Wanted
John had forgotten the number of times he had truly looked at Sherlock. There would be times where Sherlock would slip into silence for hours on end, and John would simply sit with him, somehow subconsciously wanting to let the man know he was not alone when he endeavored so deeply into his mind. But in the menial time it took for him to make tea, tidy the flat, or cook something to make sure Sherlock would remember to eat something, he truly got to look at the consulting detective.
On many occasions John did not want to admit the fact that, although he didn't identify as a gay man, there was something about his flatmate that had him completely enraptured in the man. Proven time and again with girlfriends, forgetting facts about them, blowing off dinner dates in favor of being there for Sherlock instead, he had let this man squeeze into a part of his soul that no one else had dared to enter in his lifetime. He had long ago known that he probably wouldn't marry, and a part of him had hoped that he wouldn't be returning from his double tour in Afghanistan. But a part of him found the solace of companionship the moment he met Sherlock Holmes. This man who knew him the moment after their introduction. This man who, after all their time together, had begun to make his heart swell upon seeing him.
But all of his observations had begun to come to conclusions and he didn't like. The results he was being given twisted a pit into his stomach. He saw a lonely, withdrawn, brilliant man who did not know what human touch was, who did not understand what comfort was, or what it meant to be given love. He saw a man who relied on very few people simply from being so far withdrawn into himself that his observation of human life was done through his microscope and the views he made upon the dead. Sometimes John didn't understand how one person who knew so much about human behavior was so alien to the world he lived in.
Even with the conclusions he drew, John wanted Sherlock more than any other person he had ever encountered in his life. This man had brought so much brilliance into his life, yet John felt like he brought so very little to the table. Of course most people told him that it was his tolerance for Sherlock and his ways that was his most exceptional talent, but he didn't understand how most people couldn't tolerate him. His mind worked in such a fascinating way that even in circumstances that caused him to be upset, John still understood his calculated point of view. He had never met a mind that worked like Sherlock's, and to him, every day was an adventure.
When Sherlock had jumped from St. Bart's, John had finally come to the realization of how much Sherlock had become the Master of his universe. Although John maintained a job, still went for drinks at the pub, fancied a girl or two or four but only Sherlock truly counted them, Sherlock had placed himself into every bit of John's consciousness. Every thought of groceries in the house, a case he was upset or fixated about, every single feature on his face was a story to John. Every song he played to guide John from a nightmare, every scheme he planned to escape another close call with a psychopath. Every time he was truly and deeply upset, and John stayed awake worrying that he would hear the door slam, praying that Sherlock wouldn't contemplate relapsing. Sherlock mastered John as a dominant would a submissive. But this wasn't sex, or not yet it wasn't. But their lives. Every breath he took was another to remind him that a new adventure was moments away.
But his adventure had come to an abrupt end when he saw his best friend, his brilliant master, fly from the top floor of the hospital and his precious beautiful blood seep from his body. John didn't ever think he would be able to rid his mind of those images. And the moment he leapt, all John wanted to scream was how much he wanted him, how much he loved him, and how much he wished he had known before he had died.
He remembered the day they had buried him. Mycroft didn't even show. He, of course, had paid for the entire thing, but to not be willing to say goodbye to his own flesh and blood made John's heart ache for this man even that much more. Did no one want to claim him as their own? Aside from himself and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade had shown, and Molly. But with what he had done, who he had been, in the end he was simply so very alone. Standing crying at his grave had hurt just as much as watching him die. To know he was now forever alone in some beautiful mahogany box six feet below his feet made John want to be sick. Wrapping his hands around the headstone John fell to his knees and whispered the words he had wished to say to the ice blue eyes that seemed imprinted in his memory.
"I wanted you. In all of your brilliance and ignorance, your anger and sociopathic tendencies. Your wonderfulness and your small smiles that you rewarded to me in those few moments I knew you to be happy. In your stubbornness, I mean what man refuses to wear pants in Buckingham Palace? I wanted you without any sense of logic, without any calculation or understanding. I loved you Sherlock Holmes even when I hated you. You were the master of a universe I had given up on. A world you brought me back to when I had resigned myself to boredom, to PTSD and thoughts of death. And how the tables turned didn't they? To watch my savior leap to his death when I finally realized even if I came second best to your work, I loved you ridiculously. I wanted you. I wanted to teach you what it meant to hold someone's hand for no reason. What it meant to kiss someone for comfort, and find my own private wing in your mind palace so you knew you didn't have to be alone in that endless mind of yours. I wanted to know what it was like to crawl into bed and feel the hardened planes of your body wrap around me and to fall asleep to the smell of your ridiculously expensive shampoo and that cologne that made you smell intoxicating."
