Freefall
Parings: Johnlock
Warnings: Slash/Angst/PTSD/suicidal thoughts
This is an ongoing series.
He started packing the day after Sherlock solved a double murder and rape of two twin girls.
It didn't start out as actual packing. Just cleaning, going through things, marveling at all the shit they'd collected and kept lying around, collecting dust. And there was a lot of dust. Between the clutter and Sherlock's many discarded experiments even the dust was collecting dust.
Work has been all right. The blog did extremely well, bringing in ad revenue and putting food on the table in between cases. There were a few cases that really absorbed him, gave him something concrete to think about.
But mostly John thought about nothing at all. Or at least that was what he told himself.
The same day he spent investigating a double homicide - jealous husband, cheating wife, boyfriend caught with his pants down, literally - he realized he wanted out.
It was hard to work with Sherlock now. Hard to work with everyone. And when he woke up in the middle of the night, just about every night, with broken dreams of blood soaked sand, phantom leg pain or raped little girls, he pretty much found it hard to work, period.
Mrs. Hudson treated him like he was made out of spun glass. Way too understanding. Sherlock was ever the Vulcan, without any trace of understanding that John could see. He hated going to work on a crime scene. Not the work itself, but the feeling.
After returning from a case in Cardiff, John found an opportunity and courage to tell Sherlock he needed a holiday. Two weeks. His face burned with shame.
"Will it help?" Sherlock asked him bluntly.
John shrugged. "I think so."
"It might be better if -"
"Look," John interrupted, his heart suddenly galloping briskly in his chest, "if you're going say something about getting back on the horse or to push these feelings and doubts aside, you might as well save it. Been there, done that. It isn't helping."
Sherlock regarded him with what John reluctantly recognized as understanding. "I was going to suggest a month," he replied mildly.
And damn it, he was by God NOT going cry in front of Sherlock Holmes, even if he felt like it right now. "That'd be good," he said in a strangled voice.
By the time he got to the cab, he didn't feel like crying anymore. Just getting away. What a goddamn relief.
His first stop was Dublin, and his folks were mystified but wildly happy to see him, of course. His work with Sherlock meant he didn't get home as much as they wanted - or he wanted, for that matter - and so he did the family thing. Helped his mum cook, helped his father on the car. Met up with some friends and got drunk more than a few times. It didn't help, but it felt like something that was normal and expected of him, so he did.
Sherlock finally texted him the second week he was home.
How is the family? SH
How'd the man know where he was? Always the spooky Sherlock, more of a psychic than a detective. No, John knew he was just horribly transparent sometimes.
He didn't respond to the text.
He stopped doing much, that third week. He'd done everything he was supposed to do, and now his parents were getting a little curious about why he wasn't going back to work yet. He slept a lot, stopped drinking after one hellacious hangover that had him re-enacting university by spending the entire next day sick as a dog.
But mostly he just existed, breathing and not doing much else. He wasn't hungry. Wasn't interested in much. He was there, and that was all that he could manage.
"What's wrong, John?" his dad asked one night, his face creased with worry. "What's going on, son?"
"Nothing," John said remotely, and changed channels on the telly. Digital cable, not satellite, what a relief.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Don't worry."
But his dad did worry, and his mum, and what had been comfortable, safe, was suddenly stifling. He packed the next morning without knowing he was going to leave, and damn it, there were tears in his mum's eyes when he hugged her goodbye, but what the hell was he going say? The truth? What WAS the truth? He'd lost his nerve? Had himself worn down by one too many, horrible bloody cases, after spending all those years being a doctor? They wouldn't believe him. They knew about his PTSD and thought he had recovered. They would worry instantly if they sensed otherwise, and he couldn't live with scaring his folks, any more than he already had, and so he split.
He caught the first flight out, not even looking at the destination.
It happened to be Canada.
The day he was supposed to return to home, he called Sherlock.
"Is everything okay, John? Where are you?"
"I'm okay. I'm in Dublin. With family as you know," he lied. "Sorry about today. I'll be back tomorrow."
"Take whatever time you need, John." Sherlock sounded hesitant, "Look, why don't you let me take you to dinner when you're back? Catch you up on things?"
Because I'm 5,000 kilometers away from you, John almost said, and found a hard, painful grin on his face. "Maybe tomorrow," he said guilelessly. "But thanks."
A pause. Then. "Of course."
He took the ferry over to Nova Scotia and didn't call the next day. Damn, there wasn't a soul on the planet who knew where he was now. It was a weird, good feeling. A free feeling.
He rubbed his temples, annoyed at the headache from the hunger he felt and he found himself in need of a bit of comfort food but there seemed to be nothing but the average terrible American brands of chocolate and snacks in the motel shop. He made a small purchase of a sports drink, a bottle of ibuprofen and a few bags of sweets.
