The thrum of the city, pounding, zooming, screaming. Cars, squealing past. The chatter of a mob of two as they storm past the flat.
The window is closed.
Pay attention, London screams. See. Look. Observe.
"Try again."
And again. And again. Once more with a smile for the guests of the house.
Pressing. His back against the couch. His fingers tucked under his chin, prayer-like. His eyelids against his eyes. His world, pressing on his shoulders.
"Sherlock," his world says.
He doesn't understand the universe. The neverending, infinite mass that was the galaxy. Its limitless capacity for stars. For. planets. For meteorites. For dust. It expects him to understand. It demands attention.
Can't the others hear it? Pounding. Zooming. Screaming.
"Sherlock," his world tries again.
(And again. And again.)
The earth goes around the sun. But doesn't the sun rise and set on the horizon? How can the earth go around the sun? How is heliocentric politically correct? Doesn't the earth follow the sun? How come the sun remains ever still? How come it doesn't move, racing after the planets, the meteorites, the dust? Would the earth still follow if it did so?
Of course. Of course it would.
"Are you even paying attention to me at all?" his world asks.
Sherlock's father never knew the stars. He looked, he observed, but he never saw. Never saw the glimmer of them, winking with coy, clever, victorious, sad, pitying smiles.
"Can you hear me? Sherlock!" his world shouts.
I can. I'm afraid to face you.
His eyes open. Blinking. Seeing. Looking. Observing. Crying.
"Sherlock?" his world asks.
"John," Sherlock croaks in return. He reaches up, like a child reaching for a mother not forced away, a father who could actually see the stars.
John lets Sherlock pull him down, wrapped in an embrace that spoke a thousand words.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?" his world murmurs, holding the younger, yet still taller man through the sobs that wracked his body. John cooes, running his hand through Sherlock's hair, a soothing hand on his back.
"He tried to kill me," Sherlock whispers shakily.
"Who? Moriarty?"
Sherlock shakes his head minutely, clinging to John.
Suns don't get confused. They're stars. They don't need to understand how to live, because inanimate objects just do precisely so. They don't need other stars.
Planets need stars.
"It's fine. He won't hurt you," John said, with an uncertain edge to his voice. He's confused. It's alright. The world is full of flaws, but there's only one world that was Sherlock's. One world for him in a sea of nothing and everything.
The universe is too loud. It would kill him. It would kill him, because that was the natural order of life. Life, then death. Stars died. Meteorites crumbled. Dust became nothing.
Even planets withered. Sherlock just hopes his world will outlive him.
"Don't die," he tells John.
"I'll try not to," his world says, and kisses his brow.
AN: God I hope that made sense. I just have issues with Sherlock's Daddy Issues and just I needed someone to hug him on this day and John was conveniently there and good for run-on sentences! I'm just going to post this and go put my head in the sand or something ... Yeah. Good plan. Thanks for reading!