I liiiiiiiiive! I have returned from my rather long hiatus and I am back with something that I hope you will all enjoy. I actually came up with this right after watching 'The Sign of Three' and I hope this is easier to read than my usual stuff (format wise). If any of the dialogue seems off, I do apologize and please do let me know. Enjoy, lovelies.
Sherlock got home from the wedding and went up the stairs and into the flat with a forced calm. He took off his coat and scarf and began slowly pacing the living room, his entire body tense with the effort of maintaining stability. He ruffled his hair in agitation and struggled almost desperately to clear his mind and rid himself of the horrible aching and stinging he felt in his heart. He took deep, shaky breaths and closed his eyes while still pacing and ran through his mind palace until he got to his library. He went in and slammed the door behind him, relishing the silence and stillness of his library.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked in concern, suddenly standing right beside him.
Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sent a chair flying in rage. Why couldn't he stop thinking about John? Why did any thought of John make him hurt? Why couldn't he stop feeling? He'd always been able to shut out his emotions, so why couldn't he do it now? His head hurt, his stomach hurt, his chest hurt, and he couldn't think clearly. He just wanted it to stop!
With a cry of frustration, Sherlock overturned the table with a loud crash and half-collapsed on the ground, rocking back and forth with his forearms clamped on either side of his head, his fingers clenching his hair, entire body tensed. He clenched his eyes shut and ran through his mind palace, frantically searching for something—anything—to help him not feel. But every door he opened, every corner he turned, there was John and Mary, in their wedding outfits, happily kissing.
Sherlock dimly registered a pathetically sentimental keening sound and when he realised that it was him, he shot up and tore a bookshelf down, hating himself for his own weakness. He went up to a wall and leaned against it, banging his fist until his hand was throbbing and he was pretty sure that something was broken. With dismay, he felt a wetness on his face and realised that he was crying.
"I told you not to get involved, Sherlock," Mycroft said in his mind, looking at Sherlock with arrogant disdain.
Sherlock was suddenly in his courtroom looking up at Mycroft, tears running down his face, pain everywhere.
"What do I do?" he demanded helplessly. "Tell me what to do."
"Why should I help you?" Mycroft asked, apathetic towards his little brother's pain. "You got yourself into this, brother dear, you can get yourself out."
"But I don't know how!" Sherlock yelled exasperatedly.
"That's because you're stupid," Mycroft spat scornfully. "You're stupid and weak. You've always been so weak and sentimental."
"Shut up, shut up, just shut up." Sherlock clutched at his head, his jaw clenched in emotional agony.
"You're weak, Sherlock. Stupid and weak. John doesn't need you and it's appallingly sentimental that you think he does. Do you want to know the truth, brother dear? You're nothing. The only way you can truly live is by getting high. You're a pathetic waste of space and Mummy and Father would rather you stay dead so they wouldn't have to deal with you."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Sherlock had wandered into the kitchen and he took an empty glass beaker and threw it into the living room, where it shattered on the floor.
Through a veil of dreaded tears, Sherlock proceeded to practically tear the flat apart, desperately searching for cigarettes, heroin, anything to stop him feeling. When he found nothing, he considered heading to the drug den, but he knew that he needed something now. He searched the bathroom and found only standard, harmless medication, all the Vicodin, Lortab, and Percocet confiscated by John.
He furiously slammed the cabinet shut and hurried to the kitchen, wildly looking through all the chemicals on the table for anything that would get rid of his feelings, anything to make him numb.
"Nothing, nothing, nothing!" he cried, hurling test tubes onto the floor and whirling around, his eyes suddenly alighting on a knife, a large, sharp knife that Mrs Hudson had cleaned last night and left on the counter.
He'd never considered that form of self-mutilation before, but there was nothing else. No drugs, no cigarettes, nothing else to make it stop. John's face flashed in his mind and slashed at his mind and heart, tearing apart any sanity he might've possessed. He grabbed at his hair and stood shaking for a moment, paralysed by pain.
When he was able to move again, Sherlock lunged for the knife and dug it in a horizontal cut across his forearm. The instant his skin was torn, all of the pain and despicable emotion left his body with his thick, red blood. The pain of the cut had the same effect as heroin; glorious calm and silence flooding through his veins and quieting his wildly racing mind, finally making him numb, blessedly numb.
