Nine More Steps To Salvation
Drop by tiny drop the glass was getting full, and John knew it was only a matter of time before it spilled over. The days were beginning to stretch over time, getting longer and slower, the doctor could only hope that a diversion would present itself before it started; but he doubted he would be so lucky. He loathed when these things happened, not because they were inconvenient, but because he hated to watch as despair wound its body around the man he loved. It made him feel as if said man was sliding through his hands, and that was a feeling of hurt that he thought no word in any language could describe accurately.
The sleuth laid curled up on the sofa for what would now be the second day in a row, and it killed the soldier to be so helpless to prevent the situation from tipping over. He approached the prone figure and laid a gentle hand on his arm, shaking just the tiniest bit to rouse his friend. "You want some tea, 'Lock?" He asked, still hoping against hope that he would get an answer to his query. Once none seemed to be coming, he sighed; feeling as the knife that was already deep into his skin sank lower and twisted it's dull blade to tear through flesh.
"Sherlock?" He said again, to no avail. His detective was way too far in his obvious suffering that he doubted he would reach him any time soon. John contemplated if there was anything he could say to change the circumstances, and cursed himself for his incompetence at coming up with something that could ease his boyfriend's pain.
They found themselves in this same scene a few times a year, and they were almost always caused by some repressed feeling of perceived inadequacy, be it recent or previous, that left the boffin baffled and insecure. For a confident person, Sherlock was often haunted by self-doubt, strong enough to leave him bruised and raw from beating himself down.
When they were the consequence of something contemporary, John at least had an idea on which string of words to let stumble out of his mouth, or what subjects to avoid. However, when there was no apparent reason that he could think of for his best friend's eyes to start getting darker, the blogger panicked; and with panic came fear. Fear of watching him being consumed by grief, of losing the most important person in his life to emotional strain; Fear that one day Sherlock wouldn't bounce back from it. That was the sort of situation now.
"Sherlock," John knelt beside the couch to get closer to the detective's face, unconsciously checking for physical ailments. "Look at me." But his flatmate failed to obey, he just kept staring straight ahead. The blonde could see blue sadness inhabiting those mesmerising eyes. He lifted a hand to the other's forehead, just to feel a little life under his palm, afraid that whatever happened could shatter his whole world completely.
Ever since he moved in with the man, he could always notice that sliver of melancholy that always seemed to paint its place across the musician's mouth, like his smile was not quite right yet. Nevertheless, he decided against bringing it up, choosing instead to pretend that nothing was happening, that his flatmate wasn't hiding his secret agony from him; letting him conceal himself in his bedroom for a few days and faking to the world his comfort at the simple fact that his new best friend just didn't trust him.
He avoided mentioning it to anyone like the plague, until that day, three months after his friend's supposed suicide, when he had an emotional breakdown in the middle of Bart's morgue. He remembered Molly's distressed face perfectly, as if it were yesterday. After he had somewhat calmed down, she let him know that she had been aware of the problem for a few months too, and that "he used to look sad when he thought you couldn't see him." But that didn't make him feel better, in fact, it made him feel worse. Thinking that he somehow should have saved him; that had he acted instead of turning the pain aside, Sherlock would be alive still. Those thoughts of guilt haunted his every step for the two years the boffin was away, and failed to considerably recede even now that he had been back for more than one.
Once his friend returned to the land of the living, John vowed to himself that he would do whatever it took to keep Sherlock's heart from breaking. And that he would love the detective enough for both of them, even if the silver-gazed man sometimes couldn't look past his own hate.
Resigning himself to the inevitable, he slid his two arms under the curly-haired man's back and knees and picked him up from the couch. Although his body was not what it used to be when he was in the army, his boyfriend weighted close to naught in his arms, so he carried him to his bedroom quite easily. Clutching him close to his chest in a desperate sign of affection, wondering if Sherlock noticed it at all. He was glad that at least, ever since they had become a couple the detective didn't trap himself in his chambers to suffer in silence. Even if John sometimes had no idea what was upsetting him.
He deposited the sleuth on his bed, letting him drape himself into a ball. The blogger sat next to him and caressed the taller man's upper arm slowly, moving his hand to his shoulders, as if that gesture would rid his flatmate of the grey cloud of shadow that weighted down on him. He knew it wouldn't, but he had to try.
