A/N: So, this is a bit different from what I usually write, but I've had this idea in my head for a long time, and then Valentine's day rolled around, and I figured, well, my Valentine this year would probably like it.
So this is for you, my Valentine. You know who you are.
And as for the rest of you... I hope this doesn't suck too badly. I would like to remind you that this is un-beta'd, and I am American, so any Americanisms/typos/screw-ups of any sort are mine, and I apologize in advance.
One last thing- this story is loosely based off the song Two Weeks by Grizzly Bear. I very highly recommend it, as it is gorgeous and perfect and beautiful.
And onto the disclaimer!
DISCLAIMER: Ain't none of this is mine. Except, perhaps, the way I structure the words.
"Save up all the days
A routine malaise
Just like yesterday
I told you I would stay"
- Grizzly Bear, "Two Weeks"
It had been three years, two months, and six days since Sherlock Holmes fell from the roof of St. Bart's when Sherlock decided to reveal to Captain John Watson, MD, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, that he hadn't actually died, per say.
Or fallen, for that matter.
Sherlock had been sitting on the couch in the middle of John's new flat (small, couldn't afford anything else, filled with minimal personal possessions, so was unattached, depressing, Sherlock's fault, Sherlock's fault-) when John entered the sitting room.
And stared. And stared. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hello, John," he offered.
John groaned and went back into the kitchen.
Sherlock hadn't been expecting this. A punch, perhaps. Very slight probability of John passing out. Maybe even him walking out. Not this... Resigned sadness.
"John?" he asked, as he followed him into the kitchen.
John continued to make himself a cup of tea, resolutely ignoring Sherlock.
Sherlock could tell that something was wrong. (Well, something was wrong. He'd left his best friend alone for three years.) So he said nothing, and continued to follow John around.
After about fifteen minutes, John had had enough of this. He turned around, slamming the book he'd been trying to read on the table.
"That's it," he said. "I've finally lost it, haven't I?"
Sherlock stared at him uncertainly. Then it hit him. Oh. John didn't think he was real.
Oh, John.
"I mean, granted," John added, voice taking on a slightly hysterical edge, "Your hair was never that short, and you never wore anything that casual, but I guess it's what I want to see." He closed his eyes, now more confused than anything. "Only I don't want to." He looked at Sherlock. "Please go away."
Sherlock was a self-diagnosed, high-functioning sociopath. He had divorced himself from his feelings at an early age. Caring was not an advantage, he decided, and his brother encouraged him. Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. (Something he knew only too well- sentiment had been his downfall three years ago. Not that he'd take what he did back.)
That didn't mean he didn't have a heart, and it gave a funny little twist at the look of pain and sadness on John's face.
"John," he whispered. Tried to speak. Couldn't. Gulped. Take a deep breath, he coached himself. "John," he croaked, "I'm real."
"Yeah, right," John scoffed. "I'm pretty sure most hallucinations say that."
Sherlock examined his options. He could continue to argue with John, or...
He slowly went to stand next to John and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
John stiffened. Sherlock could practically hear the thoughts as they raced through John's brain.
"Sherlock," John said, breathless. He turned around. Slowly, he placed a hand on Sherlock's chest, then his wrist. Took his pulse.
Sherlock swallowed.
Then, blinding pain. There's that punch, he thought, grinning to himself as he fell to the floor.
John was waiting when Sherlock awoke, and he had questions. Many of them.
Sherlock answered as best as he could. And when he was done, he looked at John, eyes silently asking him what he couldn't say out loud. Will you come with me? Back to Baker Street, to Mrs. Hudson, to late night chases and crime scenes and no sleep and the two of us against the rest of the world?
John sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was still processing this, this- whatever this was. He looked at Sherlock, and felt like he had aged fifty years in the span of an hour. Rage, sorrow... He felt it all. Tomorrow, his eyes said. Tomorrow we'll talk. For now...
Sherlock got the message. He smiled a little sadly and left the flat, heading back to 221B, to home.
John realized that this was the first time he'd punched someone since Sherlock had di- left. His mouth quirked up at the thought. Sherlock certainly did affect him, in ways he didn't (and didn't want to) understand.
