Sherlock doesn't Know How to Cope with John Out of Town
It is no way as if he is dependent on him. There are days he thrives in the absence of his best colleague he's ever had. Hell, there are times John is the one in need. They balance each other's dependency on one another. Without Sherlock, John would find his psychosamatic limp again. Without John, Sherlock would lose what little sociability he's gained.
A balance.
But John had an offer. If teaching underprivaledged children about the purpose of proper health gave him a good paycheck, who's to say it's not worth it? Well, that person would be Sherlock.
He didn't know though. Once that man of a greying head of hair left with an old duffel case and army boots, he'd be unplugged. Like a machine. The atmosphere of the flat grew a little colder and duller this time. Just with Sherlock knowing he's alone for the longest time he's been alone.
Mrs. Hudson? Good company, not a good companion. Lestrade? Good at poking fun at, not good at poking fun with. And Molly? ...Just not good. Though they all held a place in his funny, hating, little heart, none of them were as accepting as his good friend John.
. . .
Days, maybe weeks pass. Normal. Sherlock's solved an interesting case with a so-called vampire and weasel. He's only talked to John ten times without him actually being there.
Three times he thought John was the coat racket in the corner of his eye. He's noted to move the thing to a more visual place. One he waited six hours waiting for John to pass him a file.
Another note: 'May need to text John'
. . .
Another week gone by.
Sherlock texted John. Meet me at St. Ave in thirty. John replied an hour later. I'm in another Country, Sherlock.
He checks his phone at the crime scene, yellow tape strung around the whole street. He feels foolish, like his brain has become acustom to a pattern. And it has. He doesn't reply.
John does. You still alive? Hopefully...
Sherlock finishes the case. Then later texts, Never been more so. And suddenly eating at all doesn't seem sufficient. Neither does sleep.
. . .
Two more productive months pass.
Sherlock recounts the seconds until John is to return. But neither he nor John knows. Only the estimate year and a half quelches the question.
The humorously named genius burns a set of chemicals, setting the dining table on fire. Police come and investigate. Lestrade helps Sherlock hide the fact he has illegal chemicals in the bathroom cabinets. "Thanks Greggory." Close to Greg at least.
Greg also notes at the catastrophy that is Sherlock's flat. Newspapers, book pages, file crumples, beakers, and a well hidden skeleton under women's clothes. "For a case!" He states. Again, Lestrade keeps it away from others.
Sherlock knows he needs to speak with John. Before, John would stop him before things got this bad. He needed the scorning, and saying no to Mrs. Hudson was far too easy. He needed the big bad armyman with the bad shoulder.
. . .
However many more weeks pass. Sherlock's lost count.
Another text to John. I've bought milk. He smiles as he typed it. It was always the milk. Either he forgot to buy it, or his experiments tainted it, or something. Always something. So John must be proud.
His reply. And I've just saved a four year olds life.
The detective double takes. What does it mean? Was it supposed to sound as degrading as it did? He types again. I bet the four year old wishes he had milk now. Again, he smiles at his own text. And waits.
Did you just attempt to make a joke? And you thought girlfriends weren't your area.
Sherlock laughs petily at his phone. A tear in the corner of his left eye. Left eye meant pain, right? Oh, how badly he wishes he were laughing with John face to face. Not screen to screen.
Not to self: set up video chat
. . .
fifteen days. Three cases. two bottles of wine. One acid trip later.
The acid trip purely for medicinal reasonings. Medicinal. Reasonings.
If there was fat on Sherlock before, it was gone now. Only lean muscle lined his arms, legs, torso. Cheeks sunk in a bit, but nothing out of ordinary. Sherlock has forgotten about John. He's on a new track. On learning.
The whole floor of 221B is covered in fingerpaints and old newspaper clippings. Against the hard, dark wood floors there are splatters of the blues, yellows, reds, light greens, and purposefully neon paint. The clippings have been smudged and touched so many times, they are barely readable. Mrs. Hudson fainted once while walking in.
