Author's Note: You'll understand the name later... but do enjoy! I promise JohnLock later! :)
Kryptonite
Unable To Display Enough To Deduce
John had escaped the hospital again and had declared that he was going to the bar after work. Mary didn't complain, although from a doctor's stand point, she was concerned. She had said as much as John was grabbing his jacket from his chair and his keys to lock up after himself.
"I'm just going for a pint with the guys, no need to worry, love." But he knew he would get smashed, and he knew that Mary would have to deal with him. That was why he decided to visit Mrs. Hudson before he went anywhere else.
The dark seeped through the curtains to her flat as he said, "I might come back here and crash, would you be okay with that?" he asked through the mustache that Mrs. Hudson had said aged him.
"That would be okay, dearie. I still haven't gone through his things yet. I feel like I might mess some things up if I do," she almost cried. No, she wouldn't cry in front of John, he didn't need that.
"Okay," John nodded. He knew that he would probably get emotional and come back here on instinct. It was what he had done last time. God, that sounds so bad, 'last time.' He had even half expected Sherlock to be sitting in his chair, waiting for John to get home.
But he knew better. And as he left, he hailed a cab and recited an address he didn't think he'd repeat, but he did. The cabbie sighed and drove as John thought about his friend beside him. Even after 'getting over it', the thought still made him sink into the seat more and wish he had said what he wanted to.
But, it was over and Sherlock was six feet under and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
The door to his old flat swung open as he trudged up the stairs. Once he had reached the main room, he remembered that Sherlock wasn't here. But he couldn't go see Mary, not like this. She didn't need the extra stress.
So he pressed on, throwing his coat down on his chair as he stumbled, not forgetting the alcohol that stung his eyes. Or was that the tears that had returned? He didn't know. He couldn't find the will to care to find out, either.
And as he stumbled up the stairs to his old room, he found it. God! That retched blue thing! It always finds him in the darkest of hours. He picked up the scarf from the floor, and tripped as he fell in the hallway, in front of his room.
He sat up and plucked his shoes from his feet, Might as well, I'm already down. He hiccupped and threw the scarf into Sherlock's room as he shuffled by. He didn't dare to open the door completely. He shuffled to his own room and threw himself in the familiar sheets.
He wrapped himself in the blankets and consumed the smell of the old him. The one that had danger throughout his life and was never bored because his flatmate was a bloody high functioning arse. Oh, I'm sorry, sociopath. He was angry now and threw one of his pillows at the wall.
When it bounced off the wall it landed on the floor in a huff. Wait, that wasn't a pillow hitting the floor sound. There was a shadow in his doorway. It didn't speak, just fluttered off into the main room. John could have sworn he'd seen a long coat follow.
Great, so now on top of a bloody headache, I'm hallucinating. Fucking brilliant! He rolled over defiantly and pulled the covers over his shoulder and fell asleep in anger at himself and the friend who wasn't here to comfort him.
John woke, confused as to why he was fully clothed and in his old flat, and why he had such a huge bloody fucking head ache. He sat up as the sunlight crept through the curtain and he realized what he had done. Why do I keep doing this? Mary is going to be so pissed.
He heard someone moving around in the kitchen and decided it was Mrs. Hudson since he heard the kettle boiling. He left his room and right in the front of his door, was that blasted scarf! He picked it up, confused. He threw this back in Sherlock's room.
He strangled it as if it had a life to loose, then he threw it in Sherlock's room again as he collected his shoes from the hall where he had thrown them. He slipped them back on as he walked out down to the main room. He didn't bother looking in the kitchen as he looked longing at Sherlock' silky blue robe.
His fingertips spread over it as he remembered his friend falling and how he hadn't been able to do a thing but stand there like an idiot and take orders from his broken sociopath. His fingers twitched as his phone buzzed.
Text from Mary: Coming home, now? – MM
I'm sorry, yeah. I'll be there in a little – JW
"Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea, thanks," as he grabbed his coat from the chair he had slung it over. When there was response, he looked into the kitchen. He dropped his coat as he looked at the man before him. Those eyes, the curls, the slim body. Had he gained weight? No, bandages, "You sodding fucking asshole!" he couldn't help but to be pissed after shocked.
The water was done being boiled and Sherlock gingerly made the tea as he took no notice to John's reaction. "Hello, John," he simply replied. His voice made John shiver and he was pissed again.
Was he dreaming? No, the pain in his fist when he hit the wall determined that. His knuckles were bleeding as he ripped Sherlock from the two cups of tea and slammed him into the wall. He raised his fist to strike, but Sherlock's face had stopped him.
He showed no emotions in his features. But his eyes had widened and he was afraid. Not of John's punch, but for John. Because of John. John twitched and his hand lowered to his side as Sherlock stared at the dripping blood.