The next day, they met again. John moved back in. There was a bit of unresolved tension, of awkwardness, in the air, but John attributed it to the three year gap in their relationship. That, and the bright bruise blossoming on Sherlock's face.
John figured it would go away with time.
That had been three months ago.
John woke up, not slowly, but not quite quickly either, savouring the warmth of his bed and the general feeling of content one gets after a good night's rest.
Then he frowned, remembering what waited downstairs.
What waited downstairs was Sherlock Holmes, and all the tension, anxiety, and feeling of walking on eggshells that came with living with him. And John, for the life of him, couldn't tell how it had gotten to be like that.
He missed the easy friendship he used to have with Sherlock- well, as easy as something with Sherlock could ever be. They had smiled, laughed, joked with each other. John had taken the edge off of Sherlock's boredom when it was at its worst, and Sherlock had provided John with a sense of companionship and home that he hadn't had since he was discharged.
John couldn't remember the last time they'd smiled, much less laughed.
He hated it.
And so, John thought as he trudged downstairs, another day begins.
Sherlock was on his laptop when John came downstairs.
Once again, he hadn't slept, foregoing sleep in favour of doing vital research. His head perked up as he saw John trudge down the stairs.
"Morning," John said. Sherlock grunted in reply.
Sherlock may not have been the best when it came to understanding human relationships and emotions, but even he could tell John and his relationship had changed. Understandable, after three years of absense. But this, well... This was strange. Different.
Both men thought that they were sick of the jagged edge to their friendship, the constant sense of dancing around and over the shattered remains of what used to be between them.
John sat down and enjoyed his tea, trying not to let the silence of the flat spoil his mood.
It didn't work.
John didn't know what he would give for Sherlock to play the violin again, to complain of boredom and the idiocy of the commonwealth, hell, even shoot the wall again. But he was sure he'd pay an awful lot.
One more day, he told himself. Just one more day.
In the end, John didn't make it until the end of the day.
The silence of 221B was killing him. He couldn't take it anymore. Memories of the past were made aggravated by the painful silence of the flat and its inhabitants, and John needed to leave.
He'd received an offer for a job in Kent. And he planned on taking it.
"Sherlock," he said, looking at his still flatmate. Sherlock hadn't moved in about three hours, having said he was reorganizing his mind palace. Not that he did much differently these days.
"Sherlock," he said again, gently.
Sherlock looked up, sensing that something was wrong. John didn't usually talk to him like that. He looked at him, deduced him, then-
"You're leaving." It was said with the same amount of gravity and accusation as someone accusing their lover of cheating.
John looked at the look of hurt and confusion on Sherlock's face. "Yes," he said, looking down. He coughed slightly, a futile effort to relieve the tension in the room.
"You got a job offer."
"Yes." John didn't question how Sherlock knew this.
Sherlock remained silent, but John could hear the unasked questions flying across the room, stabbing him in the chest like daggers.
Where?
How long until you leave?
Will we still see each other?
Why?
Why?
Why?
John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
"I was going to leave tomorrow," he said, but the second the words were out of his mouth and he saw the hurt in Sherlock's eyes he knew this was unacceptable. "But I can stay until the job starts." Still not enough.
"I don't have to leave for two weeks."
Sherlock let out a slow exhalation. Then he spoke up. "This- job, you could still turn it down, correct?"
John knew where this was going. He knew what Sherlock was doing, what he was asking- if he could change whatever was wrong, would John stay?
What the hell, John thought.
"Yes. I can cancel last minute if need be."
Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, retreating back into his mind palace.
By the end of the day, Sherlock had a tentative plan. He had fourteen days. Two weeks.
He could get John to stay. He had to.
He didn't want to think of what would happen if he couldn't.
A/N: I'll try to update this at least once a week, until it's done.
Reviews wouldn't just be appreciated. They'd be kept and hoarded and treasured by me, and maybe slept on.
I swear, I am not secretly Smaug. Or any dragon of any sort, actually.
Love, Rainy