The Empty House
by
Raining Sky Guy
AN. Hi again. Just wanted to say that the name is inspired by the issue of sir ACD's where Sherlock is also brought back to life. I tried making the relationship between them as ambiguous as in the series. Don't ask me about Mary, I have no clue.
Created: June 20th, 2015.
My exam was delayed a week, so instead of studying for that, as I tried to do in June (reason why I didn't post anything), I'm gonna post everything I finished then.
Please, a little feedback on how I managed Sherlock. I'm never sure if I get his character right.
Enjoy…or …uh, yeah, sorry…
Sometimes, sometimes Sherlock actually regrets.
He regrets as he hears John waking up with a strangled cry in the middle of the night.
He regrets as muffled steps draw near his door, hesitating before opening the door slowly. John peeks his head inside, looking tired and sad and just not John.
His face further contracts —in pain? Grief? — when he catches sight of Sherlock. But the other is quick to go up to him, holding him fiercely with mumbled apologies.
.
Two years.
.
John had not told him, but it had been painfully easy to deduce. John had been waking up and gone to his room searching, seeking Sherlock. To prove that he wasn't alone, that what he had seen was merely a figment of this imagination…
But for two years, it had been true.
For two years John had seen him fall. Lying on the cold street, unmoving. For two years, he had woken up with no one next door. Two years opening that door to find- remember, that Sherlock was dead.
Sherlock was no genius on human emotions, but even he knew that such things could break a person.
.
John is still crying in his arms, he holds Sherlock's body as a lifeline even if it already has been a week and the Consultant can't help but wonder if John had already broken and put himself back together.
Mycroft was one big fat liar. He had assured him John had moved on from this death— returned to society. But how could that man know what this blond man did alone? In the deep of the night.
He still did not understand everything that he felt. But if Sherlock was sure of one thing, it was that he was, "sorry. I'm so sorry, John." He presses his cheek against soft hair—John is shaking.
"John, I'm here. I'm right here." He reminds the other, hands going up to rub at John's stiff back. He's hit on the face when the shorter man nods his head brusquely but he's not about to complain.
John knows. He finally knows he's not dead. And he's really happy for that. But his fear hasn't left him. His fear that the next time he wakes up—Sherlock would be dead, that seeing him alive after those two years was merely a pretty lie. That's why, every night Sherlock gets up at the crack of dawn to meet John. That's why he allows John's death grip on him. That's why he mumbles soothingly to his ear that he's right there, he's not going anywhere. Because some part inside John—he still can't believe it.
And one week is far too little time to break a habit of two years.
.
John really had all the right to be mad pissed at him. It had taken Molly hitting him too before ushering him to an ice-pack with big fat tears on her for him to realize John's tirade and punches had been deserved. But after that, the blond had slowly loosened up, until the week he finally allowed Sherlock to move back in (he still couldn't believe he had been kicked out of his own apartment) and Sherlock had been horrified to hear, to see John like that. Like this right now.
"You haven't gotten mad in a while. You're going soft, John." He chuckles, in a clear attempt at diverting his attention. John huffs, a raspy sound after that tense and stifling silence from his part. Detective Holmes would certainly prefer an angry John over this bundle of nerves here. He preferred a punch to the nose a thousand times over the piercing in his heart at John's sobs. Curious, really. He would never have guessed a sociopath could feel this way.
Moriarty had been a thrill of a hunt. But he should have never allowed him to take things so far as forcing Sherlock to fake his own death— and lying to John and his acquaintances. At least like this, with him worrying over John, he couldn't feel much regret at knowing that his challenger had taken his own life. He'd worry about that later. For now, he allowed the touches in the middle of the night, the crying on his nightshirt and when everything is finally calm inside John, his calloused hands slowly tracing his face, from chin to cheekbones.
"Promise me." He had begged of him before closing the door to his room the first day, his back to him, his head bowed. Sherlock had asked him what did he want. "Please, promise me you'll never leave again like that."
Clear eyes looked at the ground, at his clasped hands.
"I'm sorry."
John seems to ask this very question every night he traces his cheeks. Stares at him, silent. Sherlock doesn't know why he doesn't ask it of him anymore. Out loud at least.
John's hands cup his cheeks and Sherlock can't look away from the doctor's tired face. He can't smile, but he stares back evenly until finally John closes his eyes, sagging with relief. His hands tremble again but he finally lets go of Sherlock —and it's not like he would mind, not really, not for this, not for him— and rubs at his face.
"How embarrassing," he says. "At my age and…" John falls silent, staring at his own hands. This time the silence stretches on longer, before he continues. "I still can't get used to it, you know."
"You still can't get used to what?"
John doesn't answer; instead he smiles wryly as he finally walks back to his room.
His face is relaxed, but there's hesitance in his step. He slows down just before disappearing from the room.
"It's not silent anymore."
Sherlock swears, every night John suffers a breakdown, every night John shouts for him not to fall, every night he believes he's alone with only the ghost of his memory, every night he swears, that he'd never let John live in an empty house again.