It hit the kitchen floor as John flexed his hand, now noticing the pain, "John," Sherlock was at a loss for words as his mask fell off and the emotions splayed across his features. His brows furrowed and his lips curled into a sad frown.
John turned from him and didn't see this on Sherlock's face. So he fixed it and the mask flipped back on as John turned back around. Sherlock looked bored. But John's face was twisted with anger, sadness and happiness, and Sherlock had a hard time deducing the other. He knew it was there, but what was that? The wild look about John's eyes.
As John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock seized his wrist. No, not now. Not when you were so happy with Mary. Just forget those feelings John, forget it. John seemed to read Sherlock's thoughts as his pulse slowed and his eyes returned to the normal anger, sadness and happiness.
Sherlock let a mental sigh of relief sweep over him as he said, "I don't like it," he still sounded bored.
"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock let go of him as he stole a kitchen chair. He examined his hand, and simply licked the blood from it and decided it didn't need a bandage.
Sherlock observed this, "The mustache. I don't like it," Sherlock finally said as he took the tea from the counter and it was still warm as he set a cup down in front of John.
"Mary does," John defended the atrocity on his upper lip.
"No, she doesn't," he sipped on the tea.
"Yes, she does," John wouldn't let it go.
"Believe what you want. By the way, you should get back to her," Sherlock pointed out. John's eyes widened as he realized that he should.
But, "What about you, Sherlock?" he asked.
"Me?" as if he didn't even consider the fact that he was here and John wanted to be with him.
"Yes, you," John was taking this too well. Sherlock deduced that he was hiding the feelings for later, so that he didn't break down in front of his best friend.
"I'm fine. I want you to be happy. Go home, John. I'm already there," Sherlock knew the sooner John left, the sooner her would admit his feelings and the sooner he would let it all out and he'll be okay. Sherlock needed him to be okay, because Sherlock wouldn't be okay if John wasn't.
All those nights of barely any sleep were going to be worth something, and he wanted so bad, for his nightmares to be just that, nightmares. He didn't want John to be hurt anymore. "Fine, but I'm coming back here and you're going to tell me exactly what was going on, you hear me?" he was finally showing the anger he was trying not to.
"I promise, John. Now go. She needs you just as much as you need her," Sherlock knew that wasn't true, but John would find out the truth soon enough, and for now, he needs to be happy. Blindly happy.
As John left, Sherlock found himself not being able to focus. All he could think about was John and how Mary was going to react to the fact that she wasn't ever who he thinks she is. But that's for a later date. A much later date…
"What?! John! Go to him!" Mary demanded of her boyfriend.
"But, I have a feeling he doesn't want me around, he-"
She slapped him lightly, "Doesn't want you around?!" she settled, "John, look, baby. I have to go to work, but you need to go to him, and make him tell you how he feels."
"That's the thing, love. He doesn't feel, I doubt he even cares if I had committed suicide while he was gone," John admitted what he was really thinking.
Mary shook him lightly, "Are you kidding me?" she said in a low voice. She kissed her blond, "I don't know him, but I know you, and you change people," you changed me, "And I'll bet right now, he's debating on whether he should tell you he's sorry," she made him realize that his best friend needed him. Or at least she thought she made him realize this. He honestly didn't register realization at this point.
John showed no emotion. Mary hated to see him like this, "Sure. I need a shower, and I'll go later. I guess," he told her.
She sighed and pulled him into a passionate kiss. But when John kissed her back, he didn't feel anything. His flatmate was back and he couldn't feel a thing. The anger was gone, the sadness had left with it. He was happy that his friend was alive, but what else was there to feel?
She left as John slipped into the shower. Afterwards, he shaved. Not because Sherlock had told him to, because he knew Sherlock was right. That bloody bastard is always right…
John slapped his best mask on his face and walked through the door of his old flat again, for the second agonizing time today. He found Sherlock still sitting in the kitchen. It seemed as though he hadn't left that spot, but he had his hands steepled under his chin.
"John, come to try to talk," he said, it wasn't a question, just a simple deduction. John smirked at that, so he's still a smart arse.
John sat again, but this time, in his chair in the main room, "Mary says I should. But there isn't any emotion to talk about, is there?" he hated the sound of that word now. Sherlock had rubbed off on him with that fact that John didn't like his emotions anymore.
Sherlock never had them in the first place. Dear John, you couldn't be more wrong. Under that pale mask were so many raging emotions, he just didn't know how to spit them out. "No, is there?" he asked to assure himself and John.
"No…" Then why do I feel like there's something I want to tell him? Hadn't I already settled this at his grave? Do I have to say what I always feared saying? No, that would ruin everything with Mary. But, it's on the tip of my tongue and I want to so badly.
