SHERLOCK
HEY, I'M ON THE EDGE OF THE EARTH
Author's Note:
Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Story Title/Lyrics: Universe by The Living End
Warnings: Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts and depression
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.
"To live, to breathe, to die
Give me one reason not to try
Why should I be afraid?"
It's not just Sherlock who's damaged, John thought as he slowly put the gun down. Sally Donovan, and half the people at Scotland Yard, liked to call Sherlock a "freak", a "sociopath", a "weirdo". But John Watson- who looked normal, sweet, and had a killer smiler- was just as screwed up as his flatmate.
He lived for danger; for the high of chasing a clue, a suspect, through London's dark, dangerous streets. Mycroft Holmes had been correct when he said, "You aren't haunted by the war, Dr Watson; you miss it".
Because God did John love the adrenalin rush; the way your senses heightened when in danger, the way your fight or flight response kicked in, either urging you to run, run away fast, or stand your ground and battle your way out.
Sherlock wasn't the only one who needed that rush. John needed it too. When things got too slow, when there were no cases and he only had hours upon hours to work at the surgery, John got so very, very bored.
There was only routine; get up a few hours before his shift; eat whatever food he could scrounge up in the rather horrid kitchen; shower (if Sherlock wasn't using it for an experiment); get dressed; leave; work; come home; repeat.
Sometimes life could be so incredibly dull. Nobody knew that better than John. He didn't understand how anyone could want normal; how was getting up every day at the same time, doing the exact same thing, and coming home to familiarity okay if you hadn't had adrenalin, fear, danger, during daylight hours? John just didn't get it; he didn't understand how anyone could hate danger.
Sherlock understood; oh, Sherlock understood very well. He suffered more so than John; when his brain had nothing to work on it threw up countless things that wore Sherlock down, made him antsy, made him crave absolutely anything to get his mind focused. John, fortunately, wasn't gifted with an intellect like Sherlock's, and found it slightly easier to find things to distract himself with. Sherlock needed bullets and dead bodies and a puzzle; John could usually settle for a book or cleaning his gun.
But sometimes- rarely, not often- John needed more. He needed something dangerous, like Sherlock did, to get his blood pumping, to make excitement course through his veins, to chase away the tediousness of every day living.
John did stupid things when he got like that. It'd gotten so bad in the past, when it had been weeks upon weeks of mind-numbing normality, that he had considered putting a bullet in his head; the nightmares did nothing to staunch the repetitiveness of his daily life; there was nothing to live for; he was a cripple, a good-for-nothing, washed up soldier; a bullet seemed like a blessing, really.
Now, though, John had Sherlock and cases; he had a boyfriend and mates; he had stuff to live for. But, when there were no cases, when Greg was busy with his own shit, when Sherlock was stuck in the endless cycle that was his mind, John got bored.
And when John got bored, he did stupid things.
Like press a loaded gun to his head just to feel alive.
He didn't want to pull the trigger, of course; not anymore. Still, it was a stupid thing to do. Oh, but how it got his pulse racing; how it made his muscles tighten in anticipation of movement; how the adrenalin flared throughout his body, making his thoughts run at warp-speed, making his breath come in quick, shallow gasps.
It was so dangerous and stupid and it made John feel alive. He'd sit there, in 221B, cold muzzle pressed to his temple, just imagining the damage one simple bullet could do. Just imagining what would happen if his finger were to slip, pulling on the trigger and BAM!
John inhaled sharply at the very thought, at the memory, and his fingers dug into his thigh, knuckles turning white. The gun sat atop the table before him, gleaming in the soft light coming through the window, and John rolled his head, neck cracking. His body felt rigid, stiff, from sitting there for at least five hours. His body was still racing and John reveled in it, closing his eyes as he let his fingers trail over the cold metal and plastic of the gun, feeling dips and contours, tracing the trigger, the grip, back up to the muzzle.
It was so amazing to feel something other than boredom, that John smiled thinly. He barely heard Sherlock approach, apparently back from whatever errand he'd run off to perform a few hours earlier.
Slowly, Sherlock picked up the gun and John let him. He heard the safety being flicked on, followed by the clip being ejected. Sherlock's footsteps retreated as he put the gun in their room, and when he came back he pulled John slowly to his feet.
Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around him and John melted into the embrace. It brought him back to earth, made him inhale sharply and cling tightly to his boyfriend. Sherlock just held him, not saying a word, because he knew.
It wasn't just Sherlock who was damaged; sometimes, John Watson found himself standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to jump of his own volition.
It was wrong, he knew. He was sick, weird, damaged.
But Sherlock was too.
And maybe that's why they worked.
"Hey, I'm on the edge of the earth
This is my universe
Travelling the speed of light, one day at a time
And I don't need to be saved"
- Chris Cheney [The Living End]
{THE END}
Author's Note: I really have no idea. I wanted to write a Johnlock one-shot, because I haven't written any Johnlock in ages. And I was expecting it to be fluffy and cute until this song started playing, and it went very dark very quickly.
And the story probably makes no sense; I'm not even sure what point I was trying to make. Blame Johnny.
Cheers,
{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}