John reached to the back of the desk drawer, trying to find his old record book. When he had moved in, he hadn't started using Excel to track his finances yet. His hand closed on a hard rectangular shape. He withdrew it and looked at what he held. It was Irene's phone. All of that seemed so long ago. They hadn't talked about any of it at the time. Maybe they could do it now. He lifted the phone in his hand and called, "Oi, Sherlock!"
The detective turned, spotting the mobile in John's hand and sighed. He walked over and held out his hand. The doctor handed the phone to him and Sherlock hefted it once, his eyes lingering on it. He tossed it onto the top of the desk and walked away.
Licking his lips, John hesitated, but decided he just had to know. "What was her fascination anyway? Was it her body? Her mind?" He hesitated. "Her… profession?"
"It wasn't her body," Sherlock replied, walking to the window and looking out over the passersby.
John nodded. "So you liked her because she was smart." That made sense. Sherlock would only be attracted to someone brilliant. Irene. Moriarty. He tried to ignore the bitterness that welled up within him.
"Among other things."
Oh. "Ah… right. Her, um, career choice, then." It was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock was… different. Of course he would have unconventional tastes.
"Yes," Sherlock said frankly.
"That's… fine. Just, be careful, yeah?" The doctor had seen his fill of accidents that had occurred in the bedroom, not that anyone ever admitted to that. He didn't want Sherlock to get hurt.
The detective glanced over his shoulder at John. "I was only interested as a possible way to shut down my mind. It seemed like a potential alternative to cocaine. Doesn't matter. It's not an issue anymore. What had its appeal in the past, I now find potentially triggering."
The doctor froze, his hand still in the desk drawer. "Triggering?"
"Hm, yes." Sherlock walked over and took up his violin and bow. As he brought the violin up to his chin, John noticed that the detective's hands were shaking.
Everything had been fine before the roof at Bart's. What the fuck had happened while Sherlock had been gone?
The detective drew his bow across the violin's strings. The resulting sound was unsettling. It wasn't the sound of an instrument being tortured. It was a piece that John recognised, but it didn't soar as it should. Sherlock played a few measures, then lowered the violin, looking at as if it had betrayed him. He placed it back in its case along with the bow.
"Sherlock…" John hesitated. "Something happened while you were gone."
"Obviously."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly."
"Right." The doctor stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. "You know you're important to me. You're my best friend." That was all he was, unfortunately. What John wouldn't give to change that. "I'll be here, you know, whenever. If you change your mind."
Sherlock turned to look at him, his gaze considering. He hadn't lied. He didn't want to talk about it. Still, John was an ex-army doctor, a simple gesture and he would understand.
The doctor didn't know what Sherlock saw when he looked at him, but after several long moments, the detective started unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off and turned silently, revealing his back to John.
The mapping of scars across pale flesh told its own story. John had seen too much, both in the army and at the clinic. He had seen the victims of both torture and familial abuse. What he was seeing now were the results of the former. His expert eyes categorised the cause of each scar: cigarette burns, cuts, split skin resulting from the impact of blunt objects, infection. John's stomach flipped. He walked over and ran his finger down the longest of the scars. Sherlock's muscles were tense and his back rigid. It seemed as if they were locked in a moment out of time, in a different world.
John wouldn't be able to say why he did it later, but he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso and let his cheek rest against his back. Long moments passed in silence, both of them unmoving. After some time, the detective's shoulders slumped and he dropped his chin to his chest as he relaxed into the embrace.
Sherlock brought his hands up and held onto John's arms, taking comfort in his touch. He hadn't known he had needed it and, even if he had, he wouldn't have thought he could have it - not from John. Best of all, he knew they wouldn't have to talk about any of it. The doctor was world wise, sometimes weary. John understood everything that wasn't being said. Words weren't required, not about the past. Sherlock let out an oddly contented sigh, considering the circumstances, and John held him tighter. He supposed the future was another matter. Sherlock could summon the right words. He could. "John..." he began.
The doctor hushed him. "Is this alright?" he asked, suddenly feeling awkward and starting to pull away.
Sherlock didn't let him. He held onto John's arms with all his might. "Yes," came his simple reply.
The day waned and the sunlight faded as evening transitioned to night.