The Sentiment of Sherlock Holmes
"I know it's probably redundant, or...or something, but I figured I should just-" She fiddled awkwardly with the ring on her finger, careful not to look into John's eyes the wrong way. "How are you, John?" She finally asked, face lifting to John's in a bruised and shy "Molly" kind of way.
At her insistence, they met like this once a month. Or, rather, had been meeting like this once a month since Sherlock-
-since it happened eight months ago.
"I'm fine, Molly. Things are-" He tried to say, clearing his throat and offering her a weak smile where words would definitely fail. "It's all fine."
"It's all fine." He remembered, wincing as the memory flashed quick and unapologetic.
And then a resulting surge of anger pulsed, because none of his words or actions these days seemed to be able to stand on their own without parading their innuendos of Sherlock Holmes whenever the opportunity arose. John felt the napkin in his right hand tearing to shreds under the sedated anger that slept like a beast in a cage, and manifested itself as a tight-lipped, desperate need for his world to be totally and completely stripped of anything that was ever Sherlock Holmes.
These meetings with Molly, good-intentioned as they were, would have been titled "A Study in Patience" if he still wrote the blogs.
"Oh. Right, of course." Molly replied through a breathy non-laugh, and John offered her another stupid smile that did nothing to quell the sand-storm in his brain. "It's all...fine." She replied, re-affirming it back to him.
"It's all fine. It's allllllll fine. You just can't leave well enough alone, can you, Sherlock? Never could. If you were so keen on erasing every thing, absolutely everything, then-" And like so many times before, John felt himself plummeting into the hell-hole of diatribes he would never be able to say at Sherlock.
"John, I'll be honest for a second, so just...well, sometimes I just wonder if you're as-"
"-just take it all with you. I don't want to remember things. I don't want to speak your language and step around your shadows. I don't want you to linger here, Sherlock, so just fucking leave before I-"
"-okay as you say you are. He wouldn't want you to - well, none of us want you to be like this, but he especially wouldn't w-"
"You've left me with a clusterfuck of questions to sort through, and these don't have answers, Sherlock. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I know you were never fair, but this is- no, sod this. Sod this. There's no point to this, so please leave. Just-"
"-which is why I think you should start seeing your therapist again-"
"-you did this on purpose, didn't you? 'A Study in Cruelty', is that what you want me to title the blog post? I don't write those anymore, you prat. I don't do anything anymore. Christ, Sherlock, Christ."
"-and I know what it means to look sad when you...when you think no one can see, but it's-"
"I am sad."
It's a full-stop, and John swears he can hear the coursing flood waters as he breaks one of the rafters of his eternal character. "Rock-Solid" John Watson, concrete and omnipresent and hard as calcium and diamond, is not above admitting where he falls short these days.
Partly because he knows no one would believe him even if he did, but mostly because he isn't John Watson anymore.
He hasn't been for a while, and the monthly visits from Molly and the calls from Lestrade and the inquiries from Mrs. Hudson tell John that every one can tell as well. The texts from Mycroft continue steadily, but John can't tolerate the thought of responding.
"Sorry...what?" Molly asked, cutting her monologue in half, despite having rehearsed it to herself at least five times on the way there. (That was a deduction, and fuck you, Sherlock.)
"I am sad, Molly. And angry. Very, very angry."
"He wouldn't want that, John." She says, and flinches as John slams his fork on the plate.
"HE doesn't get a say anymore." John barks, and instantly recoils as Molly's mouth snaps shut and the people walking past quiet at the outburst. "Christ, Molly. I'm sorry." He offers, anger flaring at the idiocy of such a statement; because Sherlock, even in death, still gets more of a say in John's life than anyone else.
"No, it's quite alright John. I shouldn't be saying these things to you." She explains with a faint veil of frustration under her voice. From where, he doesn't know, but every one is frustrated. And sad. And blind-sided. And trying to navigate through the damage, so he doesn't dwell on it.
