who truly cared for Sherlock.
Lestrade remembers the first time they met, John was the only one in the flat asking why everyone was looking for drugs he trusted Sherlock wasn't taking. He was naive, full of hopes about the great Sherlock Holmes. Was John the one to blame? The man bought a Heaven Sherlock offered, but it turned out to be the same Hell.
John does not deserve what Sherlock is doing to him. John deserves Heaven. The hell is in the same Earth and the demons are walking between the living ones. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.
Another encounter. Wet kisses full of lust and desire are exchanged, another 'fill me' occupies the space between the two bodies, and the consulting detective lets the man touch his bare porcelain skin. It's not difficult to convince Victor to do it. Not when he ignores the white line in his ring finger. And it's definitely not difficult when Sherlock keeps John's name and existence in the shadows.
He frowns and moans when he feels the other man filling him. Sex has never been an issue and it will never be. He does not need to touch himself when he knows he can have a queue of men and women to do the job for him. He is so attractive and he knows it. He is so young, full of life and his dark hair is still dark. His porcelain face is still... there is not a single wrinkle! How do you do it, Sherlock? Do you use products on your skin? No, of course he does not. There is not a single preoccupation inside his mind. There is nothing to be worried about. He thinks he is flawless, for goodness sake!
When he arrives, he cannot have a shower. He is tired, Victor had been hard on him. But yet again, he gives a fuck.
He undresses himself in his bedroom and looks for his pajamas which had been neatly folded by his husband before going to work. He changes. He won't have a shower, he refuses to have one. Victor has left a too strong scent on him, even marks. Maybe those will help him. Maybe looking at them and feeling his strong perfume will make the other man surrender.
Maybe.
When the doctor arrives, carrying two heavy shopping bags and his own, he doesn't even move. He just continues there, lying flat over the sofa and thinking. Just thinking.
Oh, he forgot to do the laundry, bad luck there. Someone is not going to have clean trousers and his long white coat for work tomorrow! Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes. Shame on you.
Tonight, he wants something to eat. He wants rice, yes, rice is good. But when his husband approaches him, surely to ask what he wants for dinner, he turns around without saying a single word and leaves Baker Street.
Does he know how painful his existence, his silence, his presence and even his breathing is? Of course he does. And he is doing it on purpose, because he is not the one who's going to give up.
He thinks.
What Sherlock Holmes doesn't know because he does not want to, he refuses to accept it, is that he is going to be the first. He is going to be the first surrendering with his hands high over his head. Though, he will be the only one with the gun on his hand and the finger over the trigger. What Sherlock Holmes does not know, nor realise, is the fact he is going to help John to break free. He is going to open that small but endless cage in which he had locked John to never let him go. He will fly away, and he will be there, left behind to pick up the pieces.
Walking through his room, he looks at John's blue striped jumper. He loved that jumper, it suited his husband, making his blue eyes look even more perfect and brighter than ever. He bought it for him in one of those days he had money and he didn't know what to do with it. He used to love John so much in those days. He shook his head when he remembered the silly words, the kisses, the touches and the promises. 'Unacceptable', that's all he can think about while he takes another pill and sleeps.
That dream again. There are broken glasses on the floor and blood as well. He walks in avoiding them and as soon as he is in his room he meets his other self. But this time, he is hitting the lifeless body with the bow of his violin. Sherlock wonders if it is an experiment, because he can't think, he can't accept what he is seeing. There are no shadows this time, he sees clearly who is lying dead on the bed.
It is John.
He can't be John. John can't be dead. And his other self can't hit him.
Jekyll and Hyde. But even if the two of them seem to be the same person with different personalities, they share the same name; Sherlock Holmes.
In his dreams, he knows he is trying to save him. He tries to stop 'Dark Sherlock', he tries to reach out his hand and take the bow, but he cannot. He can only witness the scene and let his opposite, his other self do what he thinks he will never do.
He wakes up from that nightmare feeling the warm back of his husband softly and subtly against his own. Unconsciously, he is relieved.
He is not dead.
Now.
Do you see the logic here? Do you see how it works? Dual Sherlock Holmes. In his dreams, in those nightmares his other self is playing the violin or hitting his husband's lifeless body. In his dreams, he appears and he tries to stop 'Dark Sherlock'. He tries to stop and defend John, Sherlock wants to stop the unstoppable and defend the indefensible. It is like, unconsciously, he is accepting what he has been denying to himself; he is still in love. He never stopped either caring, or loving or wanting John Watson, his husband and the unique love of his life.
