This was originally posted as Things Left Unspoken, but I decided to re-write it.
I am American and do not have a Brit-picker, so I apologize for the lack (or misuse) of British terminology.
Thank you for reading! :)
John was sick of everything. He was sick of tiptoeing around his newly returned flatmate. He was sick of bottling up his anger and frustration. He was sick of his thoughts revolving around the consulting detective.
Sherlock had been back from his three-year mission for two months. The reunion hadn't been anything like John had repeatedly dreamt; John had simply walked into the flat after a long day at the hospital and saw his friend sitting at the chair.
He had jumped out of the chair faster than thought and stood before John. He remembered Sherlock quietly explaining why he had left, how he had faked his death, why he had to fake his death, and that he was never going to leave John again. Sherlock looked like he had wanted to hug John, but instead he quickly patted his good shoulder before spinning around and sitting back in the chair, clearly rejecting even the mere idea of further conversation.
John remembered feeling elated that his flatmate had returned, bringing John's sanity with him. He also remembered how quickly the joy faded over the first week. Sherlock was quieter; he hardly ever spoke of anything other than the current case or of their next meal. Despite his reluctance to talk of anything John wanted to, Sherlock wouldn't let the doctor out of his sight, except for when John was in the loo.
He followed John with his eyes as he moved about the kitchen or living area. He watched John sleep at night, never split up with him whilst chasing criminals, and didn't move far from his side at crime scenes.
Sometimes, Sherlock did more than watch him. He took up making tea (which he was actually quite good at) for John, brushing the doctor's fingers every time he gave him the soothing beverage. When John and Sherlock were both walking, Sherlock would subtly brush against John. The first few times this occurred, the doctor ignored it, thinking nothing unusual of the action. However, John was unable to ignore it for long when the touching continued on a daily basis. He was puzzled as to why Sherlock, the man who abhorred touching of any sort, was being extremely affectionate (for a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath that is).
What frightened John the most was how much these little touches affected his day. He didn't notice them much directly after they occurred, a tingling warmth the only lingering result, but before John would go to sleep, his mind would go over the numerous bumps. Only then was he able to see just how much they effected him; they made him feel an overwhelming peace despite the chaos raging around and inside him.
But as two months passed, John grew annoyed. He knew that Sherlock only started the light touches to put John at ease and make him forget the anger and sadness that overwhelmed him. It wasn't working anymore.
As much as John liked the innocent brushes, he needed to unleash his emotions before he did something rash.
Last night, the detective noticed John's strange behavior. Sherlock then re-explained the circumstances of his "death" (he claimed Moriarty threatened him, but he refused to explain the threat) and the three years he spent demolishing Moriarty's web a month after his return, without letting John ask any questions. As soon as he was done explaining, Sherlock leapt from the chair and locked himself in his room for the rest of the night.
John was sitting in his seat, pondering this, when claustrophobia hit him. He had to be out of the flat; he needed air. Sherlock was on one of his rare excursions from the flat without John, so he had little time if he wanted to escape for a few hours. John quickly grabbed his jacket, thankful that his leg was working properly again, and rushed out of the oppressing flat.
Sherlock had stopped by Bart's to pick up toes for a new experiment and was walking towards 221 B.
He hadn't gotten used to the euphoric relief that filled him every time he saw his home.
He shook his head. Where had all of these sentimental thoughts come from?
John, his mind replied. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the staircase leading to their flat. He needed to delete that feeling, that emotion that bubbled up at the mere thought of his flatmate. When Sherlock was confident that the offensive thought had been successfully purged, he continued up the stairs.
He barged into the kitchen, his ears searching for the small sounds signaling John's presence. Worry (hadn't he deleted that?) left him breathless as he dropped the contents of his trip on the kitchen table when the deafening silence alerted the detective of John's departure. Sherlock searched the entire flat, even his own room, before going up to John's. Fear smote the detective when the doctor's room was empty as well.
Where was John? Had he been kidnapped? Was he dead? Had he left? Had John abandoned him for good? No... No. John wouldn't leave Sherlock without an explanation... would he?