He sighed in relief and added two more cuts before practically collapsing into one of the chairs, his damaged arm on the table in front of him. He watched drowsily as the blood began running down onto the table, darkening the wood and slowly making a little pool. He didn't know how long he drifted in and out of awareness, but by the time he fully returned from his mind, the blood on his arm and the table had dried and become flaky. He looked over and saw that it was two a.m. He got up and slowly washed and dressed his wounds, knowing that he needed to go somewhere. But where? America was far away, but the people were much too ignorant and barbaric. Italy, perhaps. Not as far away, but at least he liked it there.
Sherlock practically sleepwalked through packing his suitcase and putting his scarf and coat back on before leaving, apathetic towards the fact that the flat looked like a war zone.
"Tell me what happened," Mycroft said the next day, surveying the ruined flat.
"Well," Mrs Hudson said fearfully, standing in the door way next to the elder Holmes. "The wedding party ended at about eleven, so I was home around eleven thirty and Molly had mentioned that Sherlock had left early, so I was worried about him. I thought he might be tired, but he hadn't seemed tired. And really, who leaves a wedding early? I had this friend once—"
"If you could stay on topic, Mrs Hudson, that would be very helpful," Mycroft interrupted with a slight impatience.
"Oh, right. Well, when I got home, I thought that Sherlock had just gone to bed, so I didn't bother checking on him. And this morning, when I was coming up to bring him his morning tea like I always do, I found it like this." She gestured with a nervous little wave of her hand to the room.
"And you heard nothing?" Mycroft asked with a slight edge of anxiety, running his eyes over the falling bookshelf, overturned table, broken glass, and damaged chair.
"No, nothing," Mrs Hudson replied. "You don't think he's…hurt, do you?"
Mycroft's eyes landed on the kitchen table and the bloody knife conveying dark menace. He walked over and ran two fingers over the blood staining the table and picked up the knife to inspect it, the blood light and powdery to the touch.
"Hurt? Yes," he told Mrs Hudson. "Dead? I doubt it."
He walked around for a moment before coming back to find Mrs Hudson carefully picking up the pieces of broken glass.
"Are you sure he seemed completely fine at the wedding?" Mycroft asked, standing over Mrs Hudson.
"Well, he did make quite a long and strange best man speech," she replied, carefully going to drop the glass into the wastebasket. "But he said that it was a crisis that he was dealing with. I'm guessing it was a murder, but I don't know for sure. But he seemed happy and he had part of his speech where he even told John that he loved him and—"
"So, that's it." Mycroft nodded understandingly.
"What's it?" Mrs Hudson asked curiously.
"It appears as if Sherlock was searching for his drugs and, failing to find anything, resorted to self-mutilation. He then sat at the table for hours before packing a bag and departing."
"But he seemed fine," Mrs Hudson protested worriedly, more trying to convince herself than Mycroft.
"He got involved," Mycroft said simply, a thin veil of sadness in his eyes. "I've always told him not to get involved. Emotions cause pain and hold you hostage. The only safe thing in this world is not to feel."
"But why would Sherlock be sad? He was happy at the wedding: congratulating John and Mary and playing his violin."
Mycroft was silent for a moment before saying, "I have a theory about that. I believe that Sherlock had more feelings for John than he cared to admit and he felt that John belonged to him, so he was hurt when John moved out and even more hurt when John got married."
"But that's silly," Mrs Hudson said disbelievingly. "Sherlock doesn't feel that way about people."
"Doesn't he?" Mycroft asked calmly, raising his eyebrows and looking at the landlady. "He nearly killed a man for laying a hand on you. He pretended to kill himself and disappeared for two years so that you, John, and Detective Inspector Lestrade would be safe. And his actions and movements around John clearly indicated that he had claimed the good Dr Watson as his own."
"But what about all he did to help with the wedding?"
"Merely trying to get it over with faster," Mycroft replied distractedly, pulling out his mobile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to call some of my contacts to try and locate Sherlock. You don't have to worry about it."
With that, the elder Holmes departed, leaving Mrs Hudson in the ruined flat.
