I couldn't hold back a quiet shiver when the door to my flat opened with a creak. I didn't look to see who it was; I already knew.
I was Sherlock. It always was.
He came storming into the kitchen soaking wet, his normally shaggy hair, cut short and dyed deep red. His jeans looked really uncomfortable and his shirt was translucent with water seeping through it. Although his face didn't seem cold, his body was shaking with shivers.
"DAMN IT!" he roared, his face scrunching in anger.
"What happened?" I asked. I already knew what happened. It's what always happened.
He seemed to jolt up straighter at my voice, like he didn't even notice I was there before.
He probably didn't.
He waved his hand a bit.
"Not your problem," he said sternly, anger still evident in his words.
This happens almost every night. A few times I just have to follow him - and now I know why he's so furious.
He'd follow John.
John, since the fall, had just... broken.
I see him from time to time, but Sherlock... Sherlock watches him from the shadows, just beyond sight. John will never see him, and that's what hurts Sherlock the most.
He tells me he wants to keep John safe for as long as he can, but along with his logic, that means never going back to him.
Does he really want to live like this for the rest of his life? No, not even life. Existence. Without John, he's just... not the same.
And it hurts me.
"Take it out on me." I say quietly, wondering how Sherlock will take it. And how far Sherlock will take it.
"What?" he asked sharply, grabbing for a towel that was on the table.
"Take it out on me if it hurts you this much. If it helps at all, take it out on me." I said softly, standing up from my chair and forgetting about the paper I was just reading.
Sherlock dropped the towel, his eyes rekindling the flame of pure rage. He stalked over to me, his monstrous frame towering over me when he got to me.
I cocked my head back and stared him straight in the eye.
He faltered for a bit, and I closed my eyes, expecting a hard fist in multiple places at once.
I heard a loud crash and Sherlock stomping away.
I opened my eyes cautiously, scanning for damage. The bowl I had just finished eating dinner out of was broken on the floor, a small dent in the wall. Sherlock was pounding out of the door by the time I'd gotten to the living room.
~:.~:.~:.+.:~.:~.:~
The next morning, I ran into John at the coffee shop. I was behind him in line.
"Oh , hi John!" I smiled as brightly as I could, trying to push away all the voices in my head telling me to say 'Sherlock's alive, he lives with me - he misses you so much.'
"Molly," John nodded to me politely, his eyes dull and lifeless.
"How have you been?" I ask lightly, trying like I always do to make the light appear in John's eyes again. We shuffled forward as another person got their order. Three more to go.
"The same." He glanced at the floor awkwardly. "You." There was no question, no emotion. Just a word, spoken because it was polite.
"Oh, I'm doing okay, I guess! There a newbie at the morgue and I'm breakin' her in, you know!" I giggled, trying to ease the uneasiness.
When John only nodded absently, I went on.
"Her name's Annabeth. She's a doll, and - guess what? She's from Texas! She's really funny and adorable, and a hard worker. I think she'll be a good mortician one day!" Two more to go. "We really like a lot of the same things, truly! She's an absolute joy to work with!"
There was a quick silence in between John and I. A complete silence, where everything could be heard - but what we truly wanted to hear.
One more to go.
"John..." I started, almost giving in to the need to run away right now. "John, how are you really?"
And John was at the cashier.
"Your order please?" the tall redhead asked cheerily, oblivious to our awkward heart-to-heart.
John's head snapped up and looked me in the eye, a defiant flame there. Just like Sherlock's eyes...
"He's gone now, Molly. I know he is. And now I feel like myself. Like how I felt before I met him. Cold. Alone. Hollow. I wouldn't notice a difference, but I had that difference with... him. Now I notice it more every day. I'm alone, and I want him back. But he's not coming back, because, guess what? He's dead." He spun back around to the cashier, whose face had dropped considerably since he started paying attention to our conversation. "It was childish to hope he wasn't. Coffee, black, two sugars, please." He turned back to me as the young man behind the counter started frantically throwing together a coffee. "Now there's only little things that I use to remember him by." The coffee was dropped on the counter, and John picked it up, putting down three pounds. "Like his coffee. Afternoon, Molly."
