Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to, and are create by, Sir Conan Doyle and wonderfully adapted by Moffat, Gatiss, and Vertue etc. I am not making any kind of profit from this, I just write for the fun and pleasure of it.
I do, however, own my imagination and I welcome you to it :)
Chapter one- Cold acquaintance.
The ebbing tide whelmed around his ankles, lapping up the residue of sand from his frozen feet as his breath suffused into the English sea air in shallow clouds. A deep guttural sigh accompanied this touch, boarding on a moan, suppressed somewhat by the blatant abruptness of its contact. The blasted, indignant sea: unforgiving yet offering absolution. Satisfyingly constraining yet potentially obliterating. But what's there to care for when it mediates as a short term solution to the apparent long-term problem?
His bowing head shakes such thoughts absent into the open air, undiluted ponderings and rash thinking won't play an advantage; especially since the 'problem' (as if it is constricted to one!) is in reference to a man (Ha! A Man? Teeth find bottom lip, biting down in concentration. Yes, for what's it worth, a man. In some respect. Bites harder: be fair, he urges his thoughts) and an exceptionally brilliant man at that.
Another shaky inward breath; cracking and unsteady although growing in confidence with the relative calm that forces its way, out of habitual experience and familiarity, around his body. That's right, breathe. In protest to the cold, John wrapped his arms a little tighter around his chest, offering the little protection to his fragile skin beneath his T-Shirt.
Not was much in the opportunity, or patience, in acquiring proper outdoor clothing, having prioritising putting a substantial amount of distance between himself and his flatmate. Now he felt regretful, a thought he didn't wish to reckon, however, as repenting his actions was something that was out of the question.
No. He regretted his trembling body; the short fretful vibrations proliferating his skin, slicing through its insulating layers like tiny pins but most certainly not the reason to which he stood before the desolate sandy expanse. The cold be damned, what's to fret about a little chilly weather?
He huffs, forcing his bare toes into the moistened sand concealing them in camouflage, head titled back now in full exposure to the dismal sky. What was the difference? He was acquainted with coldness. His eyes flutter closed and squeeze perfectly shut, his brows furrowing in deliberation.
Ouch.
That was a cruel thought, even in the circumstances. But it happened once too often. Too often did he find his friend bent double over their kitchen work-top, his long wiry fingers gripping its edges, in attempt to lessen the afflictive tremors working their way along his body. Too often he found him with his legs upon the settee and back lying flat against the floor, somewhat reposed, with his arms sprawled vulnerable above his head, bent at the elbows, exposing the rapid rise and fall of his chest which, much of the time, was bare.
It was just too much, John rendered. All of it was. The proceeding occurrences then worked like clockwork, a chain of events that ended in the inevitable deflation of lungs in a hopeless sigh. Palms raised in defiance:
Game over, I'm done, they read.
"Sherlock…" John almost whispered, afraid of both startling and upsetting his flatmate. "I thought we agreed on this, we agreed, Sherlock, that you would stop-"
"I have stopped," he retorted shortly from where he sat across the room. The dimmed room as it was so often these days. The living room curtains were closed save from the one farthest the fireplace which aloud a small seam of light to trace the wooden floor. There was a soft light, probably emanating from a lamp, that flickered from somewhere within the kitchen.
"Not this you haven't."
His anger subsided however, as it often did, when he caught Sherlock tuck his trembling fingers between his knees in a sorry effort to hide his condition. Delicate vibrations travelled the length of his arms, pronouncing the tension in his muscles, as he contended for the state of restraint that he was accustomed to. However this only stressed the sharp jerking of his shoulders as if some unknown dynamistic force charged his motion. Even in fever Sherlock proved resilient, something John admired him greatly for; he felt the bubble in his chest burst.
Sherlock opted to crossing his arms instead. Yes, much better.
There he sat, the most brilliant man John had ever come to know and be recognised by, debilitated and despairing. His wide eyes staring reproachfully at him, which still maintained their hypnotic effect even within the gloom, as if waiting for the certain misgivings and nonsensical ramblings of his only friend John Watson. Only close friend that he would admit to in any case.
They were sure to come of course, the exclamations, John could feel the slight tingling radiating through his abdomen sending a sickly feeling to his stomach and to the place which felt suspiciously like his heart indicating such. But this time it felt different. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel the urge to grab the taller man's shoulders and shake his abandoned sense into him that so accompanied such feelings in these times.
No. He felt tired and exasperated but most of all he felt disturbed. Driven into an emotional oblivion and disturbed.
Having given up on waiting for a response, John resigned to a heavy sigh and placed his shopping in the armchair opposite Sherlock neighbouring the fireplace to free his hands and pulled open some curtains. Sherlock hissed at the unwelcome light.
