On the Wall
A/N: Not related to any of my other stories.
All characters belong to BBC And ACD.
The light coming in through the windows was muted as the sun was in the midst of preparing itself for sleep and from the expensive lace curtains hanging in front of the French doors. The last of the sun streaming in through the window caused shadows from the curtains to leave a mottled display on a man's face. The shadows playing on his face were not unlike the shadows that played in his mind. Shadows he did not wish to think about because it might prove he was human.
He stood at the window, not for the view, which was lovely, a view of his family's estate, of trees, rolling lawns and civilized gardens, but out of loyalty, friendship, fear and an emotion which some might label as love. He was watching over another man, a man who was older, shorter, but infinitely better than he will ever be. A man, he does not believe he deserves as his best friend. Someone who has stood by his side for nearly 4 years, who stood by his side even when lied to, when he left to protect the man's life after he disappeared into a different wilderness than the streets of London.
This man is sitting out in the garden, sitting on a low, brick wall. It appeared as if he was watching the sunset or perhaps he was listening to the birds or maybe he was dreaming of peace. The man in the house fears it is none of these. He was afraid he was thinking about how close the two of them, once again came to death. He was afraid he might be thinking that this time it was too close and that he'll leave the man in the house.
It went something like this. They were chasing down yet another criminal, one who thrilled with the idea of reducing pristine and historical buildings into piles of rubble, who thrilled with death and destruction, who thrilled with taking many people with him when he exploded his final bomb, a bomb the two men knew was in the building but weren't able to quite clear the fallout zone before it collapsed. As the blast and shock wave rolled out from the crumbling structure the shorter man pushed the taller man down and covered the lanky frame of his friend. In doing so the shorter man bore the brunt of the building's demise. Debris and dust covered them both, but brick fragments hit the man on top as well as splinters of wood, shards of glass and other pieces no longer recognizable as anything manmade. The man at the bottom of this pile suffered almost no ill effects, some cuts, bruises, a scrape here or there, a broken wrist was the worst of it. The other man however was badly damaged. The cuts were deeper, the bruising extensive, there were broken ribs, damage to sensitive organs and a severe concussion. It looked as if he might not live through the extensive hurt to his small frame, but the man was made of sterner stuff than the doctors gave him credit for. When after weeks in the hospital, it was deemed he would indeed live and when he was well enough to leave the hospital and travel the taller man brought his friend to his own family home to finish recuperating in the peace and quiet of the English countryside.
He found it difficult, this man who voiced his thoughts aloud in a storm of words, quick and bright, harsh and cold, he found it difficult to express the wonder in the thought that another cared for him as deeply as his shorter friend did. Cared enough to prove time and again that he felt the taller man's life was worth more than his own. It was…inconceivable.
The taller man had been told that caring was not an advantage. And yet…
He opened the doors to the garden and slowly, quietly made his way over to where his friend sat. As he got closer he made a conscious effort to create enough noise so that his approach would not startle the other man. The other man still suffered the after effects of the war he fought in Afghanistan and the taller man had learned to his disadvantage it was not a good idea to startle his friend.
The man on the wall turned his head as the other man approached him and greeted his friend with a smile. The smiles of the shorter man were valued and treasured by the taller man. This one was a sweet smile of peace and contentment and simple joys and pleasant greetings, a smile that reminded the taller man of home and tea and wooly sweaters.
The air was mild and warm in the garden; so much so that both men wore the sleeves of their shirts rolled up past the elbows. If people who knew them from London had seen them dressed this way they would have thought it odd to see the one with out an expensive designer jacket and the other without the aforementioned wooly sweater.
"It's a beautiful evening. I'm glad you came out to enjoy the last of the fresh air before we head back tomorrow," said the shorter man.
The taller man didn't say anything at first; he stood there looking everywhere in the garden but at his friend sitting on the wall. He was seeing the garden, but he was not observing. For instance he did not observe the slight frown that replaced the sunny smile on his friend's face.
"Sherlock? Is there something wrong?" asked the shorter man.
"Wrong? No, nothing. What could be wrong?"
"Well you seem…distracted and not like, well not like you."
Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and then messed it up more than it already was.
"Don't be ridiculous! I am not distracted."
"Well then what ever is the matter?"
Sherlock paused and looked everywhere but at his friend. He took a deep breath and tried to order his scattered thoughts.
"I might be…. I might be…concerned," he intoned slowly.
"Concerned?" now the kind face held puzzlement.
