Of a Scattered Tempest

by jennybel75

More than anything you wish you could do what he asked.

Title – Of a Scattered Tempest
Author – fred_bear
Characters/ Pairing – Sherlock/ John pre-slash
Rating – G
Length – 221, a 221b format fic
Summary – more than anything you wish you could do what he asked.
Spoilers – to 2.3 The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer – Alas, none of these people are mine. These versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain. Feedback is loved and valued.

A/N – written for mandatorily who was having a no good, very bad day and wanted an angsty, post-Reichenbach, Sherlock pov fic inspired by a poem by Pushkin. Can be read as a companion to Backwoods Days

You see him standing there, sad, alone, broken. Asking you to perform a miracle you have the will, all the will in the world, but not the ability, to do. Not now and maybe never. It shakes you and Moriarty's words come back, whispering softly as if carried on the gentle breeze wending its way through this place of sadness. Your heart has been burned and now you have caused the burning of his. You never wanted this to cause him pain or sorrow. You realised what you were going to have to do to protect him was going to hurt you, the pain almost intolerable in its intensity, but you never expected your feelings to be reflected back at you by the mirror he has become. You loved him, do so still, but it was quietly and without hope or expectation that your feelings would ever be returned. But this, his tightly controlled grief, his heartfelt request for your return has you wondering if you were wrong. You know there's always one thing you don't see, was this it? It strengthens rather than shakes your resolve; he must be protected and maybe, one day he will look at you again and smile.

He turns and walks away and you are glad he doesn't see you standing there, sad, alone, broken.

Based on this poem:

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candour
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.
-Aleksandr Pushkin