He pushes the food around on his plate non-commitally as the conversation dissolves into thin air. Molly is observing him -he hates that word, by the way- but most people are these days, so he doesn't question her theories. He's done with theories, anyway- and deductions, and blog posts, and chemistry and conclusions. He's done with crime scenes and corpses and experiments and purpose. He's done with violins and dressing gowns and gunshots and breathing.
He's done with Sherlock Holmes, he's done with himself, he's done with that life.
He's done.
And he wishes, more than anything, that every one else would allow him to be.
"You're really not okay." Molly's tender accusation replaces the clinking of silverware, and John isn't surprised when she finally holds a heart-breaking eye contact. "...are you."
"No." He runs a hand though his dishwater-blonde hair and glances to the right. "And I doubt I ever will be." He says, sad and resolute, because every one knows. And it's a bit not good, but there are so, so many things that stopped being good the second Sherlock Holmes killed himself.
John being one of them.
She reaches across the table and grabs one of his hands.
"John, he really...you were important to him. More important than anyone, I think. Anything, actually." She explains, though the clumsy insecurity has been replaced by an assertiveness uncharacteristic of Molly. Like she believes what she's saying is absolute fact, but how could she be sure when John isn't sure of anything at all?
"Yeah." John offers flatly, because this is when words become forbidden territory, and he's dangerously close to crumbling into a trillion pieces anyway. He can't do sentiment. Not now, not ever again, not even if it's proven true.
He doesn't want to hear about the sentiment of Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his natural life. As far as he's concerned, everything that he ever solidified as fact between Sherlock and himself will stay suspended in purgatory. Indefinitely.
...and when he thinks too hard about that, he finds himself hunched over the toilet at three in the morning, purging himself of everything that doesn't matter.
"I have to go, Molly. It's been lovely." He says, both rising from their chairs in sync. Molly grabs her jacket and huddles it to her stomach, not failing to look like a wounded animal, and John does feel bad. Really, he does.
"If you need anything, John, just...let me know?" She asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Of course." He leans in and kisses her cheek, and she nods once, knowing that John will never make the mistake of needing anything again.
John glances back towards her and sends her a smile as she waves, small and unsure, after his retreating figure is lost in a technicolor of people. Smile dropping, she pulls out her phone, begins walking in the opposite direction, and sends a single text message to an unknown recipient:
"A bit not good. -Molly"
(One Hour Later)
"I know you are prone to ignoring these, but I really do need to speak with you John. It's quite urgent. -MH"
John briefly glanced at the text message before sliding his phone back on the table. It was all of three minutes before the hateful buzzing resounded through the largely empty flat again.
A new flat. John didn't know how he felt about it, but he did know that he would be content to never step foot on the steps of 221B for as long as he lived. He also knew, secretly, that he would never be able to accept death gracefully until he re-entered that flat once more. Both his and Sherlock's things were still there, serving as caricatures and statues of a time in his life that he wanted to both obliterate and preserve at the same time.
It was a lot of that, these days - never knowing what was sacred and what was truthless, what was befitting of annihilation and what was deserving of a second chance. His thoughts generally stayed at both ends of a spectrum of extremes - a pendulum that swung back and forth between festering bitterness and centrifugal heartbreak, speeding in the middle so that he would never know a head and heart without radicals.
There was no middle-ground anymore.
Regardless, it would be a while before he would go back. Years, if that's what it took. He would have to wait until the atmosphere didn't drip with particles of Sherlock Holmes anymore. If he did go back, he would run his fingers across the ridiculous trinkets that contained the binary codes of who Sherlock was and what he loved - or liked, depending on who you asked. He would take a few minutes and consider his time spent with Sherlock and reflect on what he gained (everything) and what he lost (more than everything)
And then he would cry. And that would be the end of the end of the end, amen.
For now, however, he would only throw gasoline on every thing that Sherlock ever loved, and set fire to it all. And that would be one of the biggest mistakes.
"If you do not respond within the next hour, I'm afraid I will have no choice but to send Anthea to the flat and make a scene. I know how you love drama, John. -MH"
"I dont live at 221b anymore Mycroft -JW"
"Obviously. -MH"
A surge of irritation shot through John at the word Sherlock had condescended him with at least once a day. It was hard enough engaging with other people without Mycroft hitting close to home by utilizing the art of Holmes-ian mannerisms and nuances.
