Author's note: First of all, this story is dedicated to L., my dear friend who is entirely to blame for my involvment in the Sherlock fandom. I am still debating whether I should hug her or scream at her for introducing me to this amazing show :) (But I'm pretty sure I am leaning towards a hug)
Secondly, I hope you will enjoy reading this one-shot. The end may be interpreted as both Johnlock or just friendship, though I intended it as Johnlock, but chose whichever is your proverbial cup of tea.
And lastly, a disclaimer - I think that by the end of the story it will become apparent that I am neither Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat or Sir Arthur Connan Doyle, since I will not be leaving you with a maddening cliffhanger :)
Enjoy your reading!
The Things That Were Said
You said "could be dangerous",and it was.
Only, the greatest danger was never what one would have expected it to be, considering the nature of our adventures, of the Work. Bodily harm, new scars to run parallel or perpendicular to the old ones (like a peculiar game of connect-the-dots, mapped across our skins), bullets and explosives, abductions and poisons – one would argue those rank pretty high on the list of Dangerous Things. Decaying body parts being kept next to food and abusing nicotine patches are probably somewhere on that list, too. But one would be wrong, because all of those things, albeit precarious, were still not the most dangerous ones. One must not be blamed (though you would blame them, of course, blame them of being idiots, mundane, ordinary and unobservant), because how could one have predicted that the most perilous of all things would not be related to the nature of our Work, but to the nature of Us?
The greatest danger wasn't sustaining a physical wound, for such wounds heal (it is amazing how sturdy human skin shows itself to be, how well it endures being stitched together by needle and thread, as if we were just impressive ragdolls). It wasn't dying because, had I died chasing your coattails over rooftops of London, I would have died a happy man, an alive man.
One couldn't predict the greatest danger, because it wasn't extravagant or sensational, at least not compared to all the other things. One couldn't predict it, but you could. You did.
You said love is "a dangerous disadvantage", and it was.
Dangerous, I mean. I still refuse to concede that love is a disadvantage (you can roll your eyes all you want, or derogatively scowl "sentiment", but I'm not relenting). And there it was, the thing which looked innocuous enough, only to end up being the greatest danger I ever faced.
You said "could be dangerous". I wonder if you knew then just how right you would turn out to be, (something tells me you weren't referring to this greatest danger at the time).
He said he could "stop his [my] heart" and he did.
Or maybe you did. Maybe you two should share the blame. Because there certainly is blame to be dealt, blame for my heart stopping, for it staying still for three years. And there is certainly enough of it for you two geniuses to share. Yet, somehow I find it easier to forgive you than him.
On second thought, let him get more of the blame, because while you both stopped my heart, out of the two of you he wasn't the one who got it going again.
I said "just stop this", asked of you to give me just "one more miracle", and you did.
Not right away (in my more bitter moments I wondered if the delay was just the fruit of your childish petulance that always seemed to rear its head when you were told, or heaven forbid ordered, to do something), but three years after I told you to stop, you did.
Three years after I asked for a miracle, you gave me one. I wondered if that's what it was like for you when I would leave and you wouldn't realize that I had gone, so when you asked me for a pen (or your mobile or some other object placed perfectly within your arm's reach) you would have to wait until I came back for me to hand to over to you.
I wondered and concluded that it was nothing like that because, one: I was acutely aware that you were gone, two: I would never leave you to wait that long and three: it wasn't a pen that I needed you to hand back over to me, it was a life (tough was it yours or mine I was asking for, I can't tell).
It was nothing like that, but in the end it didn't matter, because I asked and you gave (and to be fair, I was asking for much more than a pen).
My miracle was granted long overdue, most people would argue. But you aren't most people, are you? I guess I'm not, either. Not anymore, anyhow.
The Things That Aren't Said
I don't say "I love you".
We are not most people. You might have never been, and I found myself drifting out of that particular category as soon as I started brewing tea next to the flask containing sulphuric acid.
So, when I find you at my door (not our door, not the door where the sum of numbers makes up five and the second letter of the alphabet perches proudly at the end), with your bloody collar turned up (God forbid we forgo the dramatics for once), I don't say „I love you".
I don't say it then, because it's so ordinary and predictable (so very most-people-esque). Also, I don't say it because at that moment I am utterly at loss for words. And then I'm angry. No, scratch that, I'm livid. Furious. Enraged. I'm sure you can find a dozen other synonyms for my emotional state at the time in that thesaurus-brain of yours.