The next afternoon he stared at the phone in his motel room and felt the tears finally come back. Only this time there wasn't any stopping them. Grief flattened him, smashed into him like a tornado, and he lay on the creaky bed and curled up and cried, cried so hard he finally had to stagger to the bathroom and throw up. And then cried some more, realizing he would sell his damn SOUL to talk to someone, to not be so goddamn alone.
The horrible feeling from before, those 18 months before, alone in a single bedroom barely surviving his nightmares.
He hit the speed-dial on his cell phone and tried to stop crying long enough to talk.
"Where the hell are you?"
Sherlock didn't sound pissed. He sounded worried, and boy, that was all the damn tears needed to get started again. "Sorry," John said in a watery, foggy croak.
A delicate pause. "John, are you okay?"
Didn't even sound like Sherlock, either. Never heard him sound worried like this. Will marvels never cease. "No," John croaked. "I don't think I am."
Sounded like Sherlock was walking. "Where are you? I'll come get you, okay, just stay put."
His nose was running. "Canada. I'm in Canada."
A pause, then Sherlock's thunderstruck voice: "CANADA?"
"I'm sorry," John whispered.
"I'm coming to get you, all right? Where in Canada, John?"
You don't have to do that, he wanted to say. I'll be back soon. But horrifyingly he didn't say anything like that, instead all he could come up with was a watery "Okay. N-Nova Scotia."
"Christ. Tell me you're going to be okay until I get there, John. Tell me."
Okay? Of course he'll be okay, why wouldn't he be? "I'll be okay," he said waveringly.
"Tell me you're not going to do anything to yourself. Can you do that?"
"Do anything?" he echoed, confused.
"Have you already?"
What? "I don't understand..."
"Promise me you'll go to a hospital if you - " And another wonder: Sherlock's voice broke. Holy saguaros, Batman, the London Vulcan sounds positively - scared.
"I'm not going to kill myself!" John said, suddenly utterly terrified. But what if he was? Was he? Was this why he was here? Did Sherlock detect something in his voice even he didn't realize? Christ, the bottle of ibuprofen.. was that why...
"Swear it," Sherlock snapped.
"A-all r-right." John stammered.
"I'll be there tomorrow. Just - don't do anything, John. Don't."
I won't, I promise. John wanted to say. But the words wouldn't come out, and he had no idea why. The call ended and John bolted from his position, fishing out the bottle of ibuprofen from the plastic bag. He dumped the entire contents into the toilet and flushed, staring into the dizzying vortex as they disappeared. He started to giggle but stopped himself, afraid it would lead to a hysterical fit. It was ridiculous, completely ridiculous. He never would have taken those pills, what a ridiculous conclusion Sherlock had come to. John stilled, exhaustion settling into his shoulders. Then why flush them?
Because Sherlock was always right.
He fell asleep around 3 a.m. He awoke to his phone ringing, and he had lost all sense of time. He was strangling in the sheets when he finally fumbled to his phone on the side table.
"I had to rent an automobile. You alright?" Sherlock inquired.
"Tired," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
"Tough. I haven't slept in 52 hours. Got your call right after I finished a case with Lestrade and been on the move ever since. You have to talk to me, or I'm going to drive off the road."
So he talked, without any idea of what he was really saying. Telling Sherlock about Dublin and his family, and how he bought the first ticket to anywhere, which landed him in Canada. Telling him of his ferry and bus rides. Directing Sherlock to his current location in between stories.
Sherlock sounded pretty tired himself, but he kept John on the phone until he saw the motel, and then there was a knock at the door and John reeled over to open it.
"Hey," he said to Sherlock's astonished face. And passed out cold.
It wasn't much of a faint, but it was embarrassing anyway. Except he didn't really feel so much embarrassed as apologetic, because Sherlock had a funny, grim look on his face that John had never seen before.
"I'm okay," he said, trying and completely failing to get up on his own. It took Sherlock to haul him to his feet again, and even then the ground was doing some kind of gross pitch and yaw thing straight out of Perfect Storm, and it took all his energy not to puke, never mind walk unaided.
"No, John, you're not okay," Sherlock retorted tersely.
That made him feel like crying again. Shit.
"Why'd you have to run? You should have told me."
"Told you what?"
"That - That you were -" Yet another surprise. Sherlock, stammering.
"I don't know." It wasn't a lie. Except for the part that was.
Sherlock sat down in the single chair and reached up to rub his eyes, and John took in how tired he looked. Tired, looking older than his years.
"Feel like you could eat something? You look like you dropped at least half a stone, and unless I miss my guess, that little swoon was because you haven't had anything to eat. Sound about right?"
Mutely, John nodded.
"I don't suppose there are many delivery establishments here." Sherlock's voice was its dry best, and John forced a smile. "Okay, I'm going out for food. You'll be here when I get back, right?"