Sherlock scoured the whole flat a second time, searching for a letter or note or anything to aid him in his search for the truth. All he was able to deduce about the events in the flat was John sitting in his chair for an hour, maybe two, before he disappeared. Sherlock noticed that John's coat was missing, pointing more towards a voluntary departure rather than a kidnapping.
He sank to the ground, curling into a ball. All of his emotions towards his flatmate that he thought had been deleted were rushing around the poor man, making their presence known to him like a wrecking ball making itself known to a decrepit building.
John has disappeared. Find him - SH
What did you do this time? - MH
I didn't do anything wrong. - SH
Are you so sure about that little brother? - MH
Sherlock threw the phone down in frustration. What had he done wrong? What did he do to drive away the one good thing that ever happened to him?
He blinked, frozen in confusion. Why did he call John the one good thing in his life? If his emotions had been able to be deleted, he would've been in ignorance for a while. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his emotions were very much alive, and one gripped his body with enthusiasm much like a little child eager to answer a teacher's question.
Love.
Sherlock shuddered, newfound fear wracking his body. He would never let John know he cared this much, any chance of the man staying with him if he hadn't already left for good would be out the window.
He scrunched tighter into a ball, unable to leave the hard floor. Panic had left him stunned; his mind and body frozen on one thing.
John.
John walked around the busy streets of London, immersing himself with the crowd. Moments like these where he could just become a man in a crowd were precious to John. It was one of the few times he had privacy anymore.
His thoughts were rebelliously circling around Sherlock.
He knew it was futile to stop thinking about the man, so he stopped fighting his mind. He allowed his emotions to flow, guiding his thoughts.
It was one of the few times he could face his love for Sherlock fully and somewhat privately. He wasn't paying any attention to where he was going, focused only on his thoughts.
John had arrived at the grave. He stared at it, vaguely wondering who was buried there instead of Sherlock, when he shook his head. He was so confused, so sad, so angry, so in love, much like his first visit to the cold stone.
He inhaled and exhaled, finally alone. His previous thoughts still present, John stared at the name on the gravestone.
He felt guilty for leaving Sherlock without saying anything. It wasn't like he was leaving for good... But still. It wasn't right to leave the man so abruptly. While Sherlock obviously had little discomfort living without him, John couldn't imagine having to go back to the three years of loneliness. Although everything seemed to be more complicated now than it had ever been, John didn't want to go back to life without his flatmate.
He would do his best to stay in Sherlock's life as long as he was welcome, in whatever form necessary.
With these thoughts in mind, he turned to leave the cemetery.
He was walking past the gravestones when something grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the entrance.
A manicured hand pushed against John's mouth.
"You might not want to do that, John." A familiar voice whispered in his ear as she removed her hand from his face.
"I wasn't going to scream. I would've fought you off had I not noticed you were female." John said, turning to face Anthea. "Why are you following me?"
"I'm sure you know why I am here." Anthea replied, whipping out her phone before walking to her car.
John contemplated going back to the flat, but he knew Mycroft would probably just abduct him along the way. The army doctor huffed and trudged to the open door.
The drive didn't take long, only ten minutes before the doors opened and John was led into another dilapidated building.
Mycroft leaned on his umbrella in the center of the dingy warehouse, and John was reminded of the first time he met the mysterious brother.
John sighed, briskly walking up to the man. When he reached Mycroft, they stood in silence. John could feel Mycroft analyzing him like an open book. Annoyance briefly filled him, before exhaustion took hold. He was sick of having all of his thoughts and emotions on display for these men.
"Why am I here?"
"I do believe you are upset with my brother, are you not?"
"Is this the Holmes version of a protective brother speech?" John quipped uncertainly. He didn't want to deal with an overly protective Holmes brother.
"He didn't tell you everything about his suicide, did he?" Mycroft questioned, ignoring John's previous statement.
"If he didn't, I wouldn't know." John loathed the pathetic tone that burst unwillingly from his lips.
"Moriarty threatened him."
"Yes, Sherlock told me."
"With the lives of his friends. Particularly yours, Doctor Watson."
"He doesn't care about me. Not that much, probably not at all." John was unable to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Did Sherlock really fake his death, earn more scorn and mocking from everyone than he had ever received before, just to save people in his life?