I don't say it, but I say a great deal of other things (and not many of them pleasantries). For a long time there are just words, angry words, loud words and, well, creative phrases, to put it delicately. Standing beneath the assault of my verbal fists (the actual fists would follow later, when my elaborate dictionary of colourful expressions has been exhausted) you observe, and deduce all the words for what they really are – words of relief. One couldn't really blame me for expressing my relief in such ill-fitting terms. After all, in that moment I am not a wordsmith, not a blogger. Just then, I am a man whose heart got going again.
I don't say "I love you", but I do.
You don't say "I'm sorry".
For a long time you don't say anything, and when you do you talk of necessity. There is no apology for the deed, because the deed was necessary. At my demand for an explanation, you slip easily back into your old habits, giving a soliloquy about the things you did, all those necessary things. Words cascade easily (you really are quite a narrator, did you know that?), words about threats and about prevention of harm. All the time you insist it was all necessary, and in all your brilliance, you are once again an idiot. If it weren't for the three years and for the stopping of my heart and for the consequential requirement of miracles, I may be able to appreciate the irony of the situation. It is so very ironic, really, that while you insist on your point, you still fail to see (to observe) that while all your actions might have been necessary to keep me alive, youwere absolutely essential for the same cause.
You don't say "I'm sorry", but from your monologue I gather that all the necessity stems from a need to see me unharmed (well, look how that turned out). You don't say it because you did what you thought you had to. You don't say it, because if I ached it meant that I was alive and there is no apology needed for life. Although, there might be one required for the pain.
You don't say it, but at one point I stop expecting you to, because I realize that sacrifices hurt, too. And suddenly it is clear that the fall wasn't the biggest sacrifice, because falling is painless. Knowing you're going to hurt someone you are so desperate to preserve, is agonizing.
You don't say "I'm sorry", but that doesn't mean that you don't have regrets.
I don't say "I missed you", and you don't answer "Obvious".
Instead, you say it first and I reciprocate, because sometimes there is a need (necessity) to state the obvious.
The Things That Will Be Said
One day you will say "bored".
As inevitable occurrence as I will know it to be, I will still answer you half in exasperation and half in amusement. Well, at least the amusement will be there the first time the word is exclaimed from the depths of the sofa cushions (I'm pretty sure the amusement will melt away after the eleventh reprise of what could easily be your official between-cases motto). Soon, I will be engaged in feeble attempts to drown my annoyance in tea, while you engage in being hatefully non-engaged in anything (and wallowing in the pain of it). After endless complaints (and the imminent restating of the fact that I am an idiot), you will proceed to fuss about, agitated by the dull lack of imaginative murderers, maddeningly restless, all long limbs and swishes of blue silk. You will be unbearable (both for me and yourself), ready to crawl up the walls, vibrating with all the pent-up Sherlockness. Vibrating, but also vibrant, buzzing, reverberant and so beautifully alive.
One day you will say "bored", while I will be thinking "alive".
One day I will say "Bit not good".
Looking at the big picture, I suppose many things will be classified as just a bit not good, because in the grand scheme of things there will always be the one big Not good thing looming over all the others, diminishing them. Also, because even the Not good things will seem good, because they will mean you will be there to do them (not that I'll tell you that, Bit not good is one of my favourite, not to mention rare, directives you actually listen to, and I will not relinquish that power).
I will briefly think of a time that was, when everything was Not good and I could tell you because the Not good wasn't something you were doing, but all the things you weren't. Not good was you not screeching away on the violin. Not good was you not spewing the most original insults at Anderson. Not good was you not existing in a whirlwind of frenzied deductions in a middle of a case. Not good was you not being there.
I will reminisce briefly about the time that was Not good, but then you will be there, waiting for me to say "brilliant", the Not good thing already stored in the Mind palace for future reference. I will look up and you will be there.
One day I'll say "Bit not good" while thinking "it couldn't be better".
One day you will offer an invitation. Or maybe I will be the one to do it, but if it happens to be you, then it will be an invitation like all the others and one completely different, all at the same time. One day you'll invite me on an adventure, and it will be just like the first time you did so. Except, it will be so much more. The things that will be said will be the ones that were said the first time, except they won't be said at all. Not with words, anyway.
One day you will offer an invitation to an adventure and your eyes will say "Could be dangerous" (and this time I will know it is a promise), and yet, there I will be. Your breath will ask "Wanna see some more?" and my lips will answer "Oh, God, yes."
See, told you I wouldn't leave you hanging off a cliff! ;)