In that moment, the blonde-haired man heard the door to their flat being opened, followed by a "woohoo" which proved true his suspicion of whom it was. With a final pat to the musician's arm he got up and went to receive their landlady. By the time he arrived, she was already in the kitchen placing a tray of freshly baked biscuits on the tabletop. John didn't fail to notice they were Sherlock's favourites, and he hoped he could coax the detective into eating some later.
"I just hope you like them, boys." She said with that knowing smile that just showed them how much she loved her tenants. The soldier could not conjure up what his life -both of their lives, actually- would be if they didn't have such an amazing person as their landlady and friend.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You are a star." He answered truthfully, grabbing a pastry from the tray and munching a piece of it. His appetite was always mostly gone when his friend was like this.
Once Mrs. Hudson noticed the strain in John's eyes and Sherlock's curled up figure through the open door she caught on on what was happening and worry made a presence on her features. "Oh, is he sulking again?" She asked.
"If only" the blogger thought. He had come to prefer a bored Sherlock with the tendency to smoke or shoot walls, than one whose very world was caving in beneath his feet with not a clue on how to get off it. The former at least felt alive, which was what terrified him about the latter.
"No, he's fine." He found himself saying, even though both of them knew how untruthful a statement that was. Yet, he didn't want to drop all of that concern on his old friend. "He's just a bit overwhelmed." He remarked, running a hand through his hair and casting an apprehensive look at the small ball of consulting detective prone on a bed. When he turned around again, he caught his landlady looking at him with affection at his obvious devotion for his friend.
She smiled sadly and grabbed his bicep in comfort. "Oh, poor dear." She said, although the doctor couldn't place if it was meant for him or for the curly-haired man. "I'll leave you to it, then." She let go of him and ran her hands through her apron anxiously. "Just heat the biscuits up a bit if they go cold."
"Thank you, Mrs. H." The blogger replied as they started walking to the door. Just as she was about to cross the threshold, she turned around, as if she had forgotten something, and said, "Help him, John."
This smacked him in the face, because nobody ever acknowledged the fact that some days Sherlock just couldn't stand the light with no one to explain why he was suddenly so down. For her to venture so out of the norm and ask him to help him meant that the situation could very well be more dire than he had been speculating, or so she believed at least. Still, it made no favours to his already clenching heart
He couldn't think of a lot to say to that. Because he knew that no matter how hard he tried to save the lunatic they both adored, he never really seemed to succeed. His attempts always fell on the short side, and the poor, emotionally distressed man was left to sort the confusing traffic of sentiment with only the man who loved him as support. "I will." He ended up saying, sounding as uncertain as he felt.
She vanished out the door, and the doctor kept gaping at it for a few seconds longer before remembering the boyfriend he had left waiting in his room. As he padded through that corridor he contemplated what approach he was going to take this time, since the detective ended equally unresponsive every time, regardless of what he plotted. However, any speculation he could have made disintegrated when he heard a deep, wavering voice as soon as he reached the bed, saying. "Why did you say that to her?"
It caught him completely off guard. Because ever since they started living together, the musician never said a word when he was in a scene like this. Not once. "Sorry. What, love?" He asked softly, not daring to touch him yet, lest his friend realise what he was doing and clam up again. He wanted to hear what Sherlock wanted to know, he physically needed to hear absolutely anything the curly-haired man had to say about the circumstances, if only to make more sense of how to ease the turmoil.
The silence after his question lasted enough for the blogger to curse himself at the lost opportunity, feeling he had let Sherlock hide away again, as if he weren't the most important thing in the blonde's universe, which he was. After a few moments, the boffin had gathered enough strength to ask again; and to listen to that small, vulnerable voice at work gave John simultaneous relief and heartache that the dichotomy left him feeling the air in his lungs restrict.
"Why did you tell her I was overwhelmed?" His query was spoken muffled by a pillow, which made the soldier be able to understand only half of the words, and forced him to fill in for the other half. He allowed himself to place a supporting hand at his lover's shoulder, imagining how many times the brilliant man had been rendered to curl up on himself in self-comfort before the doctor entered the picture, just because society had taught him vulnerability was a thing to be avoided, to be fought.
He wondered how the silver-gazed would have turned out if people hadn't let him believe that crying was a weakness, and that tears were something to be shunned despite their necessity. John was certain he would still be a genius, but maybe he would not be so unequipped to deal with sentiment, wouldn't be so used to loneliness. The army doctor now made it his personal task to show him how to express that side of him, and how not to drown on the onslaught of frankly irrational chemicals; and it seemed to work, too. Most of the times. Except when he had these incurable spells.
