Hello again, my fellow Sherlockians! The one-shots I'm planning to write will be loose follow-up to my story 'All that matters', but they CAN STAND ALONE. At least I think so. There might be spoilers for the story, but they won't be too major, aside from one (but it comes from the canon).
Also, you should know that these will have basically no plot. They are more snippets of text than actual stories, though they will be leading somewhere in the end. Mind that I'll attempt to make them a bit more concise than 'All that matters' was, but there's a fair chance I shall not succeed.
Enjoy!
I don't own 'Sherlock'.
His fingers were starting to crease, but he was not yet willing to give up the blissful, soothing warmth. Wrapped in a cocoon of steam and hidden behind the curtain of running water that seemed to be shielding him from the rest of the world, he felt . . . almost safe.
John closed his burning eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. Bowing his head, he allowed the warm streams to flow down his face, hoping they would finally wash the tenseness away.
All in all, he was glad he had a near breakdown here, where no-one could see him, rather than in front of overly compassionate witnesses. Not that Sherlock was not going to notice - John was sure that his creased fingers alone were going to be telling enough. It wasn't that he minded, though; he couldn't really imagine what it would be like if he was to deal with all of this by himself, and he was still wondering why on Earth he had even considered trying.
Another ten minutes passed before he finally gathered himself and begrudgingly left the cabin. Once he entered his room he immediately collapsed on the bed, making it squeak a bit in protest. He covered himself with his blanket and drew it up to his chin, tightly clasping his fingers on the fabric. Unfortunately, the cold he felt was not coming from outside, so it didn't help too much.
Up until that moment, it was a good day. The weather was beautiful, the surroundings still breathtaking, Sherlock was . . . there. In spite of that, however, the trip to Loch Leven was surprisingly difficult.
Rubbing his eyes angrily, John fought. He really didn't feel like ending another day in tears.
Upon realising that lying there and thinking was not going to make things any better, he mustered some strength and got up. Not more than a few minutes later there was a knock on his door, making the doctor smile a bit - that could have been just one person.
John knew Sherlock well enough to catch the exact moment when his friend deduced his current mood, which happened about half a second after he had opened the door for the detective.
"Fancy a drink?" asked Sherlock quickly. "Because I certainly do."
Feeling slightly better already, John nodded with eagerness. A bit of liquid fire was exactly what he needed to warm himself up, even if it wasn't going to work too long.
"Yeah, sure. Just give me ten minutes," he said.
Clearly satisfied it went smoothly, Sherlock smiled with the corner of his lips. He was about to leave but paused mid-step and regarded the shorter man somewhat critically.
"Do something with your hair," the detective said with unconcern. "You look like a disheveled hedgehog."
John's eyebrows shot up as he snorted at the absurd choice of words.
"Okay, just give me a moment! Not everyone can look perfect right after coming out of the shower." In spite of his effort to make it sound slightly scolding, his voice betrayed him. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply in kind, but John was faster.
"Yes, alright!" he cut off, closing the door before the man could add anything, but he still managed to catch a glimpse of a roguish smile that spread on the pale face.
Chuckling to himself, John returned to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. As stupid as it sounded, Sherlock was right – merged together by water, his short, light hair did in fact remind prickles. Shaking his head at the silly idea he reached for a towel and vigorously dried the mess on his head, in result obtaining the look of a hedgehog that was electrocuted.
Hair aside, John was ready in seven and a half minutes. Sherlock knew this, because for a reason he couldn't quite place, he was counting. All he knew was that the reason was not his own wish to get a drink.
The bar they went to was a fifteen minutes walk from their hotel. In fact, it took just an hour to go through the whole of Fort William. Being there was a big change for the detectives used to the urban bustle of an enormous city that was London; here, in this small town it seemed almost unreal that such restless, endlessly astir places could exist.
One would expect that at least for Sherlock Holmes it would be unbearably boring to be there, but even the great detective had to admit the town had some sort of a charm to it. With its comely architecture, tranquillity and most of all – absolutely spectacular views – Fort William felt as if time had stopped there, preserving subtle beauty of peace like resin. For both Sherlock and John the quietness it offered was rather welcome after the latest events.
And so, the two friends soon sat down across from each other in a mildly-crowded pub, a glass of scotch held by each of them. In silence, they raised their glasses and clinked them lightly together as their eyes met briefly, the detective's scrutinising what the doctor's. It was a sort of a ritual, a test Sherlock has been performing for the last week to check if all was good. Well, at least as good as it could be, given the circumstances.
