Hide away until the bruises fade
FT: A short and sweet Johnlock for you guys. It pounced on me with all the ferocity of a kitten and refused to leave.
Summary: Sherlock isn't the kindest person around, he doesn't pity or sympathize with you, but when John suffers his first broken heart, Sherlock is the only person who actually makes him feel better.
Warnings: diabetes-inducing fluffiness (at least I think so), underage drinking, shameless cuddles. Teen!lock people! This is Teen rated!
! #$%$# !
John wishes he could just open a hole in the earth and die. Two weeks ago, he went through a very public, very humiliating, and totally devastating break-up with his primary school sweetheart. People always teased John for settling down early, for having the bride before the wedding, all that other nonsense.
So, when she said that they were through, he was stunned. When he asked why, he didn't expect her response.
Dissatisfaction, disloyalty (from him), laziness… the list went on and on. By the time she was finished, John was barely holding together by the seams. But then she threw the final blow.
She had been so sick of him, she had started sleeping with the school dominatrix, Irene Adler. John was too stunned to even cry. But then people started coming to his defense, calling Kate an equally long list of things, and nobody saw him leave.
Correction: almost nobody saw him leave.
Thus, for two weeks, he had been suffering through a sea of pity and sympathy, trying to pull himself together. But the people around him weren't helping. It was always 'poor thing', or 'she isn't worth your time', even better, 'you're better off without her'.
Didn't these people realize that their concern for him was keeping the wounds open? Sure, air circulation helped heal wounds so that they didn't scar so badly, but that only worked on physical ones; not the psychological and emotional ones.
It was at a party when Mike and a group of fellow rugby mates had to do a beer run.
"Oi, Sherlock!" Mike called out, tossing his keys from one hand to another, obviously nervous. Sherlock had showed up out of nowhere, and like a good host, Mike let him stay. Sherlock was standing in one corner, nursing the one beer he had been handed near the beginning of the party.
"Yes?"
"We've got to do a beer run…"
"Obviously. What does that have to do with me?"
"Can… Can you keep an eye on John?"
John's jaw dropped, but before he could say anything, Sherlock did the oddest thing.
He casually looked at John, appraising him, looked over at Mike, then back to John and locked eyes with the shorter man.
"John doesn't require a babysitter. He's legally an adult, and hence, capable of taking care of himself. But I will stay, if it soothes you to believe John won't break down into a hysterical fit while you're away for the whole of ten to twenty minutes." Sherlock's lips twitched for the smallest sliver of a second. John read it as a smirk, and he clamped his jaws closed to prevent the sharp retort he felt rising from emerging out his throat. Sherlock's eyes flicked over him, and John knew that he knew that he almost snapped at him.
"Um… right. Let's be off boys. Beer to buy." Mike herded his crew out the door, leaving the house oddly empty, with only about seven or eight people who quickly migrated outside, leaving Sherlock and John alone.
John ignored Sherlock for the rest of the party, tossing back drink after drink, until he had trouble coordinating his eyes and his hands. It was that time that a burning bitterness rose up, and he was being pulled to his feet and out the door.
He didn't even know it was Sherlock until he blinked, and bright sunlight slammed into his eyes.
He bolted upright, and surveyed his surroundings. It was a living room, messy and a little dusty, with a skull on the mantle of a dry fireplace, and a Cluedo board nailed to the mirror's frame by a knife. John glanced around, and saw that the wall behind him was decorated with yellow smiley faces, with deep bullet holes littering the otherwise tasteful wallpaper.
Where the hell was he?
"221b Baker Street." A deep baritone told him. John whipped around, and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, two bags carried in one hand, and a stack of clothes tucked into the crook of the other arm.
"Pardon?"
"My flat. 221b Baker Street. Do keep up John."