"Because," The blue-eyed started, sitting next to his flatmate; close enough to touch, but not so much as to bother him. "I may not be a bloody genius at deduction," He joked, even if he knew the other man wouldn't laugh; he did it more for the sense of normality that often soothes his friend. "But I do know that when these moods come, it means something is wrong with my detective." He ended truthfully. Because he knew Sherlock's legs were metaphorically giving out under such pressure, and all the bones in his body were crushed by its weight. Even if he didn't particularly know what was whirling around inside that brain.
Said boffin scoffed after a second of hesitation. Dismissing the sentimentality of the statement, which in Holmesian language translated to "You are right". Sometimes it broke the blogger's heart to see how difficult it was for his boyfriend to believe that someone could ever understand him and his needs so throughoutly. For someone to just look at him and know who he really was, and still want him despite all his perceived imperfections and shortcomings; when John actually loved him because of them, since for the soldier, they were not defects at all, but part of this great man that he always seemed to fail at saving.
"I know that this is not deliberate." He continued, praying the boffin was still listening. He knew he couldn't really change they way that his friend's feelings would sometimes eat at his soul, he just wished that he would believe in his words when he told him that he wasn't going anywhere, no matter how dark it got. "That despite what anyone else believes, this just happens to you." He said, silently promising he would be an eternal companion to the younger man, a constant in his life, even if he had to compete for attention with this feeling; even if said detective tried to push him away, and hurt him the way wounded animals do; he would come back. Always.
The inert form on the bed did not move, but his shoulders felt less tense, which the blogger counted as a big improvement. He had never been able to get the boffin to react to him when he was like this, he always just let him do what he could with him; which included changing positions so he wouldn't stress his muscles, guiding him to the loo, and one time, even feeding him half-conscious.
However, this was not the only impact that John wished to have on his boyfriend. He wanted to make him feel at home, to kill the defeating sound in his brain, to cheer him up, to make him smile again; that sort of honest smile that gave his eyes a lasting shine. But he knew you cannot just show someone the path they have to travel to get out of the haze whenever they got lost, they have to find it by themselves. The only thing he could do was to be there, watch the other man as he struggled his way through the grey world, try to transmit some faith by sheer osmosis, and pray it worked.
"I just wished I knew what's wrong." The blonde confessed. Knowing that there had always been a dark, secret place inside Sherlock which he tried to keep hidden. He lacked the knowledge to assure that no one had ever crossed that barrier; but by the looks of it, if someone had, they had reacted badly at whatever was stored there, for now the detective guarded it like a lost treasure; or a terrible curse. The blue-eyed man wanted to see it, though. Even if it was terrible and scary, he yearned to know that part of his lover, to acquaintance himself with the curly-haired's demons. Not to quench his curiosity, but because he was certain that said horrifying room would not be that bad, it would just be another piece of the brilliant man he already adored above anything else, it would be worth it, and there was nothing in the world whatsoever that could change his mind about that.
"It's okay if you don't want to tell me, you know?" He settled himself on the bed, pressed to the other's back, wrapping one of his arms around the shoulders of his companion. He desired with his entire being to have a small clue as to what was putting his friend ten feet under the ground, to be trusted enough to have the privilege of actually being able to help the boffin through whatever was happening; but he would never force him to share this with him if that wasn't what he wanted. "I won't push you." He said, trying to reassure his flatmate that this wasn't him demanding an answer. "Just know that I'm here whenever you are ready."
John meant it. There was not a thing in the entirety of the vast and complicated universe that could make him lose his patience with this. Yes, the uncertainty would eat him inside every day, but he would soldier on, because that's what his friend needed, and whatever the detective desired, he would give him. Be it tolerance, or help. If he suddenly decided he wished to master the art of flying, the doctor was willing to learn to command the air beneath his wings so a free fall off the sky would never be a possibility. And he did all that because that is how he took the boffin. He was too aware of the rare treasure that was his lover to give up on him, to ever try to push him into being something he isn't. He accepted him just the way he was, and he always hated when someone would try to make the detective feel as if he was somehow less of what he should be. Honestly, to the blogger's eyes, Sherlock was so impossible that John's biggest fear was someday waking up to find out that he had dreamed the amazing man that made him so alive.