He swiftly walked out, his rage radiating from him as he flung open the door.
This is what I do this for.
I try to bring John back to life a little bit every time I see him.
I walked out of the coffee shop with my order of a milkshake and Sherlock's order of black, two sugars, just like always. I locked eyes with Sherlock, who was across the street in a darkened alleyway.
I subtly scurried over to the alley, rushing up to Sherlock and pulling my drink closer to my chest as I handed him his.
Sherlock was smiling faintly, like a proud parent who sees his child doing something small, but good.
"That's part of the John I knew," he whispered to himself. He turned his attention back to me. "What did you say to get him so worked up?" he chuckled, and I smiled broadly. I finally got Sherlock to chuckle.
"I just asked him how he was - how he 'really' was," I told Sherlock softly, awaiting his reaction.
He laughed aloud.
"That would get John going!" his face fell soon after our little moment though. "Molly..." inside his voice was sorrow I couldn't even believe could possibly exist.
It was sounded like a little hell.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"It's my fault John is this way, isn't it?"
"NO." I said firmly. "Sherlock, don't you remember? It was my idea. My idea to jump! Not yours. Not your fault, Sherlock."
His face softened, but only a bit. He faded back into the shadows, and I walked on like I didn't just have a meeting with a man who's supposed to be dead.
You know, sometimes I wonder what would've happened if Sherlock and I fell in love.
But, as Sherlock broke down and confessed about a week into hiding, he's completely in love with John.
XXX~~+~~XXX
I don't know why I do this. Why I worry. Sherlock doesn't care. But for some reason, I do worry about him. I follow him when he's in one of his moods. I have to watch him like a hawk when this happens.
When he follows John to the dates his sister sets him up on.
Harry means well, but sometimes alcohol, blind dates, and only partially consensual sex against a wall don't heal a broken heart.
Those are the nights when Sherlock nearly loses his cover as he comes close to killing the men who hurt John, and took him hard, fast, and without permission, against walls, stairs, chairs, tables. Until the bruises and bitemarks on John were almost visible underneath his jumpers and long-sleeved shirts.
Those are the nights Sherlock comes back to my flat furious, with small cuts on his knuckles where he beat the fuck out of John's "rapists" as Sherlock calls them.
I stood a few paces behind Sherlock, whose face was pressed against the door, trying to hear the moans and groans better behind the door to John's new flat. Sherlock had been so absorbed in John, stumbling into his flat with a taller, stronger-looking younger man, that he didn't even notice or care about me walking almost directly behind him.
And now I watched Sherlock's body stiffen as the moans became louder and almost immediately loud and fast slams reverberated off the walls. John's moans became shouts of displeasure as a high noise shrieked through the air.
"STOP stop, stop, please stop!" John's voice screamed, echoing through the door. He was being whipped as well as fucked.
I squeezed my eyes as tight as they could go, trying to shut out John's pained screams and pleas, and especially that sound of the whip hitting bare skin.
"JOHN!" I heard Sherlock shout, and I unscrewed my eyes, watching in horror as Sherlock burst through the door.
And then the view of John was right through the door.
He was bent over a desk, the younger man pounding inside of him so fast his hips blurred. A riding crop was in the hand that wasn't holding onto John's hip, and every couple seconds, he'd hit John across the back and sides with it. John's face was pain-stricken, eyes squeezed tightly closed, tears streaming down his face, and his mouth was open in a scream that couldn't quite make it to his lips.
Sherlock ripped the tall man out of John, shoving him onto the floor and grabbing the riding crop from his hand as he fell. I was already running from my hiding spot in the shadows and into the flat. Sherlock kicked the man roughly in the stomach, making him cough up blood as he hit him hard across his face with the riding crop.
I rushed up behind Sherlock, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him away from the man.
"John needs you," I whispered in his ear, and he dropped the riding crop with one last I-will-kill-you glare to the man.