The kettle boils and he prepares two mugs with the correct and exact amount of milk and sugar - he knows how John likes his tea - and places it where he knows he will see it when he finally stops crying again in the bathroom and decides to step outside to do something and go to work.
"Morning."
The great detective says while he sips his own tea and leans against the counter. His Blackberry feels heavy on his pocket and he takes it and types the first thing that comes to his mind. And he gets a reply. Seeing that someone has something he might find useful, he takes his long coat and his scarf and slams the door closed behind his back.
He does not give a fuck.
Sherlock solves two cases that sunny day and does not go back to Baker Street because he is too high with adrenaline to be there. The adrenaline cases provide for him is priceless. He cannot bear to go and face John.
Adrenaline also fixes the wound on his heart. Or at least, that's what he thinks while he is resting his tired body alongside that stranger. Well, Victor is not a stranger anymore.
He regrets nothing. Nothing he has been doing for the last twelve months. Sherlock does not regret his silences, his ring lost in the depths of one of his pockets, nor Victor. Why would he regret something he enjoys? Sex with John was bad, John was a bad lover and John was dull. A night with John meant a night of frustration, lack of excitement and more things he can't think of.
Wait, he regrets something.
Sherlock regrets being with John. He regrets the civil partnership between them, he regrets the ring he has to wear, he regrets the bed they have to share. He regrets all.
When Victor realised his status and asked him about it, Sherlock refused to talk about his husband. "He's dead." That's all he told the other man, who bought that lie as the previous ones. Sherlock is a good liar, you see. If he was able to lie to himself making his clever brain believe he did not love John anymore, then he can lie to Victor and then he will believe him.
He comes back the following day and it is late. He discards the dirty clothes and starts to fix the strings of his old violin. He plays when he wants, but clearly, tonight is not a good day to do so. Music is something he has used to calm down his mind and think. He doesn't want to think, not tonight. But Sherlock sees John carrying things. And his eyes travel around his husband and it takes him seconds to know what happened, the new things he got and why he got them.
Sherlock knows there is always a first time for things. And tonight, he is going to have a "new first". It is John's birthday and he can't give a fuck about it. And as he did not give a fuck when it is John's birthday, he does not give a fuck when he hears John's laughing at the basket full of dirty clothes. Oh, he forgot to hide the shirts impregnated with the other man's scent.
They sit in front of each other for tea. Two mugs filled with warm and hot water, two sugars and milk. Perfect.
Sherlock's aware of his husband's eyes on him, scanning his figure and the look on his face says everything he needs to know. He is wondering who is sleeping with him, who caresses his skin, his hands, who grabs him by his curls when he is having rough and wild sex in some cheap hotel with an unknown man. John wants to know, of course he wants to. Is he going to tell him? Of course not. Where is the magic then? Why tell his husband he is cheating on him, having an affair with an old acquaintance because he can't give him what he wants? Where is the fun on it? Why tell him what he is doing to hurt him if he only wants to see the wound left?
I'll tell you where Sherlock sees funny things. He sees funny things when he does not talk to his husband, when he does not touch him anymore. When he refuses to let him know how much he loves him, because Sherlock loves John. God, he loves him with his own life and he would do anything for him. However, Sherlock thinks the opposite. How's that, you ask. Well, it is simple. Sherlock Holmes is an idiot. He is being the bastard he thinks he is because that is the rule. He allowed himself to have feelings for someone, to surrender to the mere touch of a man and now he thinks that that makes him weak. That is why Sherlock Holmes does not wear his gold ring anymore, that is why he cheats on his husband and that is why he blindfolds himself and successfully convinces his mind he does not love John anymore.
Ignorant.
The broken object is over the table rolling from one side to other and the sun is filtering through the dirty glass of the windows reflecting the colorsinside the kaleidoscope. But even broken, it's producing funny, undefined and colorfulimages in the opposite wall. A pale hand takes the object and it dies when is smashed against the floor, showing the different beads and gems that used to give the object its psychedelic effect.
A dark silhouette moves from the place he's standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this violin and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement he supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. The other hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin.
The only audible sound is developed by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the glassesare dirty but the light fights and wins, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are shiningtoo and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control.
The bow is hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. He stands up and walks until he's just inches away from him and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are shining.
Sherlock Holmes isn't crying. He's just playing the violin because he needs to think about why the man lying in his bed is dead.
Tick tock goes the clock.