Sherlock's phone begins buzzing on the other side of the room, on the window sill. He stands up vigantly, white button-up stained with love, pants rolled up, shoe-less. Steps in everything in his path and answers it. Though, talking on the phone isn't his thing.
Strange, unlabeled numbers, are. "Ceci est Sherlock parle." French. (This is Sherlock speaking) John undeniable grunting of confusion fills the other line. Sherlock smiles. "You said, Sherlock, correct? Oh god, what am I saying? Sherlock, I told you I don't speak French well."
"Puis apprendre a, stupide." (Then learn to, stupid) He's still smiling. But it's forced now. He happily forgot about John. Or was other wise occupying his mind to other things. If you could hear someone pearce their lips, this would be the time. "I don't need a translator to tell me you called me stupid. Just listen, I'm going to help a village near where I am. So, my cell will be out of service. If you need to contact me, use email."
Sherlock opens his mouth for another retaliate or 'represailles' but there was a deafening click in his ear. John's hung up.
. . .
Two Days.
Mycroft insisted Sherlock have a specialist look at him. Big brother gets worried. As always. But worry and stalking is two different things. And Mycroft was no ordinary big brother.
Sherlock sat for a whole day in a white room while a man in a white suit ask him very human, very elementary questions. "Why do you think your IQ is higher than your social score?" Answer, 'Because people are boring'. "How would you describe your brain?" Answer, 'Mind palace'. There was also a failed urine test in the mix. But it was tedious and Sherlock asked nicely for Mycroft to LAY OFF.
. . .
Months
The flat has been fumagated. And this time, Sherlock asked for it. When he smelled gas in the air, his mind immediately jumped to an attempted murder and crawled through the vents until he found an old testube lodged in a vent opening. It needed the cleaning.
Mrs. Hudson roomed with one of her good neighbors and Sherlock spent the week out of the flat walking. Nearly nonstop except for the time he passed out in the diner and a stripper took him into her studio. He slept on a breast shaped bed for twelve hours before waking up and leaving with no goodbye. She was nice, odd, but nice.
. . .
Days. The flat was too clean.
He tried dirtying it up again, but Mrs. Hudson put her foot down. She kept a close eye on Sherlock once she knew how Sherlock was without a friend around. Down right looney if anything else. He barricaded himself under the burned dining table to test a theory on claustrophobia. No results found except the smell of burnt wood.
He hasn't talked at all since the stripper.
. . .
A month.
Sherlock has forgotten who John Hamish Watson is. And he's picked up on German. This time, when he gets an unnamed call, he can only pronounce the German pronunciation of the vowels into the phone. John still knows it's Sherlock. It's the voice, very unmistakable. "I will be back soon. I am leaving the village and once I get back into town, I will be on a train. Three days time." He says. And it takes the other man to back track. To process the words from English to German.
But the question of, 'Who's talking to me?', still remains.
He begins writing a handbook titled, 'The Brit' and proceeds to write a detailed (and completely German) deduction on the man's voice he heard from the phone. Making the mark that the man's voice was, 'trocknen' (dry), 'dieser bereich' (of this area), and 'mannlich' (male). Not to mention that the voice was one hundred percent familiar.
. . .
One day.
Sherlock snapped out of it the second he got the call. It was a nurse from a town not far from where John said he was at.
John was being careflown to London. He was shot. Sherlock's number was the first one on his cell. (Sherlock's number was above Harry's?)
It was painful. To remember you just spend nearly six months of your life going mad. To know the person you went mad for was in critical condition. To have to wait in the lobby until that exact man made it to Bart's. To listen to crappy elevator music the whole damn time.
Until the helicopter loudly landed on it's pad. Until John's body was wheeled quickly down the hall with women and men in matching uniforms pumping and squeezing things into his body. Until the stomping hours of life and dead ended.
Then the painful slid into mournful. And the overnight surgery was over, and Sherlock was aware he spent the entire night staring at some old lady's forgotten purse in a lobby chair.
. . .
Hours.