"Yes, John, I might be concerned that…that I have once again…oh bollocks!" And Sherlock kicked at a loose chunk of brick that was lying in the grass near the wall. John was mildly surprised at his friend.
John patted the wall beside him and said, "Sit down Sherlock and tell me what on earth is going through that great brain of yours."
Sherlock glanced his way but his gaze slide off as quickly as it had come. He frowned, huffed and sat beside John, arms crossed and looking everywhere but at the man beside him.
John, who was often belittled and scoffed at, not necessarily in an unkind or intentionally cruel way, by his genius of a friend, John was much smarter than said friend gave him credit for. Sherlock actually did think John was more intelligent than many of the other people he was forced to deal with, but he didn't go out of his way to inform his friend of how he thought and felt about him. John's intelligence lay not only in the acknowledged fact that he was a first rate doctor, but in the power of helping Sherlock understand emotions. He helped him delve down into his psyche and handed him the key to opening the door behind which his emotions or at least his ability to express them appropriately were stored. His 'great brain' wasn't often equipped to sort out feelings and sentiment. It was as if they were visitors from a foreign country and they weren't allowed past the front gates of his home in case they sullied it with unconventional ways and strange cultural differences.
"Sherlock," John asked tentatively, "are you feeling guilty? About what happened in London? With the bomb and all? I know we've avoided talking about it. Because if you are feeling badly then you're an idiot."
And John's face broke into a wide grin as the man beside him muttered something under his breath.
"Sorry didn't catch that," he pretended deafness.
"I said I am not feeling guilty!"
"Then what is it? Really? The suspense is killing me."
Sherlock cringed at the words that ended John's sentence.
"Don't say that," he muttered.
"Don't say what?"
"Don't say that it's killing you! That's what I almost did! Again!" Now he was shouting.
John's face momentarily looked as if it had been hit with a large plank of wood. And then understanding broke upon it instead.
"Oh," he said.
"Yes," said Sherlock still not looking at his friend.
"You silly bugger! You did not almost kill me. That was the maniac with the C4 running about London blowing up everything. And as for me dying, well yes it might have been touch and go there for a while, but I'm fine, mostly, except for some aches and pains and a persistent headache. And that will go away to. So it's okay, Sherlock, really, it is. I'm okay."
"John, you would not have been hurt in the first place if you didn't insist on following me around, if you didn't insist on…on," and he cleared his throat and finally got the hard part out. "If you didn't insist on saving my life every time to the detriment of your own." Sherlock still refuse to meet John's eye. He muttered something again.
John, who was momentarily stunned by the outburst, didn't register what Sherlock had said at first. And then his brain caught up.
"What was that? You think you don't deserve it? Oh Sherlock!"
John was quiet for a moment, thinking how best to make his friend understand how important his life was to John.
"Sherlock you have to understand what I am going to tell you, so I want you to listen. If it weren't for you I wouldn't be here. Don't you remember what I was like when you first met me? How sad and lost I was? You saved me first Sherlock. I would have died if you hadn't come along, from boredom or fear that I'd always be useless or by my own hand." Sherlock flinched. "It's true." He paused because there was still a great deal of hurt and pain John was still dealing with from the time the detective was away.
"When you went away…. When you left me, you did it to save me, me and Mrs. Hudson and Greg. And when I thought you died I wanted to die to. I know you don't want to think about that and I'm sorry, but you have to think about it in order to realize that when you came back I started breathing again. Yes it hurt for you to go and there may be parts of that time that I might not forgive you for, but what I learned from that is how alive you make me feel. So if I have to pay you back by taking a hit now and then I will. Because I may have saved you Sherlock, but you saved me first. You save me everyday. And," the sunlit smile glowed all over his face. "I'd like to see you try and stop me from following you all over."
Sherlock sat there with a confused look on his face. Then his face cleared and he understood what John was saying. He finally looked his friend in the eye and nodded.
He smiled a shy quiet smile, which John appreciated as the rare gift it was, and he in return grinned a large grin and that was the end of the discussion.
While they had been sitting there, coming to terms with the knowledge that they were both alive because of each other, night fell and the breeze picked up. It was a little chilly and both men were thinking of going back to the house. But it was quiet and peaceful, something that didn't happen often in their risk filled lives. They decided to sit there on the wall and enjoy the moment while it lasted.
"It really is a beautiful night."
"Sentiment? From you?"
"Shut up, John."
John just smiled and watched as the fireflies and stars tried to out do each other.