He had taken a deep breath, tears falling freely from his eyes. He remembered they had started to mix in with the rain that had begun to fall, and the only thought he had other than the speech he was giving to the marble headstone in front of him was how fitting it was for the rain to disguise the tears that spilled from him. Taking another a second deep breath, he continued.
"I spent two years denying that we were in any sort of relationship and in the past few weeks, even those before you left me alone here, I wished I could've told you. I wish I could've explained that I never wanted to live a moment of my life without you. You lit a spark back in my life that I still cannot explain. I don't know if it was one of madness, or one of brilliance or even one of love. But I have a kindle simmering in my heart where I wish you were right now. I wish I could've shown you what it felt like to have someone you care about place their hand over your heart. What it feels like to feel a rush beneath your fingers because your mere touch sparks in them something you cannot begin to explain with words. I wish I could have just told you I wanted you. I wanted to hold you, kiss you, maybe have you be ok with the fact that I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted you to be mine. I wanted you to see everything that you were from someone else's point of view. What deductions I made of you. Because truthfully they broke my heart. You quiet, lonely, lovely, brilliant man. You're all I've ever wanted. But now you're gone. And now, now I think I may walk home, crawl into your bed, and hold onto the tiniest fraction of hope that maybe things will have a funny way of working out. Because if you're truly dead, I don't know what purpose I hold when everything I have ever wanted is gone."
John placed a kiss on his fingers, bringing them then to rest over Sherlock's name. It was all he was able to do. Walking away, he never knew he had had an audience, and never saw the stray tears fall from ice blue eyes.
He had gone home that night, and resolved to sleep only once in the bed that Sherlock seldom used. He didn't want to lose what had made this his. The tears that escaped him seemed endless. He had been buried 9 days after the fall from the hospital. 9 days since he had heard his voice lie to him through the phone, asking him to bear witness to the single most terrible thing he had ever seen. Even as a soldier, he had never had to hear his heart die as it dropped so many stories to the ground.
At some point in time he had cried himself out that evening. Falling asleep was not restful but rather his body pleading for escape from reality. He wondered briefly if this was why Sherlock had used drugs in his past. He had heard so many different aspects of drug use over the course of time he had been a doctor, and yet, he never experienced it firsthand. But to wish for respite from your mind, some have no idea of how to do that. His level of contemplation on how to escape wound him up in his former therapist's office, having no idea what to do. His level of anger, and of grief, sorrow, all were pushing towards dangerous roads. The only advice she offered him was to keep writing. She had read his blog, known what Sherlock had done for John, and knew only remembering would help push past what he felt now.
No matter how hard he tried, John felt like part of him would forever be locked onto the man known as Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had done everything in his power to clear Sherlock's name in the wake of his death. He had given him the honor he deserved in death. Mycroft had also taken to paying for all of John's expenses, especially due to the periods of time where he had begun to refuse to leave the house. Mrs. Hudson would visit, along with Lestrade who would still consult him on cases. John had developed quite an eye while working with Sherlock and his ability to deduce a scene had begun to startle even Greg.
John would pour over Sherlock's former notebooks, case files that explained his thought process and which member of his homeless network had a knack for finding out certain things for him. John would instruct Greg on who would welcome a hot cup of coffee for information, or who would require payment for their information. While John was still not as quick as Sherlock had been, he was sometimes right on the coat tails of the world's first consulting detective.
Time passed so rapidly, so slowly, so tediously that John had begun to understand Sherlock's descent to madness. He didn't know if he could take much more. He had begun to feel more and more like his sister. Loving, losing and turning to the drink. He knew better and did it anyway. His parents had been killed by a drunk driver, yet, here he sat, so numb off liquor he could just function through a day. He knew he needed a job soon, maybe a life, but now, now he just wished he could sleep. He felt like the soul of his former friend was passed onto him in death, because he rarely slept, and did nothing but research in regards of cases that were passed his way. He found little solace in anything else. But after 3 days awake, he knew he required a sleeping pill that he had been prescribed, and possibly another few fingers of bourbon.