"Is this about Sherlocks things? I told you to take them. -JW"
"No, this is about another matter entirely, one of utmost importance. What time should I send Anthea?-MH"
"Is it about Sherlock? -JW"
"Yes, a matter of which you are intrinsically involved. I do apologize, John, but this particular issue will not conveniently disappear. -MH"
"Will you leave me alone if I agree to this? -JW"
"I can't make any promises, but I will certainly try my hardest. -MH"
"Do what you want. i'll be here. -JW"
"Thank you, John. Sincerely. Be ready by tonight. -MH"
And then John launched the phone, splintering the plastic into shrapnel as it hit the wall with a smack. It clattered to the floor gracelessly, and John sat down and leaned his head back against the opposing wall and closed his eyes.
"How am I supposed to let this go when you are literally everywhere, Sherlock? Why do I have to-" He said to no one, and yet any one- any one who would listen to the crises' that slump against their walls and struggle to make sense of a stupidly senseless life.
Glancing at the fragments of phone across the floor, John leaned forward and snatched a particularly lethal-looking piece. It glinted, and he found himself running it lightly across his knuckles and over the pads of his fingers.
"You were always on the verge of self-destruction. A stretch of time too long, or a lack of adrenaline, stimulation, and you would shoot cocaine like water. Is this how it felt? To not have it?" John asked as he pressed the plastic into his flesh, not bothering to wince as the blood beaded and streamed, because this pain was unbelievably trite when compared with the others.
"I said I would never allow it, Sherlock, but if I had known that this is what it felt like, I would have let you. Christ, I would have let you have it, Sherlock. No one should have to live with this- this kind of-" John whispered desperately as he guided the plastic vertically down his arm, ignoring the popping and ripping sounds as his fingers shook with the pressure.
"This lack of purpose."
Small streams of blood ran in sloppy, un-beautiful trails down the sides of his arm, and he tore the plastic out of his skin when it met the crease in his arm. It speckled a few crimson spatters as he tossed it on the floor, but John felt the adrenaline he so craved coursing at the prospect of this pain - this hazardous foul-play, romantically self-destructive and ill-advised. He had learned early on that pain, in whatever setting, was always an indication that something was indisputably wrong.
And things were so, so wrong. In every way, at every hour of every day.
With a careful dexterity, John carefully placed the palm of his hand at the bottom of his arm and swept upward, smearing the pulsing blood across his arm and hand where it collected in the fine, venous lines of his skin. He swiped his bloodied hand half-heartedly against the floor, watching in fascination as new trails beaded and replaced the old trails - and everything was so malevolently red; red like the Semtex, red like the panic, red like Sherlock's anger- red like the dotted sniper lasers and red like the adrenaline that caught in his throat when he and Sherlock barreled down an alley-way, not knowing if they would live to see any other color but red.
And then it looked red like the blood that poured over Sherlock's ice-blue irises when he hit the concrete, and John felt his stomach roll at the prospect of what he had become, and where he would go from here.
...he knew from a Medical standpoint that self-harm was the first step into a very bad, very final place to be. He also knew, sickeningly, that that shadowed place was really the only place that he could see himself tolerating anymore. Sherlock was there. And that was...
...that was good.
(Three Hours Later)
"John Watson?" Came a muffled feminine voice from outside the door, and John shot upwards as a sequence of knocks followed shortly after.
"Coming." He croaked, blinking furiously to get rid of the sleep that riddled his vision. The clock struck eleven just as he shot upwards and began to pace around the room. Grabbing his jumper, he slid it over himself and hissed in pain as it scraped over the angry incision on his left arm. Glancing backwards, he acknowledged the dry, patchy hand-prints of blood on the floor and quickly kicked the fractured phone pieces under a dresser.
Swiping his keys off the table, he opened the door to find the beautiful and ever-striking Anthea with her face buried in her phone.