John nodded again.
Sherlock regarded him steadily. "Your mum called me," he said. "Got my number off the website."
"Oh."
"She sounded very scared. That's when I started to worry."
He knew he had lied about still being in Dublin. Of course he knew. But wow, how embarrassing. He felt his face heating up. "I just needed some space," John mumbled, looking down.
"I understand that. I do," Sherlock added at John's startled look. "Although I don't think I've needed this much space."
"I didn't plan it," John said hoarsely. "Just kinda - ended up here."
Sherlock nodded slowly. "Then stay here, and I'll be back in 15."
"Okay."
He fell asleep, somehow, and the next thing he felt was a touch on his shoulder. With a garbled shout of terror John threw himself off the bed, only to fall over on the other bed, stunned.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock sounded sorry, too, standing there awkwardly with a sack in one hand and the key in the other, and a stricken expression on his face. "I didn't mean to startle you."
John tried to grab a breath. "S'okay," he squeaked, avoiding Sherlock's all-too-intense gaze.
"I got Chinese. It was that or pizza."
John nodded and found it oddly comforting, the idea of Chinese food. It seemed to be "their" meal together. He sat in the middle of the bed nearest the table, hands shaking too bad to manage chopsticks, trying to eat a little kung pao chicken and feeling Sherlock watching, watching. Eating and watching.
When the food was not exactly gone but sufficiently picked-at, Sherlock sighed. And here it comes, John thought, his stomach clenching. This wasn't logical, John, the London Vulcan would say. Only Sherlock didn't really seem very Vulcan-ish these days, did he?
"You scared the shit out of me, John," Sherlock said in a soft, weird voice.
John gave him a startled look. "I know," he answered hollowly. "I didn't think about that. I wasn't - thinking much for a while there."
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and John didn't miss the way it was suddenly Sherlock who didn't quite meet his eyes. "Feel any better?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Feel like coming back to Baker Street?"
John swallowed. "I don't know."
A tiny smile played about the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Just feel like - being in Canada, is that it?"
"Something like that."
"I called your mum. Told her you were alright."
John nodded mutely, eyes downcast.
"She told me I should drag you back by your hair." Now the smile was a grin. "She asked me if I could call the Mounties. I didn't think that would be necessary."
"No, no Mounties."
Sherlock nodded slowly, picking at leftover rice. "So what now? Stay here? Work our way back?"
John's eyes narrowed. "'We'? Don't you have to go back?"
"Yes, I have to go back."
"But -"
"I didn't say I have to go back right now."
John snorted, shaking his head. "Going to babysit me for a few days?" he asked harshly.
"Guess so. If that's what it takes."
"I'm a grownup, you know. I can -"
"-Take care of yourself, yes. I know." Sherlock eyed him steadily. "But you've had a hell of a time, John. I'm not your babysitter."
"No, Sherlock, you're my colleague," John shot back.
"I thought we established we are friends too," came Sherlock's soft reply.
John shrugged. "Okay, you're a friend. But I don't know what I want to do, okay? I don't -" He had to swallow; his throat was as dry as toast. "I don't know if I want to go back."
"That's fair. I can't say that I blame you."
"Oh really."
"Yes, really. Look, what is it with you and me about this? I've cut you every bit of slack at my disposal, not to mention -"
"I know," John interrupted, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "I know. I'm sorry," he added stiffly.
Sherlock didn't say anything else for a moment. Finally he said, "I've got to go get a room. Don't think they'll fill up, but you never know."
It felt like his heart was bleeding. What else could hurt his chest this bad? "No," John said as casually as he could. "Have an extra bed right here, and it's paid for. Why don't you stay here?"
When he met Sherlock's eyes he looked uncannily calm. "Yes. Okay. If that's what you want."
And it WAS what he wanted, there was the real hell of it. Because it was Sherlock he'd called, when the shit hit the fan, wasn't it? Out of all the people he knew, the people who loved him, or cared about him, it had been Sherlock whose number his finger had dialed. So yeah, that was what he wanted.
"Yeah," he said gruffly. "It's what I want."
He's going to die. There's no question of if, but only when. Will they pull the trigger now, or wait a couple more minutes? Help's on its way, but it's going to be too late, way too late, he's never going to know how late because he's going to be dead. Dead and gone, just another statistic from the war.
Didn't they see? See the Red Cross emblem on his heavy medical kit? On the patch on his arm? He was off boarders. It was against the rules. He wasn't supposed to die like this. Not at point blank. John felt a strangled laugh catch in his throat. No rules in war.
The insurgent lifts his gun at John's chest. "Wait!" John screams, doesn't even bother with crying because it's too late, the gun's gone off and the pain is in his chest, spiraling down his shoulder and back. He falls but instead of gun metal or blood he smells chlorine.. Oh God he could smell the chlorine of the pool... Could feel the winter coat, the Semtex... Moriarty's laugh...