Said curly-haired man was still like a sleeping form, but his friend knew he wasn't. The blonde used his palm to trail soothing patterns into his boyfriend's skin, waiting for him to answer if that was what he wanted. "What if I'm never ready?" Came the whispered query after a few minutes, and the doctor's gut twisted at the raw fragility of the voice speaking it. It was pure heartache hearing him ask something such as that so tentatively, as if he were scared of the reaction it would reap. As if he were begging his friend not to leave him despite his unwillingness to talk about the issue, asking John to fix him, and heal him, and save him.
The soldier wasn't confident he would be able to do that, wouldn't probably even know where to start to get his flatmate out of the hole he dug for himself. But he could try, and for as long as he was there (forever) he would ensure that the brunette knew he never had to go through it alone. The blogger sat up and rolled his lover until he was lying on his back, staring up at him. "I will still be here." He said locking eyes with his reason for living. "When no one else will listen to what you have to say," He reached out and ran his fingers on the other's cheek. "When you have pushed everyone else away," The touch felt intimate in a way John didn't know was possible; and he could see it meant everything to the man under him. "I'll still be here." He promised. "Always."
A broken sound came out of the other's throat, and the sleuth shut his eyes so tightly that it squeezed out the tears that had been threatening to spill since hours before. The blue-eyed man's heart cracked considerably at the reaction he got for his statement, thinking back and forth about the incredulous look his lover always seemed to give him when he said something like that. Getting this question of "How can you exist?" all over his handsome face. The blogger reassures him with a smile, not holding the hesitant nature of the other's sentiments against him. After all, how was Sherlock to know? No one had ever had the will to show him before; they all just let him barely hang on to something fickle, since that was all he could ever fathom.
But John knew. He had been there too many times not to recognise the signs of someone trying to make sense out of an unfamiliar world around them. The detective was often baffled by the depth of his own capabilities, feelings he never knew he could ever gain or posses, not even if he stole them from somebody else. But that's just how these things are; they happen all the time, at any time, to people whom are not prepared, to people whom never thought would be struck with them. It just sneaks up on them and there's nothing anyone can ever do to stop it. The doctor could see how much of an inconvenience the situation could be, and his boyfriend would probably be the first to tell you so; but with the two of them, still prior to the moment when they finally got it together and discarded their old-fashioned tunnel vision about each other, that had not been the case. Every possible disadvantage was always forsaken in the wake of the fantastic joy and intensity it brought to feel so powerfully about someone, even if the final result was pain; which for so many years it was.
The army doctor grabbed one of the pale hands and held it tightly between both of his. "Hey," He attempted to catch the attention of the sad man, hoping to be successful at getting his point across. "When this first happened," He said gesturing the linking limbs between them. Trying to allude to the strength of the foundation on which they had built all of their world. "I told you that I would stay for as long as you'll have me," A small smile graced his face as he remembered said event. It was the first of many times he had unofficially pledged the entirety of life to his detective, and he knew he would continue to do so until he was able to gather the guts to ask for permission to do it officially. "And I meant it." He commented truthfully, watching as the glazed eyes in the other's face moved to his features, probably half-heartedly looking for validation of said sincerity. "I'm here. No matter what." Said the blogger. Because he knew he would never need anything more, as long as he was able to have him. There was no place more appealing, and no situation more alluring than exactly what he was living then. The fact that his boyfriend was having a bad day was inconsequential; he did not want perfectly scripted dramas, nor he wished for a neatly planned existence. He already had everything he could ever desire; right there, with mussed hair, tangled sheets, and pyjama-clad body. Nothing could shatter that.
His flatmate did not appear overly convinced; however, the haziness was slowly draining from his form. If the detective was almost responding, then John was clearly doing something right, something helpful for once. He wondered how it could be the best way to lift up the silver-gazed man's spirits. He had no false hopes on his ability to bring luminescence into the boffin's indentation, but maybe he could attempt to conduct him to a place that could. After all, Sherlock had dubbed him his "Conductor of light" and that was as much of an honour as it was a responsibility. Not only had he to assist in reaching brilliant conclusions -even if it sometimes was just by acting as a fill-in for an inanimate skull- but he also needed to be able to return some form of light and life when the other man was as good as death; To heal him in any form available, for any course he could require: Be it heart, or hospital.
He could not fail this man, he refused to do anything but the very best he could to help him, and right then, the only thing that came to mind was solace. He had to show the boffin some faith, some stability unto which he could hold. John dropped his weight to the mattress beside his boyfriend and laid back on the bed, manhandling the boffin's limbs and torso until he was in a comfortable position: Nestled on his side, with one of the blogger's arms around his slender shoulders and the other clutching his hand for dear life. The doctor relaxed and couldn't help the rush of affection he felt when he saw that his lover had tucked his own fingers close to his mouth in self-consolation.