"John," that voice was bending over him and stroking his shoulder. Sherlock displaying the emotion he felt the most in this moment. He hated confusing his doctor, but he needed to say this, "I missed you," he said simply as the emotion faded again.
John didn't know how to reply. But then his mouth said before he could catch it, "I loved you. No scratch that," he stood and turned to his shocked friend, "I love you!"
"I love you, too. But-"
"No, you stupid git, I. Love. You," Sherlock just realized what he was saying. His eyes widened as they stood there in silence and tension.
"You. Love me? Dear God, John! You let sentiment get to you again?" this was the reaction he had expected and he was still angry. Why was he angry? He expected Sherlock to reject him, so why was he feeling so… heartbroken? No, sad…
"You… sodding… fuck…." He suddenly found himself saying. Sherlock was shocked again. John had never used those words on him before. Not while he was sober.
"I. What?" his breath caught and he was letting emotions get to him. He choked them down and the mask never faded. John was writhing, he was even shaking. But John heard the emotion crack his best friend's voice.
He looked into those bluish grey eyes and saw what he didn't want to believe. Hurt, Sherlock was hurt by John's insult. Good, serves him right. But then why do I feel guilty?
He screamed in frustration as he slammed the door to his bedroom behind him. Why had he retreated to his room? Why hadn't he walked out? Why was he hoping Sherlock would invade his privacy like old times?
He didn't know. So he gathered himself and as he tore out of the flat, Sherlock couldn't tell what John was thinking. That blank stare that was straight ahead told Sherlock nothing. Except that John was going to his gravestone.
Why? So he could make sure this was all real. He hailed a cab, and recited the address that had caused him pain for so long. He walked up to Sherlock's grave.
He sat in front of the headstone and thought hard about this. Sherlock had followed him. Like he always had, following John to the ends of the earth. He observed John's straight posture and he still couldn't deduce what was going on in that blond head of his.
He could see his eyes calculating, but he couldn't see past that. What was he thinking about? Why did Sherlock suddenly feel the urge to comfort John? He had never done so before, why should there be a need to now? But he felt lonely, even with John sitting there, he felt as he wanted to hold him, just to make sure he wasn't alone.
But then, why did he care if he was alone? He never did before, why now? What was so different? Then he realized, it was because John was lonely. It was because his little soldier was falling apart at the seams, and Sherlock had done this.
He had tried to save John, but all he did was cause him to hurt himself. He tried to heal and all he did was infect the wound he pressed himself to. He tried to guard, but all he did was fall asleep and the prisoner escaped. All he was to John now, was a dead man who was haunting him.
This was why Sherlock left John to himself and went to see Lestrade. He would say he wasn't dead and then make him give Sherlock a case. He needed to think about something that wasn't John.
But even that didn't work. He returned to the flat, the case solved, but he still had John stuck to his brain. It might as well have been like a sticky note on his forehead, plastered for him to keep seeing and he wouldn't let it go until the adhesive wore off.
In this case, it seemed to be superglue. He pulled his coat from his shoulders and he didn't turn around until he was pinned to the door behind him.
"Sherlock," John growled, "I need to tell you something and you have to promise not to insult me. I've had enough, and I need you to not be an arse," he said.
"I'll try," he smirked as John let go, grunting in frustration. "What is it?" Please let it not be what was brought up earlier. Sherlock needed not that to think about.
As John spoke, Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt like screaming at John. "I'm leaving Mary," he said slowly, "and there's nothing you can do about it. But I want you to know that it's your fault," John pinned the blame to Sherlock.
"Mine?" he seemed angry. "You have a chance to be happy and you're throwing it away? Why would you do that!? John, you bloody idiot!" Sherlock was pissed now. He was letting it seep through, but only because John needed to see that Mary was making him happy. Giving him all that Sherlock couldn't.
"I'm not throwing it away," John stated. "I'm replacing my chances with ones that are more dangerous, yes. But do you know what?" Sherlock pursed his lips at this, "I don't care. I don't care if this is wrong, because damn, it feels right," he huffed and sat in his chair in the main room.
Sherlock sat in his own, hiding his emotions again and treating John as he had before, "Right how?" still not sure what John was thinking about, and that irritated him to no end, but he needed to hear this.
"Right because… I don't know, it just. It feels as though if I don't do this, I'll disappoint so many more people later on than if I do it now," he explained to himself and the detective studying him from across the other chair.
"John, why do you plan to break it off?" Sherlock had to ask. He couldn't deduce it and he had to ask now. He felt as though it was foolish, but he had to.
"Oh, you don't know?" John asked, surprised. He had figured that Sherlock would have deduced this by now.
So? What do you think? Please do review, it will help immensely. : )