"JOHN!"
He came to gasping, mindlessly struggling against whatever it was that was touching him, holding him.
"John, it's okay! It's okay, it's me, Sherlock, listen to me. It's okay. Just a dream, all right? Just a dream."
Panting, heart banging against his ribs with panic, John fought for a second, and then Sherlock's wonderfully calm, sane voice penetrated.
"It's okay, John, it's all right. It's just a dream. They're not here. Just me."
John took in a gigantic whoop of air, and tried to sit up. "Wha -" he said dizzily. Sherlock? But Sherlock was in London, and John was - where, exactly? Dublin, right? Wait, no, this wasn't Dublin, this was Canada, Mounties, hair-pulling. Sherlock.
"Sherlock," he gasped, and burst into tears.
Sherlock didn't budge. Holding him, hard when he tried to break away because this was too fucking embarrassing, he hated to cry but he hated crying in front of anyone more, and yet he just didn't have the control, didn't want the fucking control. What he wanted -
- was Sherlock, there, and here he was, and it was okay, maybe not completely, but a shitload better than it had been. So he pressed his face against Sherlock's chest and stopped thinking about it, and let go.
Sherlock went perfectly still, which John was forever grateful. He knew even the slightest pull away from Sherlock would cause the pain of rejection to be too much, and if Sherlock moved toward him that also would prove too overwhelming. Stillness and calm was perfect and Sherlock was a master of it.
When he could think again, he became aware of two things. First, Sherlock's shirt was soaked. And second, as screwy as it sounded, as unexpected as it was, John felt better, safer, than he had in weeks, right here.
He put his hand on Sherlock's wet shirt and grimaced. "I'm sor-"
"It's okay. Relax. It's okay."
So here was a picture, a part of his mind told him. The part that sat back and offered its own lively commentary on everything. All cuddled up with the consulting detective, isn't that sweet. Why don't you just let him fuck you and get it over -
"Shut up," he whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said, sliding his arms shamelessly around Sherlock's waist and closing his eyes to the feel of Sherlock's hand stroking his hair. "S'okay."
And it sort of was okay, and he thought about how strangely great that was before he slipped back into the thankfully now-dreamless realm of sleep.
Hell of it was, Sherlock didn't seem to be anything but completely cool with waking up to John wrapped around him. And since John wasn't completely cool about it - didn't know what to think of it, if truth were told - that same coolness was extremely freaky in and of itself.
He'd had no idea how long Sherlock had been awake. There was just the solid, unbelievably reassuring feel of a strong body next to his own, and then he was blinking at his flatmate, who he had evidently stuck to like a barnacle all night.
"Hi," Sherlock said, looking sleepy and so not not-cool, John was immediately, extremely awake.
"Hey," John croaked, unbarnacle-ing himself. Even with the curtains drawn the brightness of the sunlight was crucifying. "Shit," he mumbled, reaching up to rub his eyes.
"Don't. You'll make it worse."
"Uh," John responded idiotically.
"Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. In that order?"
"Uh."
"Still not a morning person, are you?"
"Um."
"Shower, John. You know how I prefer conversing with people who are actually awake."
He took a long, blissfully hot shower and tried not to look at himself too much in the mirror while he dried off.
He put on his jeans and finally paid attention to how loose they were. Looks like Sherlock was right. He'd dropped half a stone. He'd see to that, if he could just find his lost appetite.
When he came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, Sherlock had found coffee someplace and was talking quietly on the phone. Seeing John, he put his hand over the receiver and lifted his chin. "Lestrade," he mouthed. John nodded, most of his brief content melting away.
In the tiny cafe adjoining the motel, John poked at eggs and potatoes and watched Sherlock polish off a seriously huge omelet. "Most important meal of the day, huh?" John remarked weakly. This was odd, him not eating and Sherlock wolfing down a meal.
"Would you like some?"
"No, thanks." He went back to poking.
A few minutes later Sherlock sipped his coffee and leaned back. "Eat, John," he said gently, another one of those tiny smiles on his face. "Important meal. You said it, not me, remember?"
John forced a smile and made himself eat a bite. At the corner of his eye he caught the movement of a little girl and her mother cross the street, a deep red backpack on the child's shoulders, much too big for her small frame. The little, nasty voice in his head sat up and snarled, his brain forcing images with rapid movement of blood long blonde hair and of little girl's screaming…
With a revolted sound John shoved himself back from the table, scanning the room with absolute focus, looking for the bathroom. About half a minute later he left what he'd managed of eat of breakfast in the toilet, and kept right on trying to throw up the lining of his stomach for a while after. When it seemed to be over, he clawed his way to a standing position, hit the handle on the toilet and reeled over to the sink. His mouth tasted utterly gross. He rinsed, and drank a little water, but when it gurgled dangerously in his belly he left it alone, too.