Except in a drunken state, 6 fingers of pills, and a splash of bourbon looked so much better. And another 6 with another shot. Maybe he would sleep then…
12 months was such a very long time to hardly ever see stars. And if he wished for sleep, John wished to see stars. He hoped they might help him dream. Sherlock's room had such a better view of them from the window he had, and although John hadn't been in this room since the night he had buried Sherlock, he could still smell the detective in this room. Still feel the smell of his expensive shampoo and intoxicating cologne hang in the air. Pulling back the covers, he crawled in and stared at the stars out the window of the apartment as his brain began to beg for respite from the pharmaceuticals coursing through him. He knew if he fell into unconsciousness the likelihood of him waking was slim. But numb was better than this trivial day to day. Everything he ever wanted may be beyond the veil of which he thought he may pass through. He just needed to close his eyes.
His brain began to feel like a tilt-o-whirl, and his eyes felt heavier with each passing moment. If this was death, it wasn't as terrible as it had been for him the first time where he held onto hope that God had a bigger plan for him. Begging for his life. This time, he was allowing it to pass through his fingertips.
But from somewhere far away, he heard a door slam, and feet pounding on the steps of their apartment. He knew he was hallucinating but he was okay with that as well. He allowed his eyes to close, the feeling of warmth and safety beneath the covers that smelled of him. He thought he heard the door open, but nothing was what it seemed. He felt someone pounce on the bed beside him and cold long fingers tap his cheek, his name being called by a voice he knew with the very core of his being. So this is what heaven was?
Again, he heard his voice called, louder and with more urgency.
"JOHN! JOHN! DON'T DO THIS TO ME! PLEASE!"
Why such panic? Why such sadness?
"Please. Please don't leave me."
He felt a hand pry open his mouth, a finger shoved down his throat. The overwhelming need to gag and choke raced through him and he felt vomit come up his throat. No, no he wanted the pills to stay down. Pushing the hand away he swallowed forcing down the pills and alcohol.
"Goddamnit no you don't! You don't get to leave me like I left you."
He was forced up out of the warmth of the bed, and shoved onto the floor of the bathroom in front of the toilet. Shoving two fingers to the back of his throat, he felt a hand hold his head over the toilet bowl as he vomited up time after time the disgusting recalled taste of bourbon and sleeping pills. Endless white foam and foul liquid spilled from his nose and mouth over and over. He felt a hand running through his hair as he continued in the haze of confusion and drugs that had already passed through into his system.
After the last of the retching stopped, he felt someone haul him up and place him in the shower, a warm flow of water hitting him fully clothed as someone helped him remove this top and his pants. Modesty flew out the window as he curled up in the corner of the shower, letting the warm water rain upon him, reminding him of the rain that disguised his tears over a year ago.
Whoever had been helping him had left the room momentarily to fetch him a clean pair of clothes, a glass of water and a cup of tea. He couldn't even begin to figure out who this person was. His vision was hazy, his head swimming and he just wanted to finish what he started. But now was too tired to even make the second attempt.
Moments, or hours passed as the water started turning slightly cooler, and he was roused to stand up and dry off so he could be redressed. Whoever was helping him did this mostly in silence, a quiet whispered instruction here or there, but mainly, in silence. He was handed a toothbrush to brush away the rancid taste in his mouth as he felt his legs and feet being dried, feeling someone place a pair of socks on his frozen feet, a fresh pair of boxers and sleeping pants, and finally a long sleeved shirt over his goose pebbled skin. He could see the halls of his mind palace as whoever helped him get dressed. John was trying to figure out where he knew this touch from, this voice, this scent. But his mind was still a mess and his ability to remain upright was waning. He was helped again into Sherlock's room. Placed into the warmth of the bed once more. Except now he wasn't alone.
"Sleep now. Sleep and I'll explain all you like tomorrow my darling doctor. The master of my universe. All I've ever wanted."
That voice…..that voice….that voice….
He woke the following morning to feeling incredibly warm for one, and two knowing he was not alone. His head was a floating cloud, no sign of a hangover, but knowing he pushed his body too far last night. Ever limb felt like it weighed 100 lbs. and he wanted nothing more than to slip back into the folds of unconsciousness.
"I need you awake. If only for a few moments so I can check you over properly after what you did last night John. Then I promise you can kick me out and go right back to sleep if you like."
That voice. The one from the dream he had last night. Rolling over he fell straight into the pools of two ice blue eyes staring into his own, a mop of curls unruly as they danced across his forehead and John's heart seemed to make its way to his throat because he felt dizzy and sick and his heart ached fiercely in his chest to be teased with such a sight as him at this moment.