"Jesus, Sherlock, its broad daylight," he muttered irritably, mostly to himself.
"Helps me think."
"The dark?"
"Keeps the world out and my discernments convened, anything else?" he mused, quirking his brow disdainfully.
Oh, now John wouldn't mind strangling him exasperated or otherwise. Ignoring Sherlock's cheek he remarked,
"I bought some groceries saying as you I knew you couldn't be bothered to get any."
"Eh, boring-"
"Boring? Too boring for you is it, Sherlock? It's normal. This," he waved his arm in Sherlock's general direction, "this isn't normal."
Sherlock's eyes searched the other man's face hastily apparently alarmed by his friend's tone which wasn't what he was expecting at all, that much was plain on his face. It was almost shy and empty of its usual urgency. It was much less…John.
Surely John would be roused by seeing Sherlock like this rather than calm. No, calm wasn't it, definitely wasn't it. Much rather he was forlorn, distant and despondent. Anything but calm; unless calmness was the new hysteria. This, in turn, disturbed Sherlock himself; something in the air had shifted, something altered in their relationship in these recent moments that couldn't be rightly named.
John noticed that Sherlock was experiencing this same alteration that he felt in his heart; although he couldn't imagine where Sherlock could be feeling it.
"John, I-" he began, bringing his tenuous fingers to lightly trace the thick lashes bordering his now closed eyes. John noticed that he often did this when he was at loss of words which usually preceded his attempted words of consolation.
"No, Sherlock, just don't. I don't want to hear it, anything you've got to say I don't want to hear it unless you can promise me that you'll get help because you obviously aren't accepting mine. So no, whatever it is you're going to say, leave it out."
He could feel Sherlock's penetrative gaze, could imagine his silenced mouth forming a scowl across his paling lips, he could almost hear his flatmate's inner cognitions working overtime attempting to quantify the unmistakably subjective. He did not dare look at him however, not when he was all set on being annoyed with him. He didn't need the distraction of Sherlock's decidedly inscrutable eyes reaping havoc on his innards, making him lose focus on his point in an argument as they so often did.
No, it didn't seem fair to be observed under the microscope, laid bare where his emotions betrayed him, written so plainly and almost mercilessly on his face; scrutinised, analysed and even, but not so often, manipulated. Yes, he thought rightly to divert his focus elsewhere.
He was thankful enough, however, that instances that required a certain level of empathy and that the deciphering of emotions weren't exactly Sherlock's strongest point and he knew that since he entered 221B moments ago, Sherlock would be fretful of this lack of ability (that should be innately driven, no less).
John himself wasn't entirely sure what had changed within him but he almost regretted making the decision to ignore the other man; he reckoned he'd quite like watching him squirm in his ignorance. Oh how the tables would turn.
"John…" came his voice uncharacteristically small, "John?"
That did it. John could feel his protective walls crumbling. So much for keeping it together. He lifted his gaze and found eyes already transfixed on him; he knew immediately that this wasn't a clever move. Oh God how he weakened when those icy blues, flecked with greens and greys (and even browns), searched him, no doubt deducing him to the point of the other man's inadvertence; he felt transparent, like nothing went unseen.
Sherlock had brought his hands together, palms and fingers lightly touching, and were firmly pressed against his lips as if in prayer. They quivered slightly and John felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and grab them, take hold of them, anything to make them stop shaking.
Stop shaking.
"Sherlock, this isn't good for your health, for both of our health-"
"Both?" his voice rising an octave questioningly, confused.
"Yes," he groaned, rolling his eyes already fed-up. "I mean for God's sake Sherlock, I live here too, its hardly habitable. I don't mind the odd experiment or two but I don't want to keep finding fingers in the bloody margarine tubs to spread my toast with, I mean how can I possibly bring anyone over?"
"Well then don't," he snapped, as if it were the only obvious solution. "Anyway, I thought you were staying with, who's this one, Jane? Or is it Sandra, or Melanie? Honestly John, I can't keep up."
John flushed to, what he assumed to be, a beaming pink; not that there was anything to smile about.
"Jenny, actually," he eventually choked out sounding wounded and a little too defensive. Why did he have to choke up now? Maybe wrapping his arms possessively around his chest as if is innards would just drop out onto the floor didn't help the whole I-don't-give-a-toss image either. God that would satisfy the arrogant git.
"Plus if you cared to notice I arrived back yesterday evening, if you weren't so self obsessed maybe you'd notice that I'm back a little earlier than what I intended," he huffed. "But I suppose you'd have no idea why that may be, hmm?"