Just - don't think about it. That's the ticket. Everything will be okay if you just. Don't. Think about it.
Back at the table, the dishes were thankfully gone, and Sherlock had already paid the ticket. "Come on," he said mildly, touching John's elbow. "Let's pack up and head out."
John blinked. "What? Where?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you wanted some Canadian air and still not comfortable heading back home yet. Seems natural we might explore a bit here, don't you?" His body settled and his trained eyes rested on John, waiting.
John blinked again and swallowed hard. Avoiding the brutal stare he knew he was being given. Sherlock saw much, sometimes too much. Sometimes it felt like a game, was John just another broken puzzle Sherlock felt compelled to piece together again?
They packed quickly as there wasn't much to pack. Sherlock took off his jacket and flung it in the back before settling into the driver's seat. As if he already expected to be driving a great deal and wanted to be comfortable. John felt distant, barely hearing a quip Sherlock made about the differences between driving on different sides on the road. He thought absently that the driving might be a little more difficult in that sense, but he knew Sherlock would find it a breeze.
They settled on silence, but hadn't settled on a destination. Sherlock just drove and John stared out the side.
Sherlock was his flatmate, colleague and brain trust. He had come five-fucking-thousand kilometers just to see if his sorry ass was still alive.
John blinked, coming back into the world with a sudden realization. "Christ, this has been a real pain in the ass for you, hasn't it?" he asked, shutting his eyes.
"Yes, John," came Sherlock's deadpan reply. "Major pain in the ass."
"Why didn't you just call the Mounties or just have my family deal with it or… " He broke off.
Sherlock changed lanes, then back again. "Would you rather I'd done that?"
John glanced at him, obscurely uncomfortable. "I didn't say that."
John caught Sherlock's grin, and had to smile, too.
When he thought about it, he couldn't remember ever having quite as good a time as he had had, the past few days. Well, sure he'd had fun before in his life. But this was different, in ways that sort of made sense and sort of didn't. A different flavor of fun, maybe.
For one thing, Sherlock's smarts were always completely fascinating to him. Sherlock had weird little factoids about everything. From the history of Niagara Falls to a bewildering treatise on the Canadian dollar that had made John's head hurt, the man just had all of info stored in his head. And John knew how others would find it freaky, even weird, but John was enthralled.
"You need to go on Jeopardy," John remembered saying, a day ago.
Sherlock gave him a baleful look. "No, thanks," he said thinly.
"Why not? Make a ton of money, dazzle people with your intellect -"
"Don't go there, John."
"You know you'd love it. You love to be clever. Face it, Sherlock, you're a fucking brain trust. Besides, it's not embarrassing to do Jeopardy. A friend of mine did it, couple years ago in America. Didn't win, but he did pretty well. You'd knock 'em out."
Sherlock just smiled. "You know I don't find importance in most trivia. Can you really see me on Jeopardy? " he stated, and John had to laugh, because no, he really couldn't, but shit, the guy was brilliant! Could you blame him?
But there were other things he discovered, too. Things like the fact that Sherlock wasn't a Vulcan, after all.
"I'm sorry about the other night," John said now, in a diner in a minuscule Quebec town.
Sherlock glanced up from his plate. "Sorry about what?"
John put down his sandwich and considered the possibility that what the cafe called "ham," was known as "Spam" in England. "In Nova Scotia," he said, wrinkling his nose at the sandwich. "I have - bad dreams."
"Yes, I know. Don't apologize." Sherlock was eyeing his own lunch with a similar look of opprobrium. "I'm just glad I could help."
And that was the hell of it, because Sherlock did help. And with a level of concern and honest caring that made John feel deeply and obscurely ashamed.
There hadn't been any more nightmares since Nova Scotia, that he could remember.
Every night there was a double hotel room. But every night so far, they'd only used one bed. And that was both alarming and something else, and between the two John wasn't at all sure which was more compelling.
Where to start? Why was this happening? From choosing Sherlock to call instead of Harry or his mum, to being wildly glad that Sherlock was there, to winding up in bed with him? Not that "bed" had any real connotations. It was just comfort. But John hadn't been comforted by much of anyone for a while now, and certainly not Sherlock.
Certainly not a MAN, the nasty little voice inside him piped up helpfully.
Which still didn't explain why it just felt so damn good.
They didn't talk about it. At least there was that vestige of masculinity left to him. Sherlock didn't make any comments on how John couldn't seem to sleep unless he stuck to Sherlock like a limpet. No rejection, no cute remarks, no censure. Nothing but an easy acceptance that had John guiltily wondering about Sherlock's past - and his own new-found tendencies - and growing increasingly uncertain about - well, just about everything.