"You're dead Sherlock Holmes. I watched you jump. I watched you die. I watched the blood leave your body. And then you show up, you show up a year later, breathing, and alive. I WATCHED YOU BLOODY DIE SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES!"
He stumbled from the bed, pushing himself against the wall, holding onto anything that would keep him steady. His head swam, his body ached, and his heart physically hurt. Sinking to his knees, he met the concerned eyes of his former flatmate that he apparently slept beside for the past several hours. He couldn't process all of this. He couldn't make his head stop.
He felt the anxiety attack swoop upon him as he knew it would. He had had many of them in his lifetime and now, now was no different. His jaw locked, his knees drew themselves up and he closed his eyes to block out the world. The mind palace that he had created took him down hallways and doors to memories he had long ago locked away for times like these. Vacations he had taken, times he had been happy, days that he smiled. Anything that would allow him to take a deep breath and reopen his eyes to the reality he was currently facing. The one where he mourned, the one where he had been lied to, the one where he had been left behind.
Finally forcing his eyes open, Sherlock had come and sit next to him, their knees touching, and his hand wrapped around the ones John had locked around his knees to keep himself steady. He had dreamed of those hands, and that face, and the smell that washed over him as it had the day he first stepped into this room. But he was so angry that none of that mattered. None of what he had wanted prior to this moment mattered.
"I've dreamt of this moment for a year John Hamish Watson. I have dreamt of looking you in the face and explaining what happened and sleeping in this bed, and seeing your face in front of me and not through a camera. I dreamt of giving you a reply."
Gingerly rubbing the bridge of his nose to fight the onslaught of a migraine he knew was coming, John asked the question Sherlock had prompted.
"A reply to what?"
"To the beautiful speech you gave me at my grave."
Although he shouldn't be surprised, John looked at Sherlock, his eyes narrowed.
"You were in the cemetery."
"How many people can say they attended their own funeral and lived to tell the tale?"
"You were in the cemetery and did not approach us, try to explain to me, or anyone that you were alive?!"
"I couldn't. Moriarty had snipers trained on both you and Mrs. Hudson. If I did not jump, he had placed the kill order before he killed himself. If I did not jump, you and Mrs. Hudson would be dead. I needed to track down all of his men, and Mycroft gave me a team of people to do so. One by one I have taken them out. All except one. But he will be dealt with. Mycroft placed cameras in here when he had people deliver groceries. That's how I knew what you did last night. I returned to London about a week ago. Enough time for Mycroft to clear my name, and to finish those who wished to finish us."
"And left me to believe you were dead."
Sherlock couldn't answer, knowing if the roles were reversed that the amount of hatred he would have for John would be gargantuan. He could only nod his head. John closed his eyes again, a small huff of a sarcastic laugh leaving him as he stood. Wordlessly he left the room, walking to his own and locking the door. He couldn't face what was on the other side of the door in that moment. His best friend, after hearing his deepest thoughts, had still left him alone to live in the solitude of thinking someone he loved was dead, and being the only witness to his last words before the fall. Although part of him wanted nothing more than to pull Sherlock in his arms, and kiss him, hold him, explain and show him the words he had spoken in the graveyard, but now, now he felt a year of sorrow burst within him and he cried. Numbness had taken over that first night, and now, now he felt everything, and momentarily he wished those pills had worked. It would have been better than this.
And suddenly he was there, pulling the covers over them as they lay in the bed that smelled of John instead this time. Soft, smelling of fresh laundry and the clean crispness of a military made bed. He burrowed up behind him, the slightly awkward but best intentioned deed meant for comfort.
"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I couldn't. Mycroft smuggled me from the hospital. I had to make them believe I was dead, including your grief so that they wouldn't kill you. I was allowed no contact; no way of showing you I was still alive. I would've given anything to have been able to, especially after what you said in the cemetery. I've wanted you for so long. And then I heard what you said, every word as you wept in the rain and I was not allowed to go to you. To explain, to wrap you in my arms and apologize and tell you that you had it all so wrong. You see but do not observe and I gave my life so you could be safe. You couldn't observe the sniper trained on you while I stood on the roof of that building because I made you see me and not him. I made you see something awful to spare you another bullet, one which would not miss. I'd do anything for you. It's taken me a year to find these words. A year of research on what it is to comfort, and to hold someone's hand. And to place theirs over your heart so you can feel the race of a heart under your fingertips. That's all I could do last night after you fell back asleep. Sit, and check your pulse. Make sure you kept breathing. You got it so entirely wrong Dr. Watson. You became the master of my universe. I had no control, no discipline, no one holding me back from the brink of anything. And then you hobbled into my life believing I was this brilliant man, and although I am a cocky sod, you made me feel like I could take on the world. It was because of you I jumped, and I mean that in such a way that I would surrender my life to make sure you survived every single time. I never had the words. I had actions. Those were my actions, and although I deeply regret what it did to you, the result that pushed you to, that was how I knew to show you I love you. How to tell you I wanted you. I'm tired John. I'm tired of being married to a world that will continue to beat me down and take that which I care for away from me. I would much rather be married to that which makes my heart full, and my head dizzy with happiness, and scared everyday of feeling what it would be like to be apart from you ever again. I almost didn't make it either. Too many times I had temptation hanging in front of me to bring me back to a world I escaped. I wish you could understand."