"Oh," she said worriedly before setting about cleaning what she could.
2 months later
Mycroft's mobile rang and he groaned exasperatedly when he saw 'John Watson' on his caller ID.
"Why hello, John," he greeted with artificial cheer, knowing that the doctor would want to know about Sherlock. "What can I do for you?"
"Where's Sherlock? And don't give me that 'I don't know' crap. There is no way he could be gone for two months without you knowing where he was," John said in worry and panic.
"He's in Italy," Mycroft reported calmly. "Venice, specifically. He's safe, John. I have people in Italy who are discreetly monitoring him."
"So, he just took off without even telling anyone?" John demanded in shock.
"Is that really such a surprise?" Before John could respond, Mycroft continued. "I'll send a car to retrieve you so that we can discuss this in person."
Mycroft cut off any reply of John's by hanging up and phoning his driver.
When John came into Mycroft's office at The Diogenes Club, he could tell that the doctor was thoroughly bothered by Sherlock's disappearance.
"I take it you have questions," Mycroft said, sitting down and pouring drinks for him and John.
"Yeah, just a few," John confirmed in worry and agitation as he sat down and accepted the proffered drink. "Why did Sherlock leave? Why didn't you tell me where he was sooner?"
"I can only guess at his reasons for departure—"
"So guess."
Mycroft was silent for a moment, a bit shocked by the doctor's brash tone, before saying, "I believe he left because of you."
"What do you mean, he left because of me?" John asked in confusion. "What did I do?"
"You got married," Mycroft replied simply, taking a sip of his drink and watching while John stared at him in hurt confusion. "John, Sherlock cares a great deal about you. I would even go so far as to say that he loves you."
"I know, he told me. But what's that got to do with it?"
"John, do you think love is a good thing?"
"Yeah, I think it's a great thing."
"Not for Sherlock, it's not."
"What do you mean?" John asked again.
"Sherlock grew up believing that feelings were weakness and that love would only result in pain."
"Oh, so you're saying that you taught him that having a heart and being human were bad things." The judgmental and aggravated tone in John's voice irritated Mycroft, tempting him to end the conversation right then.
"I did have a certain influence in the way he is now," he admitted. "Though the intention was to protect him from pain and teach him to think logically with his mind and not let sentiment control him."
"Well, you certainly did a bang-up job with that," John mock-praised.
"I'm merely explaining why feeling affection towards you is a bad thing for Sherlock," Mycroft said irritably. "He's not used to feeling things like tenderness and he believes that it's a sign of weakness to feel such things and if you know Sherlock, then you know that he will do anything to not seem weak."
"So, what? He's afraid? But he loves Mrs Hudson and he's okay with expressing that."
"With you it's different."
"Why?"
"John," Mycroft sighed, debating the most effective way of moving forward. "When I say that Sherlock loves you, I don't mean that he loves you in the way that he loves Mrs Hudson."
"Then what do you mean?"
Mycroft hesitated before saying, "John, how do you feel about Mary?"
"I love her," John replied in confusion.
"In what way?"
"Umm, in a husband and wife, couple way?"
"And in what way do you love Sherlock?"
"In a best friend way."
"And do you think he loves you in that same way?" Mycroft asked, finishing his drink.
"Yeah," John replied cautiously.
"Well, he doesn't."
"I don't understand," John said after a moment.
"Sherlock, in his own way, loves you the way that you love Mary."
John was stunned silent for a moment before saying, "Wait, so… So you're saying that… Sherlock is… in love with me?"
"In his own way, yes," Mycroft confirmed easily.
"No, he's not," John protested. "Sherlock… He doesn't feel that way about people. I'm not even sure he's capable of that kind of love."
"Tell me this, John, how many times have you heard Sherlock insult Mrs Hudson or tell her to shut up?"
"Countless times."
"And how many times has he insulted you or told you to shut up?"
John automatically began to reply with the same answer, but stopped himself and really thought about it. Yes, Sherlock had called him an idiot when they'd first met and since then he'd occasionally insult John's mind and sentimentality, but he hadn't actually flat-out insulted John and he'd never told him to shut up.
"Exactly," Mycroft said to John's look of realisation.
"But… But that doesn't… He can't… I'm married. I'm in love with Mary. He has to know that."