"Penny for your thoughts."
John looked up and felt himself flushing. "Canadian, or American?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Whatever."
"Just thinking."
"Yes, that much I figured out on my own."
John felt himself smile, but he stayed silent.
The cool weather continued, and that night John shivered when he crawled into bed.
With the flatmate, the voice told him with mock innocence.
Whatever, he thought, and pulled up the blanket.
By the time they passed Thunder Bay, Ontario, John was getting tired of driving. Tired of the car, tired of traveling. Which somehow didn't quite translate to "ready to go home" quite yet, but which made him feel antsy, what his mum would have called "a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."
So he surrendered the wheel with a sense of relief, and tried not to think about anything at all.
"Tired of Canada?" Sherlock was smiling, like he'd been waiting to drive and was thankful John finally gave in.
"Don't know. You?"
"Yes."
John frowned. "How long can you be gone?"
"Twenty minutes?" Sherlock laughed, sounding so ridiculously young and, well, human, John couldn't help grinning, too. "Lestrade's got things in hand. I think he's enjoying holding the reins and having more control over the crime scenes."
John laughed lightly.
Sherlock glanced at a semi passing them at full blast. "What do you want to do?" he asked, facing forward again. "Any ideas?"
John slumped back in his seat. "Not really," he answer honestly. "Let's go back."
He could feel Sherlock's sharp gaze on him. "You sure?"
"No. But what else would we go? Calgary?"
"Wherever you say."
"Ever been to British Columbia?"
Sherlock gave him another sharp look. "You do realize that's a hell of a long way from here."
John nodded. "Look, you know, I could drop you off at the airport. You could catch a flight home. I'll be okay."
"You sure?"
John drew a breath to reply, and Sherlock continued, "Because I think you're better, John, but I'm not going to ditch you and find out you disappeared again. That's - No."
"I won't disappear."
"No, because you'll be with me."
"Sherlock-"
"I only take a personal holiday once every five years." Sherlock interrupted. "This is my holiday, you know."
"God, I hope not."
"Why not? Road trip, see some serious country, good company - what's not to like?"
"Oh, let me count the ways," John replied dryly.
"Don't worry about it, okay? Just relax."
Riiight. He'd been sort of relaxed, but now his nerves were jittering like cold water on a hot skillet. Great work, John. Not only have you fucked up your own job, but now you're cutting into Sherlock's, too.
"I sense you continuing to worry."
"What kind of strings did you have to pull to do this?" John asked tightly, feeling his jaw start to ache. "Don't tell me you didn't, because I know what kind of a place London and the Yard is... Not to mention Mycroft always needing your help. There's no way you could just disappear and people don't notice."
"Funny, that's exactly what I thought when you did it," Sherlock shot back.
"Place isn't going to fall apart because I'm not there. I'm a cog in the wheel. You're the wheel, Sherlock. You they'll miss."
Sherlock's knuckles looked a little tight on the steering wheel. "Let me tell you a story, John. No, don't talk," he added when John drew a frustrated breath. "Just listen. Once upon a time there was this man. Good at his job, well-liked and respected by his flatmate and colleagues. A nice man.
"A long time ago something very bad happened to our man. But lately something triggered in his mind a moment of past events. Something no one could have predicted, and no one could have prevented. And it hurt him a lot. And finally it got so bad that he took some time off."
"Sher -"
"Shut up. Now this man's friends and family were pretty worried about him. They understood what was going on, or at least they were fairly sure they mostly did, but they couldn't help worrying. After all, he was important to them. They noticed when he was gone. Like the hole where a tooth has been, the way your tongue keeps looking around for something that's not there anymore.
"So one day his flatmate sat around a table and thought about what he should do. Because, you see, he had to do something. And he thought about it, and thought about it some more and he didn't know what to do. But then his flatmate had an idea." Sherlock glanced over at John, his eyes thunderously dark. "That's the key, John. The moral to this little story. Your flatmate had an idea and agreed you are important. Very important.. This was the right thing to do."
"So stop worrying, all right? They would miss you John. I'd...I... Well, I don't want to sit around and do nothing while you're in trouble. I can't do that. Do you understand?"
His chest hurt so bad, he thought maybe he was having some kind of heart attack. "Yeah," John wheezed without strength. "I - I got it."
"Good." Sherlock looked at him again, and some of the fierce emotion cooled a little. "So, are we staying in Canada or not? Did we decide that?"
John smiled a tiny bit. "Not really. How far to London from here?"
"Home it is."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." He could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice.
"You talk to Lestrade today?"
Sherlock spat out toothpaste and shook his head. "He'll call if he wants. He's got the number."
"We'll be back by Sunday. Maybe you should call him." John shrugged out of his shirt.
"Tomorrow, maybe."
John nodded, and tried to sidle out of the way as Sherlock left the bathroom.