Sherlock just continued to stare at him curiously. It was hopeless. John shrugged and was about to lift the carrier bags into the kitchen when the slight turn of his head brought his attention suddenly to a small glassy apparatus, cushioned clumsily between an untidy pile of newspapers as if hastily shoved there upon his arrival only now to be blatantly exposed by the new existing light; a foil in his flatmate's manoeuvre that he'd be kicking himself later for.
"What the bleeding hell is that doing there?" He realised he was shaking now too, which wasn't like him. He felt sick, as if someone had taken leave of his composure, all his sense of reason, his assurance. Why would Sherlock have a syringe? It was obvious: Sherlock had lied. The aching pang of betrayal riveted through him.
"You're still using," he whispered almost inaudible. It wasn't a question.
Sherlock eyes widened in alarm, his face clearly the depiction of anguish, convulsing into a grimace as if uncertain what to do with his often impassive expression. After a while he slowly stood and reached out towards him, fingers drawn out to be placed lightly on John's shoulders, his thumbs rotating slowly as if to soothe (I wonder where he learned that?).
Despite himself, John welcomed the touch, unconsciously leaning forward seeking more, wanting so much to be reassured, comforted, just held, weary of the one always doing the doctoring; he should throw him off in anger, dismiss him, but he couldn't, the pain in the other man's stricken eyes rendered it difficult.
"No," the taller man breathed, "I said I would stop and I did. It's in the past, it's over, gone." His grip on him tightened considerably. "It's in the past," he reaffirmed.
"But then what's all this doom and gloom about, all the shaking? And tell me, Sherlock, why you still have the damned thing in the flat and in a pile of bloody newspapers?" He was growing furious now. Any contact was bad contact. He needed to get out before he regretted what he was so disparate to say next.
"Oh never mind that, just tedious withdrawal symptoms, you already knew that John, you're a doctor" he muttered hurriedly, waving his hand dismissively as if such predicaments were trivial, unimportant.
"I was doing a bit of clearing out, I was merely moving it-"
"Oh don't make me laugh Sherlock, you never clear away anything, do I have "idiot" stamped to my forehead?" He could feel himself starting to sway slightly, his shoulders slackening under the pressure of Sherlock's touch. Pulling away, John took a step back, steadying himself; having Sherlock within such a close proximity wasn't good for clearing his head. Besides he wasn't much inclined in giving away his distress whenever he could help it, writhing under Sherlock wasn't among his priorities. Shuddering at that thought he cleared his throat and mentally shook his senses back into order.
"Stop looking at me like that," he suddenly snaps, the petulant reverberation in his voice surprising even himself. The effect on Sherlock was almost comical; if he wasn't so fed-up he might have giggled.
"Like what?" Sherlock replied dumbfounded, eyebrows raised in bewilderment, clearly thrown off by the conversations change of course.
"Like that," he grumbled accusingly, lifting his hand to Sherlock's face. "Like I might fall apart at any moment or something."
"John, come on-" he began, reaching out to take his hand.
"No," he scolded, moving away instantly as if he'd been shocked. Sherlock touching him would send him over the edge. "Don't you "come on" me, Sherlock."
John made to leave, forgetting his coat and barely shoving his feet into the right shoe, swearing under his breath in irritation.
"Get off me, Sherlock, I mean it-"
"John-"
"-and put the milk in the fridge before it goes sour."
And that was that. With a few more curses and slamming of doors later, John left 221B, leaving the stress behind him; the fret, the worry, the fever. Sherlock.
Now he wasn't quite sure if he liked the sensation, the feeling of being alone, being left alone to his own thinking. He supposed he should return to the flat, to his home, to Sherlock. He wondered what he had done when he'd left; did he take his chair again and sit gazing into the openness his mind far away in thought? Or, John thought hopefully, did he worry; was he concerned for John and where he went?
John sighed. Somehow he didn't think so. The latter was something to be desired. Finding his shoes and slipping them painfully on his wet feet, he made his way back. Nothing ever changes there. Like a pivot, like clockwork, leading back to one final destination, the starting-point. As if wrapped in strings, tied and bound and helplessly strung, pulling him back like eager little fingers, greedy and relentless.
Like the strings of a violin. Like the strings of his heart. Potentially obliterating, indeed: Home is where the heart is.
Author's note:
I hope you liked it, tell me what you think! I know I didn't get into a case right away but I mean to, I honestly didn't think that this would be so long, but there you go.
Oh and I'll leave you to be the judge of whether or not the chapter title is in reference to the weather or if Sherlock deserves such an entitlement. Pathetic fallacy eat your heart out. I know what I choose.
And yes, any innuendo was intended.
I'll update shortly :)