In all honesty, the blonde was relived by the fact that the curly-haired man allowed himself to drop his defences around him, even if just for a little while. Still, the feeling of the first wet tear moistening as it fell on his shirt did not make him feel particularly better; And once hopeless sobs were wracking the lovely form violently, the soldier could swear someone had come in and shot him straight through the brain. It was his biggest desire to be able to tell the other man that it was all going to be alright, but he wasn't capable of delivering empty platitudes to a man who hated them. He had no way of knowing exactly what was swirling inside that brilliant head that was edging him towards a fear of the emptiness, therefore he couldn't quite make out the outcome; and that was one thing that they had promised they would not do to one another again, in any circumstance: lie.
Instead he opted for embracing the musician and letting him work through his bout of sorrow at his own pace. Silently reassuring him that this was not over, that their world hadn't ended, and that after everything else the world could throw at them, there was a fact that would never shift, come hell or high water, and that was that he was wanted. Despite the fear of asking why, and all the skeletons trapped inside the closets of his Mind Palace, the detective occupied a permanent residence in his lungs, like a clever vine tangled around him for evermore.
It came to him, as he watched the man he loved above anything else succumb to all the pieces he seemed to be missing. Like a fog being lifted from his eyes it became so clear, this is what his boyfriend needed from him. He had no requirement of someone to try and change the situation, he just craved that someone would really look at him and appreciated what was inside, would have the will to not let him run away from the truth; would be there to remind him who he was underneath it all. A person who didn't expect unrealistic things from him, but had faith in his abilities; a man who had what it took to face head on the most frightening and shocking sight of the world: Sherlock Holmes crying.
The detective sobbed in his arms, until no more tears seemed to leak out of his eyes and his lashes were as damp as they could be; after a while his breathing started to even out, giving way for a peaceful silence with lithe hands clutching the blonde's vest. However, the hold of them softened as sleep claimed him. They slumbered for a few hours, before the musician opened his eyes once more to the sight of the afternoon autumn light filtering through his curtains and the strong scent of John under him. "Hello." The blonde said to him, with a soft smile playing on his lips. The blogger could see in the other's face that he was clearly still not feeling as himself yet. Nevertheless, the dark circles around his eyes had somewhat faded, and the doctor counted that as a small victory.
John figured that the situation was not going to improve if he let his friend stay in bed with him for the rest of the day; some distraction could very well help restore some normality into their daily lives, might inspire the silver-gazed man to get up and continue to be as amazing as he always was. So just like in every other occasion where everything seemed so wrong, the soldier decided to make a nice cup of tea.
He hugged his boyfriend tightly, until the other made a tiny half-hearted grumble. "Tea, love?" He asked gently, trying to convey in his voice all the acceptance and care he felt for his flatmate. Said man only tucked his nose more into the pillow and re-arranged himself once the blue-eyed got up. The army doctor bent over and pushed his palms under his detective to haul him up. Sherlock, at seeing himself being suddenly carried to their sitting room, just circled his arms around his strong lover's neck and allowed him to move him into his chair.
The doctor then proceeded to prepare the infusion he knew his friend liked the most; adding three sugars to the raven-haired's mix. Feeling generous enough to allow him the high sweet intake for once. He used the time to think about his partner and his situation, feeling fondness threaten to overwhelm him; acknowledging the fact that he would drop everything and anything else to run to his boyfriend's side if ever he were in need of him. Not caring what other's may think of him for doing so, or what they would say about it. What they had was only theirs, and no one else got to have a say in the matter. He may be an idiot -as his beloved always liked to affectionately remind him- but he knew how lucky he was to have such a fantastic person in his life, let alone to be able to call him his; he knew how fortunate they both were to have found one other, like a heaven-sent gift that was someone who discovered a way to save your life in any way you needed while you are hanging by a thin thread. It didn't matter if neither of them was picture-perfect, because the pieces always ended up falling effortlessly into place.
When he returned, he watched Sherlock curled up on his armchair with his back to the room. He sighed silently and made his way to the boffin's side. Reaching out and running his palm on the other's shoulder to catch his attention. "Come on," Said the assistant to consulting detective, and tried to coax said man into shifting over so he would face him. "Look at me." He told him, but the other just kept shaking from pent up emotion release and trying to dab off the tears staining his cheeks. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "turn away", and the doctor was sure he was about to join his friend with the crying. He just couldn't wrap his head around the fact of how Sherlock could be so ashamed of showing him his melancholy and the state in which it left him; as if he were something too appalling to even see.
