Title: Stupidity
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: FR13/T
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock in any form. But Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a genius to create such a character.
Word Count: 879
Summary: The first moments when Sherlock has returned and told John he was back and why he left. Post Reichenbach Fall, Reunion ficlet. Angsty. Hints of pre-slash of the Johnlockian persuasion.
Notes: I don't know where this came from. I was happily reading along through some Johnlock fics and BAM! This wallops me over the head. Most likely it's due to my only finally having seen The Reichenbach Fall, and I'm projecting. Three years is a long time, after all, but I think John needs to be angry. I know that in Doyle canon, Watson isn't angry. Due to the circumstances surrounding the reappearance of Sherlock, it's understandable. But I think John should be angry, thus this came about. I shall now return to my regularly scheduled Post-Reichenbach reading. Feel free to pass along any Reunion fics for me to read!
Beta/Britpicker: hellbells, who is such a marvelous friend to me.
Stupidity
John Watson stared at the man before him uncomprehendingly. This crazy, beautiful, brilliant, stupid idiot! He hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes since the man jumped off St Bart's, three years before. And now he was standing in front of John, with his stupid curly hair and his stupid wintry eyes and his stupid cheekbones and stupidly expecting John to welcome him home with open arms. Which he would, of course, because it was Sherlock and John could deny the man nothing. But that didn't mean he had to make it easy for the stupid man. The pure, unbridled joy he'd felt at first seeing Sherlock alive - oh God, Sherlock was alive! - melted in the slow burn of familiar anger.
"You lied."
"Yes."
"You faked your own death."
"Yes."
"Do you-? How could y-?" John sighed and ran a shaking hand through his already mussed hair. He'd been running his hands through it, occasionally gripping it outright since this man turned up at his door. The door to the flat he couldn't bare to leave because it was where they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and even SherlockandJohn, in John's more maudlin yet whimsical moments. He didn't know how to phrase what he wanted answered most, so he took a minute or two, stretched them to five, and simply breathed, all the while having those piercing eyes on him, seeing things he never wanted the other to know.
"Can you comprehend the enormity of the grief I felt?" he asked tiredly. "Can you begin to understand that having you call me and decide to leave me a verbal suicide note while I had to watch you fall nearly broke me?!"
John paced the floor, moving into the kitchen and back out, going through one door to enter another, finally standing in front of the man he once would have done anything for, and the one whom he hid his feelings from because he knew Sherlock's disdain for attachments. Now, though, things were different. Oh, he would still do anything - give up anything - for this man, but now he didn't care if his own emotions injured this man. Nothing John did could hurt Sherlock even half so much as the detective had hurt him. "I grieved for you!" he shouted into the taller man's face before whirling away and slumping down onto his chair. "I grieved for three years," he whispered brokenly, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking.
When he next looked up at Sherlock, he couldn't read the face. He knew that was important, somehow. It was as though Sherlock had brought down a blank mask over his features. John had known him long enough to know that while Sherlock didn't express what emotions he did feel, he never hid them, either. So this was a big step to John. This hiding, this non-expression; this wasn't normal Sherlock. This was Sherlock with a secret. This was Sherlock covering up an unwanted reaction, perhaps. A far cry from the Sherlock who waited only for Lestrade to leave before jumping - literally! - for joy at the prospect of four serial suicides that might not be suicides after all. But John wasn't done, so he didn't dwell overlong on Sherlock's non-reactions.
"Do you know I almost followed you?" he asked conversationally.
"Mmh?" Thought Sherlock's questioning hum was noncommittal, John could see the sharpening of his eyes as they focussed more completely. John was his new specimen; his new puzzle and the doctor found he didn't much care.
"From the roof. I almost followed you. Same path and everything. Had planned it all out, even. You can thank Greg for stopping it; he and Molly. I certainly didn't." Nor did he appreciate Mycroft checking up on him, keeping tabs on him. He wouldn't have known at all had the elder Holmes not called once. John had wanted to hit the man; slam his fist so hard into his face that Mycroft would be seeing little cartoon stars for days. He blamed Mycroft nearly as much as he blamed Jim Moriarty and himself for Sherlock's death. If it hadn't been for Mrs Hudson and Greg, he likely would have attempted to follow Sherlock into death again.
"Why on Earth would you do something that idiotic?" the greatest mind in the world asked, and John sighed.
He sighed because Sherlock would never understand the emotions he'd felt in the wake of that loss.
"You were my best friend, Sherlock. You were what my world centered around. Possibly even my reason for being. You gave me purpose, no matter how crazy you were. And then you left me. You went somewhere that you couldn't take me, so I chose to follow as I have always done." He gave a brief, bitter smile over this. "I cared more for you than I ever did for myself," he admitted softly. "I even punched Sally once, for what she said about you. She's not been round me since, but I never much liked her anyway."
John stood and pulled his coat on. Evenings were pretty chilly right now and he needed to get out; take a walk to clear his head. He gave Sherlock a sad smile. "I'm glad you're home, Sherlock."