"I tried to call, but I was sent straight to voice-mail." She replied a little suspiciously, and a lot boredly.
"Er, yeah, I dropped the phone in the tub. Have to get a new one." John explained, not willing to acknowledge her slightly raised brow as she told John, in subtle ways, how unrealistic that explanation actually was.
"Right. The car is outside." She replied, turning and walking towards the stairs in her fabulously catty heels. John cast on more glance back towards the wall and turned the light off.
"Mycroft is not happy about the phone." She commented emotionlessly as her fingers sped over the keypad.
"It was an accident. Tell him to fuck off." John replied as he slid into the car and shut the door. He turned to fasten the seat-belt when he was met with a glossy phone held in front of his face.
"You tell him. He wishes to communicate with you via this phone." She explained. Sighing, John took the phone and began typing.
"I dropped it in the tub, dont give yourself a hernia. Im on my way. Oh and fuck off. -JW" John typed as the lights of London nightlife sped past the window. He glanced at an unimpressed Anthea and waited for a response from the insatiable Mycroft, assuring himself that this would hopefully be the last conversation he would ever have to hold with Mycroft Holmes.
He glanced at the phone two minutes later when it buzzed on his leg.
"When you arrive, Anthea will escort you to the second floor. She will return to the main floor, and you will proceed into the fourth door at your right. -MH" John read, wondering how serious of a conversation this would be when Mycroft failed to rise to his instigation.
But then again, things weren't how they used to be.
"Fine. Make this quick. -JW" He typed back, and hoped that Mycroft would understand the silent plea in that statement and bestow his mercies accordingly. Even though Mycroft and Sherlock were infinities different from each other, they still spoke and moved with the same condescending elegance and omniscient splendor. They still radiated innuendos of each other, and John didn't want to see it anymore.
Couldn't.
Thirty minutes passed and John found himself numbly walking the steps of Mycroft's home, carefully avoiding the one picture of Sherlock he kept on the wall. He began to feel sick and willed the rolling of his stomach to stand down for just a few more minutes, and then it would be okay. He would never have to stand face-to-face with Sherlock's blood again.
"This is as far as I go." Anthea commented as she and John stood on the top step. "Fourth door to your right, you'll find him in there."
"Thanks Anthea." John commented, taking a deep breath and striding forward. Large family photos plastered the wall, and John found himself surprised at how sentimental Mycroft was apparently willing to allow himself to appear. He briefly caught sight of an older photograph of a raven-haired, blue-eyed boy, and distinctively barreled forward.
"It's all fine." The eight-month-old phantom whispered again.
Approaching the fourth door, John knocked firmly.
"Come in." Came Mycroft's voice, and John strode through.
"It's all fine."
"This better be serious, Mycro-" John started to say, but was rendered utterly speechless as his eyes fell to the tall figure who stood next to Mycroft and peered at him with the most devastatingly blue irises John had ever seen.
"John, please sit down." Mycroft spoke extremely carefully, pulling a chair out. "I told you this was important." And Mycroft was so, so pale that John knew this wasn't a joke, and if it was it was in terrible taste.
"It's all fine."
The not-Sherlock figure could only stare at him in what John would describe as "abject horror", but John was suddenly finding it difficult to trust a single fucking thought that he created in that moment. He felt the back of his knee hit the door and realized he must have taken a few steps backwards as Mycroft and the Not-Sherlock stepped in tandem towards him.
"No." John commented. "No. This isn't- this isn't-" He tried, but he felt his knees shaking as the room warped into stupid shapes and colors.
"John." Mycroft spoke as he stepped forward, assertive, though not before John held his hand weakly in front of him. "We can explain, John. Just-"
"No. Don't. Don't do this to me. Not now. Not after, just don't-" He whispered, and he knew the tears were welling as every lamp in the orange-lit room seemed to burst with the power of solar flares.
"John." The Not-Sherlock said, and John felt his spine run rigid at the perfectly-matched baritone of that voice, and the next thing John saw was the sleeve of Mycroft's suit and the bottom of Not-Sherlock's black coat in front of his eyes as he rolled forward.
"It's all fine."