It didn't work, and later he thought that that was pretty much the moment the slippery slope became less of a stumble and more of a freefall.
Sherlock's hand came out, just an automatic touch, but his hand on John's bare waist was like a caress from a cattle prod. John gasped, stiffening, and Sherlock's touch tightened with quick concern. Thereby compounding the issue.
"You okay? What? What's wrong?"
It felt as if his entire blood supply had cleanly divided in half. Half went to his face, the biggest fucking blush he could ever remember experiencing. And the other half went immediately and most embarrassingly straight to his dick.
"N - Nothing," John mumbled frantically. "S'okay." He stepped back, trying to do - something, not sure what, either break Sherlock's dangerous touch or else maybe, what, he had no idea.
"It's okay."
"No, it's not," John whispered urgently. "It's really not."
He almost felt it when Sherlock finally got the message. Hopefully it was because of their proximity, and not because of the spectacular boner John was now sporting. "Oh. John -"
"I need to grab a shower." He tried getting around again, only this time Sherlock blocked him on purpose.
"What is it? Tell me."
"NO."
"You -"
"I CAN'T!" John cried miserably, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Look at me. Do it, John, look at me."
Hot, absurd tears burned his eyes. He flickered a glance up and oh CHRIST, Sherlock's face was just too fucking close, it wasn't SAFE, didn't he get that? What did it take, a neon sign? "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."
Then Sherlock reached out and pulled him close, and oh BOY if he hadn't figured out John's problem with Mr. Chubby by now this had pretty much given it away. But some rebellious part of him - probably the part controlling his dick right now - was overjoyed, so relieved it made him wordless, so intent it sent his own arms sliding around Sherlock's waist before his rational mind had a second to veto the action.
"John." Sherlock's voice sounded odd. Deeper, maybe. "It's okay. It's really okay."
It's not okay, his rational mind informed him coldly. It's most definitely not not not-okay.
Fuck that, his non-rational dick said, just before it sent him leaning forward, yearning with every cell in his body for something that he had no right to want. I'm in control here, not you, so fuck off.
The thing that shocked him then, the only thing that evidently had the power to break the spell of the non-rational, happened just after his lips touched Sherlock's. Because it felt so good he wanted to cry, but look here, Sherlock's got a woody to match John's, and seems to be enjoying this - say it, this KISS - every bit as much as John is.
Which was the thing that suddenly made the rational take over, and had him pulling away with a broken, "No."
"I'm sorry," John said from the other side of the room. Again.
He didn't have the nerve to look at Sherlock - again - and once again, Sherlock just said, "Don't be sorry."
Well, this was a pretty picture, now, wasn't it? The Shorter Man, standing by the door in case he decides to bolt because holy SHIT, he realizes this could actually happen instead of being some kind of fucking perverted wet dream. And the Taller Man, wise beyond his years, sitting Yoda-like on the bed, cryptic smile firmly in place. You know those young guys. Nervy things, can't scare 'em off. Isn't that right, Sherlock?
"Look, would you just sit down? You're making this into a very big deal, John."
Oho, the wise man speaks. John stopped pacing and stared at him, stung. But when he tried to speak, nothing useful come out. It IS a big deal. Is it? Evidently not. So ignore it and it'll go away? That was how he'd learned to deal, himself. Maybe Sherlock had, too.
Or maybe Sherlock really didn't think anything had happened, but that was impossible, right? Because something had.
Was Sherlock really that out of touch?
The man in question patted the bed. "Come on. Sit down."
John edged over and sat about as far away as he could without falling on the floor. When Sherlock didn't say anything else, John swallowed hard. "Okay, I'm sitting down now. Happy?"
"Not particularly."
John nodded woodenly, staring at the bedspread on the opposite bed. "I didn't - mean for that to happen. I think maybe I am kinda crazy right now."
"Understandably."
"I don't - I don't usually -"
"I don't care."
John gave him a startled look, and Sherlock sighed. "Who was it? Elvis Costello? Said, 'Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.'"
"I, uh. What?"
"I don't care what you 'usually'. All right?"
"Huh? I'm still - Elvis Costello?"
"Never mind. Come here?"
Sherlock's arm around him felt so good, so right. John froze in place.
"Everything's okay, John." Sherlock sighed, pulling John against him. "If anything I said - before - made you feel as if this was your fault, I'm sorry."
"Okay."
"It wasn't just your idea, you know. I wanted to kiss you, too."
John clenched his eyes shut.
"If you don't want that, it's okay. I just want you to know that there's nothing wrong with it. That's all."
But there is, John thought desperately. Oh, there is.
"Talk to me, John, okay?" Sherlock sounded a little strained now. "I don't have ESP. Despite what others might say."
"I don't - know what to say."
"Want me to stop?"
