Yes! First crossover~
Not much to say, really. But there was this person on Omegle, and I meant to send my RP prompt but ended up sending the link to this instead. So if you actually clicked on it, person, it was a mistake, I swear, I wasn't trying to advertise. o.O
There was something John wasn't telling him.
Sherlock had returned only three months ago. For three months, the press had never given him a moment of peace, always badgering him for details. "Why did you do it?" "Where did you go for three years?" "Can you prove that you're really not a fraud?" It had all gotten incredibly repetitive.
John had been upset at first. Incredibly upset. There had been times when Sherlock had been certain that the bruise on his jaw would never heal. But, though it had taken time, John had understood why he'd had to be lied to for so long. But Sherlock never told him just how close to Hell those long three years had been. He didn't need to know.
"Thirty-seven." Sherlock's voice came smoothly as he circled a mess of blood on the light blue carpet of a hotel. "Male, more than likely. Clearly finances weren't a problem, that's obvious by just looking at the room he was able to afford. High ranking Starfleet member, more than likely."
Lestrade stood behind him, hands in pockets. "Yeah, we know all that. You're just showing off now." He pretended to be annoyed when Sherlock gave a shrug. But dammit, he'd missed that arrogant smirk, the sound of details being pulled out of things no one should have been able to notice. "Name's Commander Oliver Springs. His wife was found dead just last week, that could be why he did it." Sherlock only shook his head.
Honestly, was that their main focus? The "Why"? "Well, no doubt of it. But that still doesn't tell us how a man can shoot himself and not only survive, but walk away with what appears to be no injuries." Sherlock made his way to the corner, kneeling beside a length of rope. "Did anyone touch this?" Lestrade informed that it had been there when they'd arrived. "He tried to hang himself. But it didn't work. He got frustrated. Threw it over here."
"What do you mean, it didn't work?" John remained relatively silent at crime scenes nowadays. But from time to time, he offered up a question or opinion. "Rope slipped, or something?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. Knot was tight. Had it tied to the rafter there." He grabbed the stool which had been kicked to the side, using it to look over the beam to which he'd referred. "No sign of bending. The conditions seem ideal. He should have strangled to death." Climbing down, he began muttering, more to himself than anyone else. "So then how did he manage to survive...?" Back to the blood, then the bullet hole in the wall. "Shot himself in the abdomen. He wanted to have last thoughts. He wanted to suffer." Then, silence. It didn't make any sense. He would have to run tests on the blood. See if it even was Springs' in the first place. But even if it was, what had happened to the body?
The case wasn't discussed on the cab ride home. In fact, nothing was discussed whatsoever. John had learned to recognise when he wasn't meant to speak. Even after all this time.
"So you really have no idea?" He spoke only after they'd been back at Baker Street for the better part of an hour. "About Oliver Springs. You don't know what happened?"
Sherlock was seated in his armchair, which had never been cleared away. "Just give me time." His hands were in front of his lips, fingertips pressed lightly together in that signature fashion of his.
John, barely aware he was doing so, sat across from him. "Yeah, but he couldn't have just gotten up. People don't walk away from that sort of thing." He watched as Sherlock looked him over. "What?" He had that look on his face. The one he got when he was trying to read someone.
"You're anxious." Leaning forward, elbows resting on knees. "You're hiding something, something important. You don't want me to find out, but you know it's only a matter of time."
Silence. A long, thought-filled silence. He was right, of course. When wasn't he? John chose his words carefully. After all, how was one meant to tell something like this to a man who had such difficulty expressing and understanding? Bluntly, he supposed. "I'm going back to Afghanistan." Said so softly, despite his best efforts.
He was... "And when were you planning on telling me this?" Sherlock made sure to keep himself together. But this new information, it nearly killed him.
John ran his fingers through his hair as he got to his feet. "I don't know, Sherlock." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I decided on it when you were... When you were gone. And don't you get upset with me about this. At least I'm not convincing you that I'm dead." It was a low blow, and he knew it. He didn't even know why he'd said it. Sherlock hadn't deserved that, he'd barely said a word. "Sorry. Sorry, I... I didn't mean..."
His words had clearly hit Sherlock hard. But he didn't mention it. He never did. Instead, a question. "How long until you go?" Tone flat, struggling to keep it that way.
"About two weeks." John moved over to the window, watched the streets of London below. "I leave the Thursday after next."
Two weeks. That was how long they had. That was how long it would be before Sherlock was alone again. But this time, it would be John who went off to fight, and he who would be left to sit in the flat. Upon his return, John had shouted that Sherlock would never know the amount of pain he'd gone through. Now, he surely would.
No words were spoken for what felt like ages. Though, to be completely honest, it was probably less than an hour. And, though one would never imagine it, Sherlock was the one to break the silence. Not saying much. Just three simple words, which held so much meaning. "I'll miss you." The baritone quiet, as if ashamed to be showing so much emotion.
John glanced over from where he'd begun making tea in the kitchen, his volume equaling that of his flatmate.
"I'll miss you, too, Sherlock."