"Moriarty threatened him with the lives of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and yourself."
"That doesn't mean he did all of this for me. I'm just a human replacement for his skull."
"He revealed his existence to me because he knew I was essential to his quest. He made sure I monitored you. He asked about you all the time. Would he really be that sentimental about someone filling in for his skull?"
John was silent, unable to think clearly.
"If I were you, I would return to Baker Street as soon as possible." Mycroft suggested (though it sounded more like a demand).
Like Sherlock, Mycroft didn't let John get a word in edgewise. He didn't let John explain that he wasn't leaving permanently, that he was just getting fresh air. Mycroft merely cut John off every time he tries to speak until he gave up.
John was ushered to the car and dropped off at the cemetery. The car sped away, and he was left alone with his thoughts once more.
John was freezing, his ordinary jumper powerless against the cold winter night. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his waist as he continued walking.
If everything Mycroft said was true, why had Sherlock's cold, condescending behavior escalated since his return, as though it had been John who abandoned the detective for three years? Shouldn't it have been John treating him like that? No, John had a conscience (though he wished he didn't at times); he treated Sherlock as though nothing had happened. John hadn't had the opportunity to truly let his emotions out.
He was perplexed. Despite Sherlock's detached demeanor, he followed John everywhere as though he was afraid the doctor would leave him forever.
Sometimes John really did want to run away and never look back. He didn't want to have to keep his emotions buried away for the rest of his life, assuming Sherlock stayed with him for that long. A part of John didn't want to let out his conflicting emotions. He was afraid of the feelings hidden beneath the anger and pain. He was afraid the detective would find the decidedly not straight emotions John had for his flatmate and kick him out.
In reality, John didn't want to leave Sherlock. He just wanted all of these feelings to leave him alone. He understood for the first time Sherlock's loathing of emotions.
If Sherlock left John again, it would destroy him. At this realization, John was overwhelmed once more with anger.
Damn him. Damn Sherlock. John had always been an independent man before he met the great detective. When Sherlock left, John's sanity, will to live, use of his leg, and happiness vanished.
Why must John's wellbeing revolve around a high functioning sociopath? Why must his happiness rest with a man who did what he wanted when he wanted with no regard to how it would effect others?
Why did John have to be in love with a man who would never stoop to return the sentiment?
He stopped and sat at a bench to collect his thoughts. John needed to get back to the flat; he needed to sort everything out with his flatmate. John was going to finally get answers.
Sherlock rapidly tapped his foot in irritation, his hands steepled under his chin as he waited for John to return.
After picking himself up off of the ground, he moved to his chair. Sherlock had thought about calling Lestrade for help searching for John, but if Mycroft was looking for the doctor, extra help would be unnecessary. If Mycroft had abducted John, help would've been useless.
So, with a sigh, Sherlock sunk in the chair across from John's and stared at it, as though his earnest gaze could conjure his friend back to the flat.
Three hours later, he was trying to understand why his heart was beating faster than the speed of light. He was trying to understand why his highly logical mind was suddenly exaggerating about his heart rate.
He shouldn't have left John's side. Sherlock should've stayed home that morning, maybe then John wouldn't have left.
Why had the doctor left him like that? Did he no longer wish to be a part of Sherlock's life?
Something foreign caused his breath to catch and heart to still at this question. After a moment or five, he identified it as fear.
If John left him...
No. No. He wouldn't think those thoughts. Thoughts like that would render him useless; thoughts like that would break him.
Should Sherlock have told John the real reason why he jumped?
When he had returned to Baker Street for the first time since the fall, John had been at work, so Sherlock had a few hours to himself. While that normally would've been a good thing, Sherlock's mind did a 180, going from logical detachment to emotional anxiety.
By the time John had returned, Sherlock was internally panicking. How was the doctor going to react to his appearance?
John had merely stood there, staring at the detective. He had been stupefied into silence. Sherlock jumped out of the chair and, with a logical and detached tone that betrayed none of his emotions, explained the absence, but not the real reason of the "suicide." He had wanted more than anything to hug his long lost friend, but instead he patted John's shoulder, returned to the chair, and pretended to ignore him. Foreign feelings and thoughts had gripped the sociopath; he was afraid that continuing the conversation would've led to an emotional outburst.
