This was a plot bunny y'all. A big, fat plot bunny that had been eating too much, and once it entered my mind, it would not go away. I thought of this . . . meeeeeh about last Sunday? Four nights later I was on my laptop, thinkin' about it. And then I was like, "HELL, I'm writing this NOW!" And here I am. Almost a week after I first thought about the idea with one chapter already written up. I really don't know when the next chapter will be, so don't get pissed at me when it's like, months later and I still haven't updated yet, 'kay? 'Kay. Glad we got that settled.
I'm thinking I'll have about five fairly loooong chapters for this one. But then again, I haven't really thought this out much. I'm just gonna go with the flow like normal, and we'll see where this takes me. This could suck, it could be mildly okay. I have no freaking clue. So let's go on this journey together, 'kay? 'Kay.
Merry Christmas to all! Enjoy!
"Did you hear about this?"
John sat with his newspaper unfolded (to page 7, based on the uneven thickness of the paper in either of John's hands) in the late morning when he asked this trivial question.
Sherlock didn't reply as he looked through his microscope at the dining table.
"Sherlock?" John verbally nudged at him to get his attention.
"Mm?" Sherlock responded half-heartedly, not looking up from his specimen.
John sighed as he knew even if he went forth with the offered morning conversation, Sherlock would not be listening. He would hear, but he would not listen. Whatever news John told this man about, he highly doubted it would ever have enough of the weight or bizarreness that was usually found in the cases Sherlock was most interested in to be stored in the Great Mind Palace.
However, he decided to proceed.
"The Tube had some malfunctions last night. A route near here. We should keep that in mind if we need to go somewhere." John kept his eyes on Sherlock bent over his slide.
"Mm."
John rolled his eyes, turning back to his paper and sipping his tea. Sometimes he wished he had someone to make small talk with on the slow, relaxing Sunday mornings in the flat. Sherlock was just not capable of it. Small talk. Everything had to be complex, exciting, and strange with the self-proclaimed consulting detective. It seemed to John that Sherlock was really only truly happy when he came across a case that fascinated him and got his thoughts flowing. This was always when John enjoyed Sherlock's company best. Even near death situations were made into fond memories because Sherlock was there being his true, brilliant self. And John would choose having a gun to his head with Sherlock using his wit to get him out of it over one of these languid Sunday mornings any day.
Sadly, the times when Sherlock was without a case and turned into an insufferable twat far outweighed the times when John was blinded by his fascination of how Sherlock Holmes miraculously solved his cases.
It had been a while since his last case, and that was never good. Even though Sherlock had gotten past the "tearing up the house" stage of his boredom, he had sunk into the "drowning himself in endless work without talking to anyone unless necessary" stage. Which was in a way, worse.
One thing John understood well though, was that this cycle was how the brilliant man dealt with his want of cigarettes and hard drugs. The first few days of unstable thinking patterns and outbursts that he took out on furniture, food, body parts, etc. was his withdrawal, and then the next week or so of tedious work distractions with almost no communication was the period of isolation and reflection that usually comes out of trying to become clean.
This point was always when Sherlock was the most unhappy.
Unhappy. Not sad. Sherlock was never sad. He was just not happy. John longed to know what Sherlock's reflection was on. He knew his powerful brain could handle conducting an experiment and repenting at the same time, so he was just curious to see what Sherlock was sorry for. Was he actually self-aware and apologized for being an arse to those around him? Did he think about the horrible things that happened to him when he was using? Did he use those memories as a reminder not to go back to those solutions? Did he think about world events? Did he think about meals? Did he think about violin melodies? Did he think about his family? Did he think about John?
And what accompanied these long periods of being alone with Sherlock's silent thoughts were of course, John's own repenting sessions.
What had he done wrong in his life? His many failed relationships aside (that he was well aware were mostly his fault), he thought about times in the army, his mum, dad, sister, sister-in-law, and especially cases he had been on with Sherlock. That was a big part of how John managed to recall the events so eloquently in his blog later on. Though, John had finished his latest blog entry on their last case just last week, so he had nothing to ponder on the subject as of late.
He thought of more inconsequential things, but if he had to come up with a top three, it would have to be the army, the cases, and Harry - being the biggest. His blasted relationships were a close fourth. He regretted lots about what happened in the army. The things he had seen. He regretted that they happened, but there was nothing he regretted doing. Most soldiers had plenty of stories about men they could have saved in the field and how they were haunted daily by the guilt of not doing so. But with John being a field doctor and all, he did not have the experiences that most men who were out and fighting every day had. He also didn't have the same mindset. Everything that happened in the field was questionable. Nothing and no one was ever sure. But at injured soldiers' bedsides, John knew his options and what he had to do. If there was nothing he could do, then there was nothing he could do. It didn't come down to split-second decisions of whether to run into the bomb blasts to save a comrade or not. He regretted the events of war, not the fact that he had participated.
After all, Mycroft did point out that it was the adrenaline of the fields of war that excited John.
And now more and more of his life choices were coming down to those split-second decisions: Is Sherlock in danger? Should I let Sherlock go to see Moriarty alone? Do I risk myself to save Sherlock? - But somehow, the decisions seemed just as easy as when John was in the medical tents in Afghanistan.