"Turn over." The soldier ordered, not caring if the detective was going to complain about that fact later. Mournfully sliding all over the place was one thing, but believing himself to be anything less than bloody beautiful was another thing entirely. One that the blogger would never let go un-denied. It was his job, his promise to cherish him, to make him understand just how cared for he was, and to rebuff any notion of disgrace he could have placed upon himself as a label. He affectionally patted his boyfriend's bum in order to encourage him to start moving; which the other did, albeit hesitantly.
When he was finally face to face with him, the blonde could see the signs of despair all across the other's handsome features. However, the still faintly present spark in his eye gave him a queer sense of relief to make sure he was still in one piece, that he was still his Sherlock, the same mad detective as before, even if he needed help gluing the pieces back together again. He placed the lukewarm tea on the coffee table and manoeuvred his boyfriend until they were both standing in front of the other, and the boffin's weight was being supported completely by the blonde doctor. "There you go." He said, circling his upper limbs around the other's shoulders, as the detective continued his mourning. Sobbing and shaking with his arms and hands tucked in between both of their bodies.
The shorter man placed a palm on Sherlock's head; running it through the silky curls lovingly. The musician seemed to break down with this, and started trembling more violently. John held him as he cried, as if he could keep the broken pieces of this man together just with sheer pressure. The brutal spasms eventually returned to mildly distressed heaves, and that's the moment when the blogger gently lifts his boyfriend's head by the hair and sees it:
Standing there, is a man with tousled brunette curls, wet long lashes surrounding alien-coloured eyes, red straight nose, tear-streaked high cheekbones, sharp around the edges, but so very soft in the middle, stubbornly vulnerable and paradoxically strong; allowing him to see him like this, stripped of every superfluous, artificial layer of society-imposed humanity suppressant. More bare and exposed than if he were naked in the middle of their flat. Just Sherlock, standing there, the man he has loved since the moment he laid eyes on him, and John feels as if he is seeing him for the first time. Then, the doctor is overcome with sudden mirth, a ridiculous happiness of being alive that rushed through him at the breathtaking sight of this fantastic being that made it so difficult to continue. The sort of pain. Raw, troublesome, brilliant pain that reminds you that hearts can heal, can be mended.
The sleuth, though confused, did not seem particularly offended by the abrupt outburst of elation being displayed by his partner, so said flatmate just continued with his grin and started kissing every part of the other's face he could reach. His eyelids, his cheeks, his mouth, his nose. Willing life to let him transfer any of the joy he felt to his sorrowful lover.
After a steady stream of endearments and gleeful caresses, the tension started to slowly flow out of the detective, until he had his head resting on the shorter man's shoulder and they where slow dancing in the centre of their living room for some reason. The boffin's mood seemed to have shifted slightly, although it was not restored completely yet, the blogger could see an improvement on his stance. As if his world was becoming aligned again, and the shadows hanging about them were receding back into the unknown.
The older man grabbed his cheek, pulling the other's body closer and spinning him around. Once the detective was expertly dipped, the traces of a faint smile were seen tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the soldier was about to hit the ceiling with happiness. He knew how lonely his lover got sometimes, how unappreciated he could feel, how self-loathing he could come to be if allowed; and he was glad he was granted the privilege to be there for him now. To help him restore balance in the otherwise overwhelming universe, to try to return that poetry to his ever-watchful eyes, to make him utopically happy or die trying.
"Thank you, John." Whispered the detective a few hours later, once they were already under the covers, awaiting for sleep to claim them. The doctor understood the intensity with which his partner needed him, for he needed him in the same way. He promised then to forever be amazed at the fact that the beautiful man he currently had wrapped around him had chose him, of all people, to hold the key; not to his heart, but to somewhere so much deeper.
"It's my pleasure." He answered back, because it was true. The doctor had always heard people saying how no night could ever be perfect, but for him, this one was quite close to that definition. He was aware that even if the storm had passed for now, that it would be back eventually. That someday in the not-so-distant future, they would be in the same situation again. He had complete knowledge that Sherlock will always have nights like this, when nothing he does seems right, when things get ugly; but John would never mind in the least. To him it was fine. It was all fine.
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Author's note: If you liked it, check out my other stories