Conversation 16
They were sat on the bed. Sherlock's bed. Silent. Sherlock watched on as John worked on his gun. A gun that was his trophy because it stuck with him through the war, and moved into this war with ease. He looked concentrated. Nimble fingers working open slots leading to a symphony of clicks. Sherlock watched on, and continued the silence. Watching the fingers interact with cold lifeless metal as if it was a bleeding, breathing patient.
Sherlock was thinking. As he usually was. He was thinking about the relationship between John and himself. Words always seemed to fail the pair of them. A thousand unsaid words laying safely between their lips, in the safe warmth of their mouths, with no hope for escape. The same lips that kissed each other and lead each other into pleasure. The same lips they used to speak when at crime scenes and when on 'not' dates. The same mouths that would constantly leave each other baffled.
Sherlock's mouth wanted to warn John to back off while he could. To stay safe and far away, even though it would hurt. Because Sherlock could break him. And he would. It was just a matter of time.
He imagined it all the time. Breaking John apart bit by bit. Not because he hated him, no. Because he loved him so much that he wanted to live inside him. Crack all those difficult parts open and step inside. Try and synchronize their thoughts. John's thoughts had to be more healthy than his own, even if they could be dull. Sherlock wanted to drown in them. He wanted to be such a part of John that when he raised his left hand, his own would follow suit. When John took a step, Sherlock wanted his legs to do the same. Constantly on the same step, the same thought, the same breath. Recycling air through each other. He would never need to worry about doing the right thing, because John always did the right thing. That would be safe.
But Sherlock wouldn't do that to John. Sherlock was evil. John was good. And he couldn't taint that;.
John put the gun down between them and pressed his fingers together, popping the gathered air out of his joints with a sigh. He now looked at Sherlock. Calmly, thoughtfully. Sherlock looked at John. Hectically, daring. He looked at the weapon between them. How such a simple thing could end a life. A complex semblance of memories and feelings and thoughts.
A bullet could pierce right through that delicate web. Break it apart and leave missing pieces lying else where. When metal met skin, it left a scar stories weren't even worthy of.
Sherlock reached for the gun before John could react. Instead, he looked on. Eyes wider than before. "Sherlock. What-" Sherlock held the gun up as if it was a priceless antique. His long agile fingers stroking the matte metal with ease and confidence. He flicked the safety off and held it higher. John was starting to panic silently. His muscles moving under still skin. Waiting to tackle Sherlock and placate him before he had the chance to do damage to the already damaged flat.
Sherlock raised the gun to his head.
"What the HELL are you playing at?" John said, his voice a mixture of anger and fright. He kept himself still, not wanting to shock Sherlock into hurting himself. Sherlock looked on quietly still. His eyes not faltering from John's. Instead, they looked extremely focused. He brushed the gun to his right temple.
"John, what would you do?" His voice calm and steady as if the weapon at his head was simply a mirage only John could see.
"Put the gun down!"
"What would you do?"
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock places his finger on the trigger and stares on
"Answer me."
John sits back, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock. His face looking as though he would run if he had the chance. Run and not come back, as he should.
"I would never forgive myself." His voice quiet, but stern. Sherlock's face still unchanging.
"Why? You aren't holding the gun to my head."
"No, but I might as well be."
To those words, Sherlock sank back a bit. But the gun remained at his temple.
"This is what it feels like, doesn't it?" He asks like he asks questions at a crime scene. Digging for evidence that doesn't want to be found. "This is what it feels like when you look at me and watch me and think about me. It feels like one move and it will all implode in on itself and you wont have any say. Don't tell me I'm wrong, I'm not. I'm never wrong.". Johns eyes are dancing around Sherlock's face, trying to figure out where the hell this came from and what sparked it. He sighs loudly, and rubs a hand over his face. Sherlock wasn't wrong. John did feel that way. And that is why he loved this mad man. Because it wasn't routine, and it never needed to be. Because passed that cold mask and porcelain skin there was a real beating heart that was capable of love and want and need. Even if he was too scared to acknowledge it.
Sherlock made a noise and pressed the gun closer still to his now quivering temple. "I am not a good person. I wont ever be. I will try and be, attempt to mime what is well and what is good. But I wont ever be that man you hope for me to be. I will always be… this. And I will always say the wrong thing at the wrong time and be completely inept to what society deems socially acceptable. I will leave you. I'm sure of it. And then come back and hope you still feel for me like we did when we first met. And my question to you, John Watson, is if you could possibly live with this? Like this?" Sherlock takes a haggard breath, his hand beginning to shake softly.
John looks up at those words and waits. Waiting for the room to cave in over their heads, faltering on its weak skeleton. But it doesn't happen. Wishing an injury would wash Sherlock's mind clean. His eyes stay on his friend, and suddenly, he is moving. He grabs Sherlock's hand which holds the gun and pulls it away, throwing the gun in the process. He takes his wrist between his hand and clamps on, hard. Sherlock looks back into his eyes in a hazy panic. John pushes him against the headboard without care to injury.
"You are a fool, Sherlock. A bloody goddamned fool. Why do you think I stay? Because you're mad. And you aren't routine. Because this could all end in a second. Because one day I wont be able to find you, but I will need to search for you. I will need to look everywhere for you just to know that your return will be another war zone. And I've never had something to look for. I never had someone to go through hell for." John pushes him back further into the headboard. Wanting something soft to catch the both of them.
All of those words within his cage of a mouth wanting so badly to let Sherlock know how much he loves him. That if he could, he would take that bullet he nearly put in his head for him. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he loved him because he put air back into his lungs and he didn't apologize for it. He wanted to thank him for all those stumbles on rooftops that nearly, blissfully, ended his life and gave him adrenaline again. He wanted to kiss him and hold him even when his boney frame would rebel before melting into a pliant mass. But he didn't know how. He had know idea how to tell Sherlock Holmes he loved him.
Staying was the only reassurance.
"So you tell me this, could you possibly live with me feeling this way? Or is that too much for you?"
John reaches down, palming for the gun, before placing it on his left temple. Looking Sherlock dead in the eyes.
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