Rating: Blanket rating of M for later chapters.
Pairing : Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
I should mention that the time period for this is the nebulous somewhere after Baskerville, though I will keep it spoiler-free. Also it disregards Reichenbach-no moar angst! Rawr!
Nothing belongs to me; characters and universe belong to the BBC production of Sherlock. This is written purely for enjoyment, no infringements on copyright are intended and no profit is being made from this story.
A/N: All tuckered out from too much smut writing. This is just to change the pace a little. :) Please, please, review!
Blue Ruin
"This is not happening."
Sherlock's hands were still affixed to the side of his head, his blanched face still mere inches away, and his bleak black streak of a form still impressed upon him.
"John..." the voice was so low, so soft, that John thought it had emerged from Sherlock's bones instead of his mouth. The splayed fingers hadn't moved, thumbs gentling the hollows of his temples.
A rising bubble of fear and panic, an expanding balloon full of skittering thoughts and scrambled feelings, imploded with a wash of piercing cold, sluicing wave after icy wave down to his very toes.
"Get off."
This was not happening. It was not.
John shoved him away harshly. Suddenly everything was shaking; he held his arms up in front of him, to keep the detective at bay.
Sherlock stepped back, hands dropping swiftly. He didn't move. The whole length of him stood stock still. John thought he probably wasn't even blinking.
"This is not-"John's voice was shredded by high-pitched distress. His eyelids fluttered. He cleared his throat.
"-not happening." He finished. He brought a trembly hand up to swipe over his eyes. His tired, tired eyes.
"John, I-"
"No-"interjected john.
His hand hovered, unsure, fisting and squeezing the tension in the air, like it was palpable.
John mashed the back of his fist to his mouth, trying to withhold words he knew would be hurtful, even now, when he himself was so utterly ripped ragged.
"No, Sherlock." He breathed.
He brought his eyes up to meet Sherlock's for the first time. The angular face was impassive. But his eyes were very sharp, and very bright.
What he saw there, he couldn't deal with. Lust; he could have managed. Confusion; yeah, sure.
He couldn't deal with the enormity of seeing absolutely nothing.
His shock and bewilderment, his rage; it drained from him like tightly clenched sand. John turned.
He walked away.
Sherlock's silence followed him all the way to his room. Sherlock's silence continued past the wee hours of the morning. The night soaking into John's room lay about the pillows in a blue ruin.
Sherlock had miscalculated. He had observed and deduced and deliberated. He had waited. But he had been wrong.
He had been so sure, so certain. He knew now though- what it was that he had missed- it was the unbearable, naked, truth.
He had been blinded. It was galling to think that everything, everything, was now dashed to pieces; because he had been so disastrously wrong. Mycroft had been right, caring was not an advantage.
He assured himself that he wasn't surprised. It had been a risk; he had known what the stakes were; what he stood to lose. But he had made his choice.
It was almost worth it. One moment of true happiness- one instant of pure delusion. Almost. Because now he would have to remunerate; he would pay with no more tea in the mornings. He would pay with no more darting banter. He would pay with all the things that had become home.
He had predicted this outcome. He had expected it, even. He wouldn't stumble over futile what-if's; he wouldn't spare a single thought for vain wishes.
He was Sherlock Holmes- feelings were beneath him.
Nothing had broken. Nothing had burnt. Nothing had touched him.
He wasn't hurt.
He wasn't hurting.
He was fine.
Absolutely fine
It was all fine.
A/N:
So what do you think? Was my angst good enough? Please please please review and tell me what you think! Comments, criticism, anything is welcome!
PS: Keep hope alive for the next chapters!