"I can see him now. Let me see him." The nurse at the receptionist desk looked at him over her glasses. She's put up with his odd noises and self talking alot in the past, even more so throughout last night.
"Only family. No friends aloud." Her dark shaded lipstick stuck to her teeth and Sherlock shuddered. He hated her so. "I apologize for your previous misinformation Misses..." He glances at her nametag, "Aplebottom. But John and I are infact, family." A faux grin. Nothing right now except a healthy John could make him smile for real.
"Do you have papers or a confirmed statement to prove this, Mister Holmes?" A sucking in of breath through the nose.
Sherlock hissed at her, provenly scarier than it sounds. And sat back down, reeling his rage and hiding his body in his coat, legs drawn up as well.
. . .
Minutes pass. And the receptionist leaves as another takes her spot. Sherlock sneaks into the halls.
He's seen Harry walk passed him through here, carrying flowers in a black vase. Then he comes to the ICU labeled section. Squirms his way past more doctors, then sees the black flower filled vase in the one of the open rooms. He goes in cautiously, and yes, no nurses or doctors inside.
Just Harry with her hand slipped in his.
"Hey." Possibly the first, human to human and English spoken contact he's done in awhile. Harry smiles sleepily and quietly unhooks herself and stands. "Mm, hey Sherlock. Go ahead and take place. He's supposed to wake up soon, I need to wash up." She looks like John in the oddest ways. Like her facial expressions, and gestures.
She leaves. He sits in her seat and just stares for the longest time. At John. A cleaned, sewn up shot wound in the near center of his stomach. Only the white patch to say he was shot there. They had him lying on the bed, shirtless, blanketless, possibly freezing if he weren't so drugged. Sherlock fixed that, lightly laying the cold blanket on his torso.
The touch of the cover made John twitch. Sherlock held his breath, hoping not to have hurt him. But John's face upturns into a smile. "God, John, don't ever leave me again." He whispers, mostly out of pure joy that John's actually here and not elsewhere. No more coat rack.
"We all make mistakes." Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin, expecting nothing of that, not John's deep voice scrapping out of his throat. He was awake the whole time, Sherlock sees, even when Harry was by his side. "You can only have so many bullets go through you before you're done for." Sherlock says with a shake. It's wierd.
John's eyes open. He's in pain, but he's alive. "The bullet was the highlight of the trip." His eyes search for Sherlock, and when they connect, both are aware of how Sherlock's hand wriggled its way into John's. "That boring, then?" Sherlock tries a smile, one that is easier to put on now.
His flatmate shakes his head, hand clasping down on Sherlock's with what little strength it can manage. "No, it wasn't boring. It was horrible." He licks his lips.
They exchange another look. Then John sweeps in another breath, "There were nights I lay awake worrying you got into the drugs, blown yourself up again, got killed... Other nights there was the nightmares. Nine times out of ten I'd call the children Sherlock or treat them as you." A small smile, "You're a bugger, Sherlock. You've completely taken over my life, my thoughts." It was said.
Sherlock let go of his hand, "I'm sorry it impeded your work so badly." He looks away. But John's hand squeezes Sherlock's once more, "But I am happy for it. Without you, I'd still have my hand jitters, my leg would still be wonky, I'd have the other nightmares about the war... I'm happy to run my mind on you."
The genius stills. His hand freezes, and his eyes are fixed on John's blue and discoloured lips. Partly because they just said the most beautiful thing he's heard. Partly because...
"My mind is happy with you on it as well." A tear slips down a porceiline cheek. A tall Englishman lifts and looms over a shorter, stouter Englishman. Their eyes entangle together, and Sherlock leans in just enough for their lips to do the same. Neither knew if it was their intention, but neither disagreed.
Sherlock broke away with parted lips, his hand coming to stroke down the other's longed greying hair, and John's Iv's pricked hand stroked up Sherlock's upperarm.
"You balance me." The corners of Sherlock's mouth lift up and are met by stray tears that continue to gravify off his his chin and onto the blanket beneath. John lets out his wavering voice.
"No, I love you."