"What am I doing here?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You were intoxicated to the point of incoherence, which is surprising all on its own, considering that you woke up without the immediate and typical response of vomiting, which bespeaks of a family tendency to alcohol addiction, but also suggests that your metabolism is higher than the average 19 year old, and processed the solution through your system faster. No doubt though, you are fuzzy-mouthed and very hungry, and want a shower, since you have a very fastidious nature. So, in order, shower, food, and an explanation for why I didn't take you home." Sherlock handed him the clothes. "The shower is over there, the clothes are new, and I had to check your clothes from proper measurements before I bought anything."
"That… was brilliant."
The rapid smirk twitch appeared again.
"Usually I'm told to piss off. Take your time in the shower John. I'll make breakfast." With that, Sherlock spun neatly on his heel and stalked into the kitchen and began moving things around in order to follow through on his promise.
John felt his eyebrows rise.
Sherlock and he knew each other via Mike, but how Mike put up with the young genius was beyond him. So, with literally nothing better to do, he headed for the shower.
When he stepped out, feeling much better, and a touch lighter, John headed for the kitchen on newly-socked feet. Sherlock had provided a pair of jeans, an undershirt, a plain white button-down, and a jumper that was a rich green, with a pair of red pants and dark green socks.
"Um… thank you. For bringing me here." He told Sherlock, who was sitting almost daintily in his seat, a plate stacked with toast and eggs near his elbow.
"I brought you here rather than risk sending you off on your own in a cab. Lately there have been a rash of disappearances, I believe them to be related." Sherlock responded blandly, flipping through a manila folder.
"Ah… Um, tea?"
"Black, two sugars." Sherlock said, not turning his attention away from the paper.
"Right." John washed the kettle that he found near the back of the oven (why, he didn't want to know), and filled it, setting it to boil while he fished out a pair of cups and got to work on the eggs and toast, of which he took half.
"You should eat too." He said, after Sherlock made no move to eat.
"Digestion slows the mind."
"Not eating slows the body. Everybody knows you run, or rather, ran track. Surely not eating is just as bad as over-thinking things." John retorted.
Sherlock glanced up, and after a surprised moment, his expression softened into something that was somewhat indescribable.
"And I suppose if I don't eat, you'll sit here until I do?"
"Yes. I plan on being a doctor. Eat." John stubbornly crossed his arms, and met Sherlock's strange, pale gaze.
The yellow-touched mercury blue eyes seemed almost haughty, but finally, Sherlock broke the gaze and ate the eggs and toast on his plate. Internally, John cheered to himself.
After a little while, John found himself pacing the flat, examining everything in closer detail. Sherlock appeared messy, but it was organized chaos, everything had its place. Sherlock, for his part, had moved to the couch, sitting cross-legged with the folder open on his lap.
Something about the picture reminded John of Kate. His throat tightened.
Kate, sitting in shorts and a crop-top, reading in his living room.
Kate, sprawled across his chest as they kissed.
His eyes burned.
"Um… I-I have to go. My parents… they'll be wondering where I'll be." He stammered out. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to him.
"Of course."
John almost made it out of the door when Sherlock's voice stopped him.
"You can come back anytime John. The spare key is in your wallet."
John felt his brain screech to a halt, and tumble back into motion.
"Um… right. Thanks." He finally choked out, and fled, tears burning in the corners of his eyes. He was to send the key back as soon as possible.
John managed about a week before he found himself back at Baker Street in the middle of a biblical downpour.
He stood in the rain for a few moments before he realized that Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his face hidden in shadow, but his eyes caught a little light, and John could see them.
"Can I come in?" he asked, his teeth chattering. Sherlock nodded, and stood to one side, to let John in.
John headed up the 17 steps up to Sherlock's flat, trying to fight back tears. Inside, the fire was blazing, and John gingerly made his way to it, standing there to warm his chilled frame. Sherlock vanished for a few moments, before returning with a towel the size of a double bed blanket, and a stack of clothes.
"I bought more clothing in case you came again." He said in explanation.
John nodded his thanks, and wrapped himself in the towel, letting the plush fabric absorb some of the water. Sherlock puttered about in the background, leaving John to reflect by the fireside.
