Two Halves Make a Whole
(or, The Time In Between)
*I DON'T OWN SHERLOCK HOLMES
**OBVIOUSLY
I needed to get rid of my post- reichenbach feels, so here, have some angst.
and fluff. I cannot resist writing fluff.
The Fateful Meeting
When they met, it felt right. Well, that's what John Hamish Watson would describe it as. As soon as Sherlock had uttered his first word to John, he knew this was The One. Not a soulmate or anything like that, god no!(and John says to everyone he's as straight as a pair of parallel lines). No, this was The One, as in, his new best friend, partner(hey. purely platonic.), flatmate. A new part of his family, someone he could trust for an infinite number of eternities. The piece that fit. His missing link. (he wouldn't truly think of Sherlock like that until he lost him, but that's a separate part of the story).
Sherlock would say no such thing. Why spout this romanticized drivel, John? This is pure sentiment. I'm not a man of sentiments. Emotions are for dull, boring people like you. At least, that's what he says. What one says and what one means can be vastly different things. No, Sherlock would describe that meeting, that little conversation in St. Bart's hospital, that deduction of John's whole history from his phone, as just a meeting. Just a simple introduction. That immediate feeling of trust? He'd explain it away as a part of being human- John's a military man. An army doctor. He protects and heals. That's why I feel safe around him. I know he won't harm innocents- but that's only a part of it (of course, who wouldn't trust the adorable little hedgehog?). And it's not until after he's separated from John for years, hunting criminals, stalking his previous flatmate, checking the blog obsessively, that he realizes oh god, have I joined the monotonous flow of humanity? have I fallen in love? Highly improbable. And he can't help but to think of one of his frequently spoken quotes-when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth- and takes his pulse - higher than normal- and sees if his pupils are dilated - yes-while discreetly following John around London in between tracking down the rest of Moriarty's criminal empire. He comes to the conclusion that he is, in fact, rather enamored with the man.
The Time Before
When John met Sherlock, he was a broken man. Haunted by the horrors of war (no matter how cliché it sounded, he was still woken by his nightmare), a bullet lodged in his shoulder, in possession of a psychosomatic limp. His family was gone, and he had nothing left but Harry, who was drowning her sorrows after the divorce. He had but few belongings, and could see nothing in his future but an ordinary, boring life- unbroken by the rises and falls in the days. Wake, eat, go to work, come home, eat, sleep, maybe interrupted by a romantic interest here and there, but still so dull, so colourless. And Sherlock came into his life, bringing bright splashes of blue, red, moody drips of purple and deep, scorching black, harsh sounds, warmth, friends (the detective says he has only one friend, but Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson are like an expanded family- not that close, but was rather fond of). Music, and excitement, intelligence and coldness is what Sherlock is made of, and soon, that seeps into John and they are part of each other for a brief period of time. And that's ripped away.
Sherlock before John was different (yeah, sure, the man of ice who knew nothing of emotions, but is then changed for the better by a new friend-), and that's not so uncommon- many people are changed when they make the acquaintance of another- but for Sherlock, it was a turning point. He would lurk moodily by crime scenes, texting to Lestrade -and you call yourself a detective? My obtuse brother could do better than that. It's obvious it was the aunt- can't you see the limp and the glasses? Textbook, really- and his only form of excitement were his daily dose of cigarettes and gruesome triple murders. (He switched to nicotine patches later, but only because Mycroft said he was too weak to quit. He proved him wrong, though, didn't he?). And John slowed him down a little, take into consideration the feelings of others, be gentle, don't leave people behind, and he isn't sure of this change. He grows fond of Watson and their little family they created around them; he likes this new life, stable, comforting, and punctuated by necessary points of gory excitement. And he won't let go (at least, not willingly, but we all know it'll get torn away from him in the end).
The Schism
John's sixth sense is tingling that day. He knows something will go wrong, he knows something big will happen, but he's only afraid for his friend. When he bursts through the door and Mrs. Hudson is alive, unhurt oh god, Sherlock he knows it's to separate them because together they are unstoppable, invincible, Watson and Sherlock and rushes as fast as he can to the hospital. When he gets that phone call, there's the almost undetectable waver in Sherlock's voice Sherlock never hesitates and John knows there will be a great loss. And then he sees the figure, superimposed against the pale, cheerful sky that manages to make everything gloomy, a needle thin figure, black, a sharp contrast in the midst of the light blue. He thinks that when Sherlock jumps, he'll die, go mad, fall apart, and he orders Sherlock down, it's pleading, despite the firmness, and he is so weak, so helpless. And then the dark thing drops ( it looks so small, it doesn't even look like a person, and Watson pretends in that half second that it's not human, not Sherlock, just a thing) off the side of the building. There's a moment John feels like laughing (hysterical, because he knows how much Sherlock loves drama. Look at the billowing coat as he falls, the fluttering scarf)and he remembers don't giggle at crime scenes (while the duo is laughing helplessly, staggering away from that first case they had together) and other instances where they have to chortle in the most inappropriate places naked, of all things, in the palace, and they're giggling because Sherlock is an overgrown five year old without pants, naked just to spite Mycroft- could never resist infuriating him- and the feeling is gone, because nobody could survive that fall. He knows the person is dead when he sees him. Everything is detached. He goes numb, nothing works, and he droops and slumps to the ground in the arms of a stranger that's my friend! let me check, I'm a doctor, that's my friend! And it's a giant gaping wound, a giant canyon that separates him from the dead. He never accepted it, because if anyone, anyone could fake a suicide, fake a death, it's Sherlock. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in Sherlock Holmes… come back, Sherlock. Please.