"He does," Mycroft replied sadly. "And it breaks his heart. Most of his life, he's believed that being alone was the only good way to live. And then he met you. I believe that when he met you, it was his version of love at first sight."
"Love at first sight?" John repeated sceptically.
"He always has had a tendency towards the dramatic."
"Wait, but it never seemed like he actually valued my being there," John protested. "I mean, he's never needed me."
Mycroft pulled out his mobile, brought something up, and cleared his throat before reading, "'OMG, Sherlocks speech Watson wedding #tears' from Janine. 'Guys, Sherlock Holmes has feelings!' 'For once, Hat Man is causing good tears, not bad' 'I will solve yor mrdr, but it tks John Watson 2 sve yor life #crying'. All of this, John, seems to indicate that Sherlock does, in fact, need you."
John was silent, thinking over everything that Sherlock had said at the wedding and back over the time they'd spent together. He remembered the pain in Sherlock's voice right before he'd jumped off of St. Bart's. He remembered the fear in Sherlock's eyes when Moriarty had strapped a bomb to him and the desperation with which he'd ripped the bomb away from John. He realised that over the time that they'd known each other, Sherlock had become just a little bit softer and a little bit more patient. He remembered the Carl Powers case with the shoes and realised that Sherlock had been giving him a chance to deduce things and figure things out on his own. Sure, the man was an annoying, arrogant prick at times, but John could tell that Sherlock actually did value his presence and his opinion.
"But, he…he never said anything," John protested feebly, still struggling to believe that his best friend was in love with him.
"Do you really think Sherlock would come right out and say 'I love you'?" Mycroft questioned. "The closest thing to affection that he's capable of is expressing possession. In Sherlock's mind, you belong to him. So you can imagine the shock he received when he learned that you had moved out and were planning on marriage."
"S-So…" John licked his lips in nervous confusion. "You're saying… What? That I broke his heart?"
"As much as you could break his heart, yes," Mycroft replied sombrely.
"So, what am I supposed to do, then?" John demanded, his voice rising in irritation. "I'm married. Mary's pregnant. Am I just supposed to leave them? Is that what you want me to do?"
"I want you to go to him," Mycroft replied calmly with a touch of sadness. "Go to him and make sure he knows that you still care about him."
"But I—"
"I don't care what you've done in the past, I want you to go to Sherlock and make sure he knows that you're there for him and that he doesn't have to worry about losing you. Oh, and do keep solving crimes with him until he doesn't want you to anymore."
"Why would he—?" John started in confusion.
"Never mind about that, just do as I say," Mycroft interrupted impatiently.
"Right, but we don't even know when he'll be back."
"His plane arrives tonight at seven thirty," Mycroft informed John. "I suggest you arrive at Baker Street no more than an hour after he returns home."
He gave John a dismissive little wave of his hand and turned his attention back to his phone. John looked at the other man for a moment before getting up and slowly leaving the building.
When John got to Baker Street and went up to the flat, he found Sherlock in his customary position on the sofa, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed to the world.
"Sherlock?" he asked carefully, going to stand beside the detective, not missing the way his bones protruded more than usual and how his right pinkie finger was held a bit away from the rest. "Sherlock?"
Thinking that the detective was in his mind palace, John debated whether or not to rouse him back into awareness. On the one hand, John did need to talk to him, but on the other hand, perhaps Sherlock was finding the answer to an important case.
John reached out and gently placed his fingers on Sherlock's wrist, shocked by the fact that even though the detective was resting and probably had been for some time, his pulse was thread and erratic, his skin pale and cold.
"Sherlock?" John said worriedly, moving his hand to the detective's shoulder and shaking it gently, his other hand on Sherlock's cool face. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"
He was about to slap the man when his eyes flickered open and he blinked in confusion.
"John?" he asked, his eyebrows twitching together. "Are you okay?"
John stared at the detective in shock for a moment before moving away and licking his lips, chuckling darkly.
"John?" Sherlock sat up, looking at his doctor in worry. "John, what's wrong?"