That night, he was not pleased with his findings. He frowned minimally as John averted his gaze to observe the fascinating contents of his glass. Pursing his lips, Sherlock weighed various options, excluding them methodically until he was left with the only one that seemed right.
"I will listen. I promise," he said, looking at the doctor intently. He did know what he had signed up for after all.
His eyes still on the glass, John let out a small laugh.
"Yeah, I know, but I don't think it's going to help."
He regretted saying those words as soon as they left his mouth, but he didn't know if Sherlock reacted anyhow, for he still couldn't bring himself to look up.
"Try." The deep baritone was soft and honest.
John grimaced. Again, Sherlock was right, and the doctor knew from painful experience that keeping things like this to himself was hardly a good idea, but he was still reluctant. Not because he feared opening up in front of his friend – he had already done that long ago; it was just a natural defence mechanism, one rather typical for men in general.
Truth be told, in moments like this John wished his stubborn brain would let him toss pride away and just cry his fill on a friend's shoulder. He was truly tired of how moody he has become as of late and he wanted to have it behind himself already, but it was hard to just let go.
Still focused on his glass, he didn't notice Sherlock's approaching one until a bottom and a rim collided soundly, which nearly knocked John's glass down. Huffing a bit, the doctor finally looked up, and the detective used the moment to firmly lock his bright eyes with his friend's, this time making sure the other man was not going to break away too easily.
'Speak, yell, curse but get it out already, John. I'm sorry you have to come through this, but it's not pity I'm looking at you with, so stop looking at yourself this way. You can handle it.' None of that was said out loud naturally, but the lively, quicksilver eyes easily expressed it and much more even better than the deep voice could.
Unconsciously, John straightened up in his chair a bit, feeling oddly as if he had just been scolded by an army superior. It was like a slap - not the sort inflicted to humiliate, but one you're given to sober up.
It worked wonders. John blinked a few times, looked at the amber liquid in his glass again and took a healthy swig. Feeling the bracing heat spread rapidly through his body, he allowed himself to relax, imagining her look at him with praise and give an encouraging nod.
The doctor slowly exhaled and gathered himself. It probably wasn't going to be that bad.
"I guess," he started, looking at his silent friend, "you remember what I'd told about that place we went to today." Sherlock nodded.
"Well, it's actually nothing serious and I know it will sound trivial to you, but when we got there and I imagined Mary fishing and playing on the shore as a kid I just felt . . . sentimental, as you would say, and it all went downhill from that. And so, um . . . you know," John blurted out ineloquently. With a relief he realised that aside from the slight stinging in his throat, it really wasn't too painful. The weight that left his shoulder was quite significant, though.
It wasn't everything that was on his mind of course, but he didn't feel the need elaborate. Sherlock nodded with satisfaction, for he was well aware of what John didn't say.
"I understand," he said softly.
Unable to stop himself, John glanced at him with a hint of doubt, which the detective unfortunately noticed.
"I do," the tall man continued in a firm tone. "Although it often seems otherwise, I actually am aware how thing like this work, John. And . . . ," he hesitated slightly, "I know you."
Now it was his turn to look away. He was fine with John opening up to him, but he rather preferred not to do that himself, and lately he had alarmingly little control over it.
The doctor knew Sherlock was being honest, and though at that point he was more or less used to it, seeing this side of his friend never ceased to captivate his heart. Getting even a glimpse of what was lying beneath the layers of ice was a plentiful gratification for exposing the deepest wounds.
The rest of the evening passed in a much lighter mood, and the two men didn't return to that subject again. Sherlock entertained John with deductions on other occupants of the bar, and also with details of the case of missing jewels he was investigating.
When they finally returned to the hotel and parted to go to their rooms, John was exhausted. It was nothing like the incessant fatigue that had been overwhelming him for those nightmarish three month after Mary's death, however; he was feeling like after a long session at the gym, or a run. Coupled with a few glasses of scotch flowing through his body, it allowed the widower to quickly fall into sound sleep.
Like I said, no plot and a lot of sentiment. And oh, the brutally overused hedgehog joke and a paraphrase of a an ACD quote are here as well!
I'm not very ecstatic about how this came out, but I would still be grateful for comments ;)