He was immediately beside John, one hand on John's shoulder, the other calmly trying to soothe John by rubbing his bare spine.
From what I could see of John's torso, his skin was red and some places were bleeding from the blows.
"John," Sherlock said quietly as he pulled John off the desk and into his arms. John's jeans, which were tight around his ankles, rendered him immobile. Not like he'd move from Sherlock's embrace if he had the ability to. "John, speak to me, please." John remained silent.
I bent over the man who had caused this, and quickly checked his wounds.
No permanent damage.
I pulled him to his feet by the collar of his shirt, which was hanging loosely off his shoulders. As soon as he was up and looked like he could walk without falling down, I slapped him as hard as I could across the face, pulling at the damaged skin with my nails, making his face bleed.
"Get out of here before we kill you for hurting our John," I ordered, pushing him out the open door, his pants still around his thighs. He pulled them up as I threw the riding crop after his disappearing shape.
When I turned back to John and Sherlock, Sherlock had picked John sitting like a child on the desk as Sherlock dressed him again. He pulled John's jeans up his legs, zipping and buttoning them before adding a button-up shirt over John's sensitive back. John winced every time the fabric rubbed against his injuries.
"We have to get him back to 221b. Now." Sherlock commanded, finishing the outfit by pulling John's favorite cable-knit sweater over his head and softening out the wrinkles with his long fingers.
After Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's, I bought 221b Baker Street from John - just to keep it safe when Sherlock came back. I kept the flat in perfect condition, not moving anything but food and body parts.
John was still in very much pain, that was evident by the look on his face. Sherlock kept his hands on John, making sure he knew that he was here and now everything was going to be alright.
I walked forward, putting my hand on John's shoulder, leaning down so my face was level with his.
"Can you walk?" I asked him, inspecting his face.
His lips were bruised, probably from a lust-filled kiss. Apart from the tear stains, he looked almost okay.
Trying to answer my question, Sherlock lightly pulled John off the desk and onto his feet. Sherlock loosened his grip on John and released his hands, so they were floating just above John's skin. John's legs immediately gave out.
Sherlock caught him right away and pulled him tight into his chest.
"I can carry him." Sherlock announced softly as he reached down behind John's knees, picking him up completely in his arms and cradling him. John's face then hid itself in Sherlock's neck.
"Do we need anything else from here?" I asked, not really wanting to come back here for a while. Not after what I knew happened here so many times.
"No." Sherlock replied instantly. "What we need is John back at Baker Street, where we can take care of him." He ran outside, John's groans of pain fueling his energy.
I ran as fast as I could, trying to keep up as Sherlock ran faster and faster and more people created a larger berth around us. They stared at us, at Sherlock carrying a small man, and me chasing him as fast as I could.
Soon we were there - Baker Street.
It was the middle of the night, and Mrs. Hudson was definitely asleep. I had the key with me in my wallet, so we just walked in the old flat.
Sherlock didn't even glance around his old home. He just bypassed everything to get to his old bedroom. I followed him in quietly, and he set John down delicately on the bed.
He slid off John's jumper and shirt before reaching into his drawer for something. His calm demeanor broke for a moment when he saw long bloodstains on the white button-down John has just been wearing. He pulled himself together and pulled out a tube of something, coaxing John to roll onto his stomach. John complied, his face emotionless and detached.
Sherlock squirted a bit of the stuff from the tube into his hand before spreading it over John's back. The pain and tension in John's muscled back loosened gradually as Sherlock started massaging the cream into John's red and bleeding skin.
Sherlock reached back into the drawer absentmindedly, pulling out some bandages. He began wrapping John's back entirely in the dressing, and when he was done, he picked John back up in his arms.
"You'll be alright." Sherlock soothed as I got the blanket from the chair across the room and brought it over to them. Sherlock wrapped John in a little cocoon, pulling John closer to himself.
"Okay, well, I have to go, bye guys," I say, grabbing my purse from the nightstand and walking out the door.
As I opened the front door getting ready to go back to my flat, I heard Sherlock correct himself.
"We'll be alright."