Taking the fact that John was not moving away from him, Sherlock tugged gently on his waist, a silent plea for him to roll over and face him again. Obliging, John met Sherlock's blue eyes with tears silently making their way down his own. Wiping them away with freezing cold finger tips, Sherlock smiled softly.
"I want you, you crying sod. I want you more than anything in this world, including my former marriage. I'm begging for a divorce from Scotland Yard, if…if you still want me too."
John laughed quietly, shaking his head slightly. For one sickening moment Sherlock thought he may deny him, before John's hand skimmed up the side of his neck, his fingers tangling in his hair before bringing their foreheads together, their lips only centimeters apart.
"Of course I want you. All of you. All day, every day. Even on the days you're being a bloody pain in my arse I'm still going to want you. It's not a feeling that's going to go away because I'm mad at you. That's what happens when you love someone Sherlock Holmes. They find their way into your soul and there is no logic, or equation you can make to figure it out. You won't find it on one of your slides under your microscope. You find it by feeling something. And if you feel this, using emotion and not logic, then we'll figure this thing out between us yeah?"
Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat, and all he could do was nod his head. And for the first time, logic went out the window when Sherlock swooped forward and crushed his lips to John's, feeling his lips surrender to him as they kissed like fools. Soft, warm skin was found with exploring hands as emotions were relented through actions. Finally pulling away, gasping for breath, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's body as his head found the crook of his neck, settling his ear again John's heart. Hearing the frantic gallop of the wonderful organ resounding into his own body made his own heart constrict with some emotions he didn't know he even possessed. His thoughts taken over with the "what ifs" involving if he hadn't been there for John last night, that this beat wouldn't be thumping right then. It made him want to be sick. Smacking him on the chest, Sherlock lifted his head with narrowed furious eyes.
"You were trying to overdose on sleeping pills?"
John's head drummed angrily with a migraine despite the beautiful words Sherlock had said. Wincing, he shrugged his shoulders. An angry Sherlock was getting back to normalcy, not a complete honey-mooner who confessed his undying love in a beautiful speech much like John had.
"Do not shrug at me Dr. Watson. Plus you were drunk…I saw you on those cameras. Hardly leaving the flat, stumbling into the kitchen, and then I saw you take out the pill bottle. I ran out of Mycroft's home like a man possessed. Which, in all reality, is probably the polite way to describe that. And then I saw you in my bed…I've never been that scared in my life."
John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, his eyes tightly shut against the onslaught of light from the room which caused his head to throb worse. Sherlock looked down at him from the position he had assumed, his head propped on his hand, his fingers running softly over John's nightshirt, before falling softly against his forehead. John moaned with pleasure from how cold Sherlock's hand was against his aching head. Swooping down, Sherlock placed a surprising soft kiss against his forehead before sliding from the bed. In a panic, John's eyes shot open.
"Please. Please don't go."
Sherlock sat back down on the edge of the bed. He was drinking in the little knowledge he was getting from the experimental contact he made with John over the past 12 hours. The reactions of the touches he had researched for the past year as he waited for this moment. He wanted every piece of knowledge on how to convey emotion to someone. Gently taking John's warm hand into his own, he gave a small smile to him.
"I'm going to go get you some aspirin and some orange juice. You need something for your head. We'll throw the black out curtains up, and lay wrapped up here all day if you want. I'm not leaving again John Watson. I'll be here. As long as you want me I'll be here."
"I'll always want you Sherlock. Always."
((And that is that! Holy shit longer than I expected to write! Was thinking of writing a smutty sequel but I'd like to know that you think first!))
Xoxoxo
PiercedStarling