Warnings: Could be seen as Sherlock/John pre-slash or just a very strong bromance.
It's past midnight by the time Sherlock gets the fake blood out of his hair, and almost one when he creeps up the stairs to 221b, brushing his fingers against wallpaper he knows he won't see again for a long time, and hating himself for caring enough to do so. It's just wallpaper. It's just a door. It's just a key turning in a lock, the soft swish of a door opening, a dark flat that smells of distress and dried tears. None of it matters.
John matters.
It has to be now, before the sun comes up. Time moves quickly once you're supposed to be dead, and he can't risk being spotted in London for a long time. It might be years before he comes back. The absence is necessary, but sentiment makes it painful. He'd always known that sentiment would complicate things, and he let himself be sucked into it anyway. John has a way of making the world seem more connected, more valuable. Value breeds sentiment. Simple logic, albeit logic that hurts with a strong, heavy ache.
Sherlock can hear slow breathing as he squints into the dark, picking out odd shapes that lurch at him in the form of half-shadows, lit by the glow of the streetlamp outside. John hasn't drawn the curtains before falling asleep on the sofa, sprawled in a position that will make his shoulder ache in the morning. Sherlock uses the light from the uncovered window to pick his way across the room without tripping. Even with the utmost care it's difficult, because John has been throwing things. His face, as he sleeps, still looks angry, brow furrowed.
Sherlock wastes no time, not because he doesn't want to, but because waiting around will probably get them both killed. As it is, he's taking a chance, risking being seen. But he knows what he needs to do, and he'll do it. He's going away for an indefinite period of time; he doesn't want any part of him he doesn't wholly need getting damaged. And John is…John is…
John has always been an anchor. Sherlock sees the two of them like a string folded over a stick, perfectly balanced by a weight at each end. And now his weight is gone, and he doesn't know what will become of the string. But he doesn't have time to think, much as he might want to – his decision has to be now, and final.
He kneels by the sofa and leans forwards. At first he takes one of John's hands and holds it up to his mouth, but then he considers how easily hands can be damaged, simply on an everyday basis. John isn't a careless man, but he might inadvertently sustain an injury to his fingers or palms, and the thought makes Sherlock shudder. He releases the hand, placing it carefully back onto the sofa, and shifts until his lips are a couple of centimetres from John's neck. People are always very careful about their necks. He can see the pulse quivering in the throat, barely perceptible. That's good; it means John is unlikely to wake.
Sherlock takes a deep breath, feeling it gather at the top of his lungs until he's trembling with lack of air. He resists the urge to shut his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on John's throat, forcing himself to stare without blinking at the creases and shadows on the skin, the trembling second heartbeat of his pulse.
He breathes out. It isn't like the usual release of air after holding breath for a long time; it doesn't make him feel relaxed, or relieved. It hurts, like fish-hooks tugging at his chest, throat, between his eyes, on his fingertips. Not unbearable, but uncomfortable. He breathes out until his cheeks are pale and his eyes watering, heart pounding. Something without colour or smell – it isn't fully tangible, more like a flash of light in the corner of an eye – passes from between his lips and latches to the first thing it finds. John's neck.
Sherlock pulls back, chest heaving. For a second the not-quite-tangible thing hangs in the air, like a memory of an echo, and then it fades. Even Sherlock, who knows it's there, cannot see it. He's not given all of it away, because that would render him worse than useless, but most of it is with John, safe.
He won't be seeing it, or John, for a long time. He's unsure which absence will affect him the most.
John mumbles something in sleep and shifts on the sofa, bringing the hand Sherlock had abandoned a few minutes ago up to his throat and rubbing it. His brow furrows further, the lines like valleys in the shadow of the streetlamp, and then he relaxes again. Sherlock gets silently to his feet, feeling like he does when hasn't eaten in days; like he's not where he's supposed to be. That he isn't real.
Even when he leaves without looking back, locking the door with a click behind him, and puts his fingers to the jumping and kicking pulse in his wrist, he still feels like a ghost. He's drained and aching, but it's safe. It won't protect his body, but it will preserve his mind, allowing rational thought, allowing everything else to be pushed aside. He needs to focus on doing a job, and nothing else. Already he can feel his emotions dimming. They aren't gone, but he finds he can ignore them easily.
Since John had first limped into his life, he hasn't found it this easy.
He doesn't think he's ever been so cold, bone-cold even though he's still indoors. Advantages, disadvantages; Sherlock has already weighed them up carefully on mental scales, and he's made his decision. He can cope with the cold and the dizzy, lost sensation in the pit of his stomach. He can do it to keep John, and it, safe.