Harry was by far the biggest regret of John's life.
Was it his fault for not raising her better? His parents weren't always home, and he had a lot of responsibility. He knew that. So why hadn't he done a better job?
Then again, he thought, I was only 17 when I was taking care of her and trying to keep her in line. I had college to worry about. A job and a car. It was unrealistic to think John could manage it all by himself.
But then John felt like he was just making excuses.
Part of why he thought about Harry so much was also because of the fact that the ways he used to deal with her are also the ways he's trying to deal with Sherlock now. And it worried him greatly.
Was he making the same mistakes again? What were his mistakes in the first place?
If only he knew.
When Harry wouldn't talk to anyone, he had left her alone. His thinking was that only she knew what was best for herself, and it was not his place to tell her to do otherwise. Now, though, he thought about taking a risk and forcing Sherlock to talk to him.
He really didn't know what would happen. He had never tried it before. His automatic response to people pushing him away was to leave them alone. But the more he thought about it, the worse the idea sounded. What if he was just making them suffer in silence? They might not have a way to solve their problem if they don't talk to someone they trust. They also may not even know what's wrong, and may need a good talk-out to find out just what it is they're going through.
Either way, John realized his approach had been ill-conceived and a downright dreadful idea. Sherlock needed to talk to someone, and if it was going to be anyone, it had to be John himself. The only problem was, John had no clue how to come at the man with the possibility of a therapy session happening (which was the last thing John needed after he had been through plenty of his own), and there was no way in hell Sherlock was going to be the one taking the initiative.
Honestly, John had been formulating a plan in his head for the past two and a half weeks since their last case ended. He had been practically writing a script out in his brain of exactly how the conversation would go. He tried to predict what Sherlock's response would be (if any)to the prospect of the poor doctor attempting to extract the workaholic out of his self-inflicted isolation to talk about his feelings as best he could. Because that would go over well.
John desperately wanted to get inside Sherlock's brain.
But John knew that was a near impossible task. There had been so many times when John had given up on his attempts. And this was one of them.
John pulled out of his thoughts and kept reading his paper with thoughts of Sherlock's thoughts fleeting.
John's eyes flitted over the words before him absent-mindedly, losing himself in not reading anything he was looking at. He entered a state almost sleep-like where he simply forgot time. So it may have been an hour or a minute later that their doorbell rang.
John was ripped out of his trance, having a momentary period of regaining his bearings, during which he realized the doorbell was what had awoke him. He scrambled, and then hurriedly got up to answer it.
"Sherlock, why didn't you get the door?" John asked rhetorically, not really pausing to wait for the answer.
John sighed frustratedly as he rushed down the stairs. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see none other than Lestrade on their doorstep.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," John said, curious as to why he was at their flat on a Sunday morning, "What brings you here?"
Lestrade stepped into the front hall as John let him in. "I have a case Sherlock needs to look at."
"Well that's good news," John said as they began to climb the stairs, "Sherlock's been on a bit of an edge since his last, as always."
"Mm, I can imagine. And what was it that was taking you so long to get to the door? I rang it three times."
John winced, his annoyance towards Sherlock kindling. "I was in the other bedroom and Sherlock was working on an experiment."
"Ah, I see."
When they entered the flat, John was a bit shocked to find Sherlock up and about in the middle of the room, expecting them. But then, Sherlock must be keen to take on another case. He probably knew it was Lestrade by hearing his voice from downstairs. John went past Sherlock to his seat to pick up where he left off in his paper - although he couldn't quite remember where that was. He would leave the boys to it and keep one ear open to hear the juicy parts if this was one for the blog.
"I assume you have a case for me, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said with a bit of what John read to be excitement in his voice, "And it better be a good one. I don't have time to waste."
"Well, I beg to differ on that one, but whatever you want."
John gestured to the sofa. "Would you like to sit down, Lestrade?"
"No thank you, John. I won't be staying long. If you decide to take this case, Sherlock - and I'm certain you will - I'll need you to come down to the precinct with me immediately."
Sherlock smirked, and then turned his back on Lestrade to fiddle idly with his violin bow and rosin. "Really?" The mocking tone flowed easily through his voice. "And what makes you so certain this case will interest me? What is this case even about?"
"Well, this was a bit of an unusual one for our division to be called in for. It's a very blurry line this time. It was a missing persons actually. A little girl has disappeared."
Sherlock sighed disappointedly, throwing his rosin onto the sofa. John peeked over at him. He was clearly let down, but he tried not to show it. "Then get your people on finding out what her last whereabouts were, and talk to anyone who has threatened the family as of late. You know this boring kind of thing doesn't interest me, Detective Inspector."
"You didn't hear the rest, Sherlock."
"I don't believe I would care to."
"Oh, you would." Lestrade's voice suddenly took on a very demanding tone making both John and Sherlock freeze and look at him. "We know for a fact she wasn't kidnapped. Actually, we know exactly where she was before she disappeared, and everywhere she was before then. She was home, Sherlock." He paused. "And she has requested that you be the one who finds her."