Sherlock hangs up. It's not a suicide. It's not a suicide note because it's not a proper suicide. It's a love note, left unfinished, because he will, he must come back to finish it for John. It's for John. Sherlock's heart stopped when he tilted over the edge. It made his insides feel strange, floaty, he feels like giggling at this odd sensation while he's dropping, and it's a sharp jerking sudden STOP when he lands safely in a dumpster stuffed with mattresses. The body is planted by Molly, and John is rammed by a bike, his eyes leaving the descent of Sherlock, and misses the second the switch is made. He was the only person who saw the fall, nobody else saw this moment when the world ended. Sherlock is safe. He'll go hunt down everyone everyone who was connected to Moriarty, and when he is done, he'll come back to John. Doing this for John, doing this for John, and isdragging his feet away from the scene, from the grief on his best friend's face. He'll return. He's doing this so his family will be safe. He'll destroy every fragment left of Moriarty's mark left on the world. When he's done, he can come back home, because home is wherever John is. But for now, he's the cold, impassive Sherlock once again. Ruthless. Angry. And heartbroken. He has nothing to lose, because even his life is nothing when he can't be with John, and he's a dead man walking.
In Between
Three years, and it's hard for Watson. It's never been easy, of course, and it seems as if the pain is lessening as time passes, though, sometimes, he's hit by a sudden bout of grief, and it feels like the very moment Sherlock is ripped away from him-he passes the skull every morning, ignoring the twinge, the unending drop in his stomach, like the drop Sherlock took, and there is a freezing nothingness where his heart is, because Sherlock owned it. He starts to heal, is healing, will heal, and slowly, like a glacier. Around his broken little family, he puts on a mask. He pretends to be getting better. He's solid, dependable, and they count on him. He has to set an example for Lestrade (who became a small, but permanently lodged point in Sherlock's newly formed heart), Mrs. Hudson (she's strong, has suffered loss, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt). He sends a text to Sherlock every day. I know you're there, Sherlock. You're alive, hiding. I sleep in your bed now, Sherlock. I miss you. Come back Sherlock, I'll make tea. Sherlock, please. Please. I'm waiting for you, Sherlock. I'll be here.
He spends his time killing. He partners up with Irene for a short time, hunting down Moriarty's henchmen (like out of a children's show, where the villains have servants and assassins who do their bidding) on an island somewhere off the coast of South America. Words, phrases, flash into his head, unbidden. I owe you. Are you wearing pants? You're me. I am seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray right now. It's a tug- of- war between John and Jim. John always wins. Irene says nothing. She jokes, he pretends to laugh, just to humor her, but there's no emotion he associates with her- it wasn't love, wasn't an infatuation- he was interested with her for a bit, because she was such a mystery. They go their own ways after they extricate the criminal mastermind's feelers from the Western Hemisphere. When he's done oh, so close he's in a trance. Calls Molly and tells her he'll be home in a couple days. He'll come home.
Perfection.
John hallucinated during the period they were separated. He dreamt up Sherlocks during the daytime, had conversations with the air, made two cups of tea every morning and set the table for two every day (even though Sherlock rarely ate except for when food was forced on him, and now John eats one meal a day at the most, doesn't need more than that for sustenance, because he can't enjoy food when Sherlock's not here). When Sherlock turns up at the door, he invites him in without blinking. He knows it's another hallucination, but he longs for these moments when he can see Sherlock. Sherlock hugs him for hours, they sink onto the couch and fall asleep. John knows he's real in the morning, when Sherlock is swirling with his eyes closed, playing on his violin, wearing his blue dressing gown. It's an earth shattering punch, one that seriously bruises his knuckles, and gives Sherlock a giant split on his cheekbone that will need several stitches (they both noted that John doesn't aim for the nose or mouth or eyes, such pretty features that never got marked, like what Irene told them , once upon a time). They return to their friendly banter immediately afterwards, with a bit of whining and pitiful mewling on Sherlock's part, and a bit of doctoring on John's part (he sews up the stitches, has a first aid kit in the bathroom, so there's no need for a visit to the hospital). They tell Mrs. Hudson, and she falls into a chair and weeps happily, while Sherlock holds her. It's all fine.
Sherlock is home. There are a couple mishaps along the way to perfection, like John taking his arrival as a hallucination, or the painful punch he receives in the morning. They fit perfectly, though. John tuts over Sherlock, Sherlock is indifferent, Mrs. Hudson is emotional. They touch more, though, needing to know the other is there. John unconsciously clings to Sherlock's sleeve when they're walking to or from a crime scene (-oh, yeah, they told Molly and Lestrade, and now they've fallen back into the normal pattern of things-), reassurance that the taller man is there. Sherlock's hand lingers on John's shoulder and arm when leaning over him to see what he's doing, or maybe in passing, a stroke of his fingers to affirm that, yes, they're there, and they're never getting separated, and they need each other. They orbit around one another, planets, or moons, or just two hunks of rock whirling around each other because- without the other, they can't move, because it's a cosmic dance, and if one partner is gone, the dance ends. Sherlock plays his violin incessantly, to comfort John. Sometimes they're random noises, sometimes beautiful melodies, at three in the morning. It seems imperfect to outsiders, this fragile existence they built. It will grow stronger, and it will be perfect, because when they're together, they are a team. And it is perfect- perfect to them.