"Ha. Oh, that's a good one," John complimented sarcastically, pacing around the room. "That is a good one. What's wrong? You are, Sherlock!" He stopped his pacing and glared in frustration at the confused detective. "You spend weeks helping Mary and I prepare for the wedding, you help to give us a completely unforgettable wedding, you tell us that Mary's pregnant, and then you disappear for two months! Two months, Sherlock, two bloody months. No note, no good bye, nothing. You just come home early, trash the place, and then take off for bloody Venice and I have to worry myself sick wondering whether or not you're lying dead somewhere. And Mrs Hudson. I was with Mrs Hudson every day assuring her that you were okay when I barely believed it myself! And then, after two months of nightmares of you lying dead, of absolutely no word from anyone, I finally call Mycroft—because before then Mary had been assuring me that you were fine—and I learn that he's known where you were this whole time! One phone call, Sherlock, one. Even just a text to let me know that you were even alive. Is that really too much to ask? Is there something that I don't know about? Something that makes it impossible to send a bloody text message?"
"John, please don't," Sherlock almost begged, his head hung in apparent shame.
"Don't what?" John demanded, hands by his sides.
"Don't be done with me."
John finally registered the pain in Sherlock's voice and all his anger immediately evaporated.
"Sherlock," he said gently, feeling bad for his outburst. He turned a chair around from the table and slowly sat down. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just… Whenever you're gone for a while, I start worrying that something bad happened and you're in trouble and there's no one to help you. And, Sherlock, I would never be done with you."
"No, I'm sorry," Sherlock told John, his voice steady and confident.
"Wait, what?" John asked in confusion while the detective got up and began pacing. "Sherlock, did you—? Did you just ignore everything I just said?"
"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock said simply, stopping and facing the doctor. "I'm sorry for all the times I've insulted you or made you feel inferior, I'm sorry for every time I've caused you anger and/or agitation—"
"Sherlock," John attempted to interrupt.
"I'm sorry for dragging you to our first crime scene, I'm sorry for abandoning you at that same crime scene, I'm sorry for summoning you from the other side of London just so I could borrow your phone, I'm sorry for leaving in the taxi without telling you anything—"
"Sherlock, are you gonna apologise for everything since we met?" John asked curiously.
"Yes."
"Any chance of me talking you out of it?"
"No."
"Well, okay then." John sat back and got comfortable, his eyes respectively on the detective.
"I'm sorry for not helping you with the shopping, I'm sorry for breaking into your laptop—repeatedly—I'm sorry for not letting you into Eddie Van Coon's flat, I'm sorry for every time I've not noticed you were gone and kept talking to you, I'm sorry for not getting Raz to get you out of that court appointment, I'm sorry for driving you so hard on some cases, I'm sorry for intruding on and probably ruining your date with that nurse woman, I'm sorry for letting you and her get kidnapped, I'm sorry for shooting the wall and ridiculing your blog, I'm sorry for leaving body parts in the refrigerator, I'm sorry for being insensitive when Moriarty was strapping bombs to people, I'm sorry for being insensitive in telling Molly that 'Jim from IT' was gay, I'm sorry for letting Moriarty kidnap you and strap a bomb to you, I'm sorry for—"
"Sherlock, Sherlock," John interrupted, standing and putting his hand on the detective's shoulders. "Sherlock, you don't need to apologise for everything, I already forgave you long ago."
"Really?" Sherlock asked sceptically.
"Yes, of course," John assured him emphatically. "That's what friends are for. And it doesn't matter what happens with me and Mary and the baby, you will always be my best friend."
Sherlock smiled shakily, joy and relief in his eyes.
"You're serious," he stated happily with a touch of surprise.
"Of course I'm serious."
Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arms around John, holding the other man closely.
"You're my best friend, John," he murmured as the doctor returned his embrace.
"I know," John replied, smiling happily and contentedly, realising that he was probably the only person in the world with whom Sherlock Holmes had instigated a hug.
Okay, so I know that ending wasn't my best and was more than a little cheesy, but I really wanted to finish this and get it up. I hope you enjoyed it and please feel free to share, comment, question, whatever yearning strikes your fancy. As always, lots of lovies to all my wonderful followers and I will try to get the first chapter of a new thing up as soon as I can.
And if any of you need a therapist (or just anyone to talk to) please message me and I will do what I can.
*Huggles*