He can't look back at the flat as he makes his way into the street, because he knows he won't be able to leave if he does.
The first thing John thinks when he wakes is 'my shoulder hurts'. The second is 'Sherlock is dead', and that clears the pain right up, ripping away the physical soreness in his back and neck and replacing it with an agony in his chest, a tugging throb that makes his head hurt. He doesn't like the exchange; a stiff neck is uncomfortable, but the pain squeezing at his heart – somewhere in the right ventricle, perhaps – is so crushing it takes him half an hour to muster the energy to sit up.
His neck feels more than just stiff. At a guess, he'd say he's coming down with a sore throat, only it doesn't feel quite the same. If a sore throat could be outside, radiating onto the bare skin, he'd blame it on that, but that's impossible, so he ignores it and concentrates on forcing himself off the sofa instead.
He makes two cups of tea, one with sugar and one without, and then realises, with an uncomfortable twist of his guts, that no-one is coming to drink the second one.
Sherlock is five years old, sitting on the lawn in the bright sunshine with his hands cupped in front of his face, eyes wide. His knees are scraped and dirty, as always. Mummy hates it, but he doesn't care. It's summer. Summer is a time for exploration, and he can't explore without getting muddy.
A minute or two ago he'd fallen and had the breath driven out of him. Now, as he stares at his hands, he feels different. He'd been sure he'd seen something hovering against his palms, but now it's gone, and his head feels light and strange.
A bird flies overhead and casts a shadow on his outstretched hands, and he sees it again, a flash at the corner of his eye. He blinks and looks more closely, but it leaves again before he can understand.
Sherlock hates not understanding, so when he sees Mycroft coming over the lawn towards him, he calls him over with a sharp "Mye!" Mycroft is twelve years old and he knows a lot of things. He will be able to explain.
"What is it?" Mycroft says, crouching down in front of Sherlock and brushing at his knees, trying to get the dirt off them – Mycroft hates dirt almost as much as Mummy does. "What have you got in your hands?"
"I don't know," Sherlock murmurs. His voice seems distant.
"It had better not be another spider. Mummy almost fainted last time you brought one in."
Sherlock shakes his head. "It was here, and now it's not." He squints, cupping his hands in an attempt to see it more clearly, but the sight eludes him. "I fell, and now my chest feels funny. And there's something in my hands, but I can't find it."
Mycroft's face has gone very pale. "Put it back," he says, quietly, the sort of quiet that means he's either worried or angry. A frown creases Sherlock's forehead, and he swallows.
"But I don't know where it came from, so how can I put it back?" He looks at Mycroft earnestly. "What is it?"
"I'll tell you later," Mycroft murmurs, glancing back at the house. "Just put your hands up to your mouth, and take a deep breath. Concentrate."
Sherlock obeys, even though he doesn't like it when Mycroft won't tell him things. Usually he says he's too young. Sherlock doesn't think he's young; he's five years old, and he can do anything he wants. But Mycroft looks so pale and worried that he brings his hands up to his lips and takes a deep breath, the kind he takes before putting his head under the bathwater so he can be a shipwrecked pirate.
The strange aching in his chest lifts as he breathes in, feeling his lungs inflate. There's a rushing sound in his ears which reminds him of the noises found inside a seashell, and then the birds seem louder again, and he blinks.
Mycroft is sitting on the grass, even though it's muddy and he'll be getting his trousers dirty, so Sherlock knows he must still be worried.
"Mye?" he asks, putting his hands down. They feel lighter, less precious, than they had a few seconds ago, as if he's just put down something glass and expensive. "What is it?"
Mycroft shakes his head. "Later."
Sherlock pouts. "What if mummy says you can tell me now?"
Mycroft goes paler. "No," he says. "No, you can't tell mummy. Do you understand?"
Sherlock is perplexed; Mycroft has never asked him to keep a secret from mummy before. He tells her everything, even when Sherlock doesn't want him to tell her about the frogspawn in the bath, or the fact he'd burned another hole in the rug.
"Why?"
"Trust me." Mycroft puts a hand on Sherlock's knee for a second, squeezing tightly. "Please."
Sherlock hesitates, looking at his brother for a very long time, hands pressed against each other and the confused, inquisitive frown still resting on his forehead. But, eventually, he nods his agreement.
Normally I wouldn't upload another multi-chaptered fic so soon after the last one, but I really want to get this completed before the new series comes along and re-writes the canon.
Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!
To be continued.
Also, a note to anyone who happened to read Not the King's Men and asked for a sequel - I'm sorry, but I don't think there's going to be one. I simply don't have the capacity to write anything more that would do the story justice. Apologies!