Sherlock was petrified. He didn't want to be rejected; he didn't know how to handle all of these feelings. They weren't entirely new, Sherlock had grasped his intense feelings for John (though it had taken many months), but he had never dealt with them in front of the man.
Thus, Sherlock began innocently brushing John. It was the only way to pacify his troubled mind as he sorted through his feelings. He had never been a person who liked being touched, so Sherlock was shocked when his hypothesis was correct, that these innocent bumps made him relieved and happy. He was thankful John never verbally questioned them.
There the detective sat, resolving to explain everything to his friend. Sherlock would gain something precious or loose his heart, but he would not let his tumultuous thoughts and feelings be hidden any longer.
John continued walking, numbness spreading throughout his limbs. The moon shone down on John, almost as if mocking him, and the stars shone brightly. He tilted his head to the heavens, briefly admiring the splendor before he returned his attention to the path ahead of him. He remembered Sherlock's ignorance of astronomy and a brief smile flashed across the doctor's face.
All too soon, Baker Street loomed in front of him. John sighed again, and opened the door.
He climbed the seventeen stairs to his flat, not caring that the steps creaked loudly under his feet.
When he reached the top, he slowly opened the door.
Arms immediately encompassed John. Shocked, he wrapped his own around the wraith-thin waist. Although John was frustrated and upset with Sherlock, he couldn't bring himself to reject the out-of-character embrace.
They stood in silence, wrapped in each other, and Sherlock began shaking. It was so subtle John almost missed it, but when he registered the movement, his heart broke. He never meant to hurt Sherlock. John began rubbing his hands up and down the detective's back, murmuring softly.
"I'm here. I'm not going to leave you."
Sherlock shuddered. "He threatened me with your life. He said he would burn the heart out of me." Both of them knew who the he was, and John's anger was towards Moriarty rather than Sherlock.
"I know. I'm still here; he didn't succeed."
"I couldn't lose you."
At the quiet, despairing whisper John didn't expect, his anger vanished. "You did what you thought was best."
"I hurt you. I didn't think you cared so much. I thought you were going to be furious with me if you returned."
"I was furious with you," Sherlock froze in John's arms though neither of them let go. "I'm not anymore." He didn't mention that his anger melted when he realized that during these two months, Sherlock wasn't being cold because he didn't care. He was being cold because he cared; Sherlock cared but he didn't know how to deal with that. John felt stupid for taking so long to understand. "I won't leave unless you tell me to."
"Stay. Please." Sherlock whispered, his arms squeezing John slightly.
Sherlock was surprised once again. John, amazing fantastic John, had understood Sherlock's cold actions after the reunion without the detective having to explain himself. He knew that John discovered this today; he knew that Mycroft revealed the threat to John, but he wasn't angry.
He was thankful that John understood Sherlock and hadn't made him explain his actions. Despite his gratitude, Sherlock knew he should apologize.
"I didn't know how to deal with my emotions after I returned. I didn't mean to upset you. I am sorry."
John's arms continued rubbing his back as he murmured a reply lost to Sherlock's ears.
All he could feel was John wrapped around him. Sherlock realized for the first time that home was not 221 B, but John. He realized that when he was homesick during the three year absence, he was missing John, not London.
In this moment, it was just Sherlock and John. There was no London, no murderous cabbies or deranged criminals. Just the detective and his doctor.
"John."
John pulled back slightly from the hug. They were face-to-face with their arms still wrapped around the other.
"Sherlock?"
"Your pulse is racing."
"I suppose so."
"Your pupils are dilated."
"Are they?"
"Yes."
Surprisingly, John didn't feel uncomfortable or ashamed. "Oh."
"My pulse is racing."
"Your pupils do look a little bigger than usual." John grinned, watching as Sherlock's face lit up.
Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to John's forehead. John leaned into the hug, and Sherlock rested his cheek on the doctor's head. Both men were filled with euphoric relief as they basked in the love of the other.
Just the two of them against the rest of the world.
Thank you for reading!
Feedback is much appreciated!