John sighed inside the circle of Sherlock's arm. Let go? No, he didn't want that. He shook his head.
"Come on. You're tired. Let's get some sleep."
He let Sherlock draw him down on the bed, not the same position as before. Before it had been John who clung to Sherlock. Now it was Sherlock who spooned up behind him, one arm looped around John's waist, hand flat on John's belly.
The panic was still circling, sniffing around, looking for a toehold. And his mind busily informed him, once again, of how this looked. You could sugarcoat it before, Johnny, you can sugarcoat it now, but what you KNOW is that you really don't want to go to sleep, do you?
With the same feeling as before - Oh God, he was freefalling - John rolled over, coming face to face with Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were soft in the dimness, but impossible to read. And it was all too easy to let go of his fear, let it dissipate in the warmth of Sherlock's body next to his own, and push himself over to meet his ready mouth.
The joy was still there, a kind of incredulous WOW, but this time there was also relief, the feeling a dying man might have when he hit the morphine button yet again. It might not fix things, not forever, but it felt so damn good.
John made a soft sound deep in his throat, letting Sherlock pull him closer until their bodies lined up. The most thorough kiss John had ever known, the first time he could remember ever being the complete focus of Sherlock's fearsome attention. He felt a little like one of Sherlock's treasured experiments, only he wasn't trapped in a petrie dish. Just their bodies, connected at the mouth, hands, arms, legs. Groin.
Oh yeah.
Tears stinging tiresomely behind his eyes, John broke the neverending kiss and gasped for air. And then gasped again when Sherlock simply changed that terrible focus, kissing beneath John's jaw, to his throat, up to an ear and then to the vulnerable place where his jaw ended, a place other people had kissed, sure other women, you mean but never like this, never with this kind of singleminded enjoyment.
"God," John gasped without thinking, and flopped over on his back, bringing Sherlock down on top of him.
Sherlock smiled an inch from his face, and bent to kiss his mouth again.
He woke up early, not even dawn yet if the dark behind the curtains was any clue. For a second he had no idea where he was. There was absolutely nothing familiar in this room. No sounds, no outlines of furniture he could identify. Just dark, and a rising feeling of indescribable panic.
Someone sighed next to him, and John rolled away with a wrenching gasp, coming to rest on his knees at the edge of the bed.
Evidence, Johnny boy. Let's see. You have no clothes on. From the looks of it neither does Sherlock.
Remember now?
You fucking queer.
With a wounded sound John pushed himself back, but there was no more bed. Just a wall, the feel of his head thumping against sheetrock, and bedclothes tangled around one of his feet.
"John?" Sherlock said slightly groggy, sitting up. "You okay?"
He fought the sheet until he could get untangled, and then scrabbled to his feet.
Inside the bathroom he closed and locked the door, hands shaking so badly even the thumb latch was a challenge. The bright fluorescent bulbs were absolutely unforgiving. John glanced at his nude body in the mirror
My, my, don't you have that well-fucked look, my friend, that post-coital glow, should we say, FAG ...and recoiled, averting his eyes and going over to turn on the shower.
"John?"
Shit.
"Are you okay? What's wrong?"
Jesus, it was hard to breathe. Steam was filling the room, but his throat was closing up, and in the midst of everything else one thought popped into his mind, so sharp and horribly clear that he couldn't even begin to argue.
You're dying. You're gonna die, John.
Allergic reaction, maybe. Allergic to what? No, asthma. Been years since he fought with that, but he remembered now, that awful struggle to get air OUT, never mind in.
DYING. Call 999. Someone has to help me, please, HELP, help me.
He leaned against the sink and opened the door, revealing Sherlock's worried face.
"John!"
Good, Sherlock would know what to do. He let Sherlock catch him, free now to be as terrified as his body demanded, because at least someone KNEW, someone could help him when he
DIED
"Breathe, John." Distant, cool words, but why wasn't Sherlock getting off his ass and calling the fucking CAVALRY? His chest hurt, maybe this was a fucking heart attack, a bit too young and nothing wrong but there WAS something wrong, he was DYING, couldn't Sherlock see that?
"It's a panic attack, John," came Sherlock's awful, reassuring voice. "Come on. Relax. Let go."
"Can't - breathe."
"Yes, you can. I promise. Just ride it out. It's going to be okay."
He pulled against Sherlock's hold but it didn't work. And he could breathe, after all, but with that realization came the shakes, huge terrible trembling that made him feel weak as a day-old pup.
Sherlock's arms were strong around him, soothing voice still going. "It's okay, John, you're fine. See? Already better. That's it."
His cheeks felt cold and wet. "What - happened?" he wheezed out.
"Later. Just relax, breathe. You're okay."
"Sherlock."
"I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. Just relax. Close your eyes."
John sobbed once, and let his head sag back against Sherlock's chest.
End Part One