"She… I thought she was only saying that because she wanted a rise out me." John finally said aloud into the muted (not quiet) room. "I didn't think that she was actually sleeping with Adler. I was so fucking stupid."
John heard Sherlock shift something, and heard the groan of one of Sherlock's armchairs.
"I wanted… I want her back. Am I stupid for that? To prove to her that her accusations were unfounded… is that stupid of me? I just… I just want someone to be there for me… that I don't have to worry about being played like a damn fiddle while my significant other fucks around on the side. Is that so bad?! Is it so fucking wrong to ask for a little loyalty when I give it to somebody?! Why?! Why do these things happen?! I loved her, and she fucking threw it back in my face! What did I do to deserve that?! What?!" John was shouting now, tears running down his face, angry tears, and he was beating his fist on the mantle. Sherlock remained silent.
"Are you going to pity me Sherlock? Tell me that I'm better off without her? Don't. For the love of God… don't say that. I think I'll kill you if you said that."
"I don't pity people John." Sherlock said quietly. John turned to him. Sherlock was looking out the window, his eyes distant.
"I'm the single-most worst person to come to for pity. Or sympathy. I… I lack the emotional capacity for pity and sympathy. In my eyes, those two things alone are more addicting than crack cocaine, heroin, and methamphetamines combined. It makes a person crave them, and eventually, they create situations where they are pitied and sympathized with, so they can feed their addiction, until the toll of constructing these alibis to cover the craving become too much, and it kills them. So, no John. I will not pity you. I won't disservice you in that fashion. You are made of sterner stuff than that." John's breath caught as Sherlock's eyes found his.
They were pale silver now, almost white, and John wanted –desperately- to wrap his arms around the taller teen,
"Go change John, I'll put those in the wash for you." Sherlock said gently. John nodded mutely, and went to the bathroom to change.
When he came out, Sherlock was doing something in front of the fire, with a massive collection of blankets and a tray that sat on the coffee table.
"What… What are you doing?"
Sherlock looked up.
"It's something that I did as a child when I felt distressed. Wrapping myself in a blanket in front of a fire made me feel safer, or calmed me down at the very least, until I could think clearly." He said, standing up and taking John's mostly damp clothes away from him and whisking away where the washing machine was. He returned and took John's hand, guiding him into a small hollow that was made in the center of the blankets. John sat down, and watched in fascination as Sherlock carefully folded him in the heated layers.
"What about you?" He asked softly. Sherlock fixed him with a solemn expression.
"This isn't about me John. You are the one in need of comfort, not I, and… I do not know how to comfort a person. Physical presence seems to be key, as well as emotional support and verbal reassurances. But as I stated earlier-"
"No pity or sympathy. That's fine. Can… can you just stay? I don't want to be alone." John asked, his breath hitching, a fresh wave of tears rising. Sherlock nodded, and made to move off to the chair, but John lifted the blanket, and Sherlock got the hint.
He coiled up next to John, folding the blanket around them, and John let his head sag onto Sherlock's shoulder.
"Thank you." He told the taller teen.
Sherlock didn't respond, but wrapped and arm around John's shoulders and pulled the shorter teen closer, resting his cheek on the top of John's head.
Then, amazingly, Sherlock began to sing in a very low tone.
Somebody once said,
Time heals all wounds.
I hate to tell you otherwise,
But that isn't true.
Time doesn't heal much,
Just makes the memory
Of 'you and I'
A little more distant,
A little harder to remember.
Somebody told me,
That the first time hurts the worst.
It seems to me,
That that man never had
His own heart broken in two before.
It never eases
Never fades
The cracks just change
After you pull the pieces back together.
They say,
That distance makes the heart grow fonder.
That much,
Regrettably,
Is true.
I always think about the time
Of 'you and I',
Just before it became 'just me'.
If I could sing to you of everything,
I loved about you,
The stars themselves would die
Before I finished my lullaby.
But you're beyond hearing,
Beyond seeing,
Happy once again,
While I linger in the shadows,
Watching you spin a new life,
Made of golden threads,
On a loom made of silver,
With jewels on your fingers,
And flowers in your hair.
So I'll leave you be,
In your new life,
And pick up the pieces you left behind.
But don't think for one second,
That I've forgotten you.
Some part of me,
Will always love you,
But I'll never again trust you with my heart.
Instead,
I'll weave my own new life,
Out of the bits of wool I'm made from,
And begin a tapestry,
That everyone will be in awe of.
For I am the sum of my experiences,
And this will make me strong.
For I have no need of jewels and gold or silver,
Those things will dull and rust,
For they are merely plated iron and glass gems.
And I will hold my head up high,
And let the pieces settle back into order,
And find a new love,
More worthy of me.
So when you're finally seeing past the gilt,
Just remember that you left me,
And I'll never return.
So goodbye,
Farewell,
Enjoy your time with your new love,
While I sail the seas in search of the one truly meant for me.
I will weave myself a new life,
Not with gold thread or crystal silk,
But with bits of wool and maybe canvas,
For my true love and I.
John felt tears prick at his eyes, and nuzzled closer to Sherlock. At some point, Sherlock had turned himself, so that John rested against his chest rather than his shoulder, and John had ended up in his lap.
"Where is that from? I've never heard a love song like that."
"It's poetry that my mother wrote when she was young, and pined after her first love." Sherlock stated softly. John felt the taller teen move, and he was lying on his side, Sherlock's arm tucked under his head, making them face one another.
"It was beautiful."
"I often sang it to myself. It helped… when I was upset."
John coiled an arm around Sherlock's waist.
"Does she know that you sing the song?"
"She taught it to me verse by verse."
John smiled, and suddenly yawned hugely.
"Go to sleep John."
"On the floor?"
"There's a fire going, and all the blankets in the flat are piled here. You won't catch cold." Sherlock shrugged. John knotted his fist into Sherlock's shirt.
"Will you stay? At least until I fall asleep?"
Sherlock smiled as if he was being given the worlds' best Christmas present.
"I'll stay as long as you need me John." He whispered in a sweet tone as John's eyes drifted shut. He didn't even feel Sherlock curl a little closer around him, adjust the blanket slightly, and settle down into sleep. But some part of him knew that Sherlock was going to be there in the morning.
As he slipped under the waters of sleep, he heard the last few lines of Sherlock's mother's poem drift into his head.
Enjoy your time with your new love,
While I sail the seas in search of the one truly meant for me.
I will weave myself a new life,
Not with gold thread or crystal silk,
But with bits of wool and maybe canvas,
For my true love and I.
He slept with a smile on his face.
! #$%$# !
FT: Whoo! Done! This baby was inspired by a recent convo with my mom about Sherlock, and she told me that I was a lot like Benedict's Sherlock. To quote her directly: "You, of all my children, are the only one who needs a John as much as Sherlock does. You're brilliant in your own way, but nobody can understand what you're saying because what's obvious to you is so very far under the surface to many people. You need a John, someone who will remind you and bully you into taking care of yourself more." Sooo… yeah. Mom's fault. And I actually don't pity people or sympathize with them, I'm the worst person to come to for those things (sorry, for inserting my own traits onto a character), and trying to win them from me only pisses me off.
The poem sung by Sherlock is mine, I wrote it when my first boyfriend broke up with me (in the same fashion Kate broke up with John, but nobody took my side in my case). Needless to say, his current situation makes me feel vindicated.
I use the blanket wrap thing to calm myself down after a hard day. It really does help.
Kate, is of course, Irene's assistant from Sherlock (but you didn't me to tell you that, did you?). I figured she was probably the best one to break his heart (Sorry Jawn! –TT^TT-)
So… that's everything. I hope you enjoyed!
Love,
Fuyu Tatsu