Four!
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Living with Sherlock
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"Great buggering fuck, Sherlock! You can't keep doing this!" John nearly shouted, rage making his nostrils flare and his hands clench into tight, tight fists. What was he yelling about? Oh, just the fact that Sherlock housed his experimental human body parts in the fridge again, only neglected to figure that opening rotting, non-sealed human carcass would quickly and efficiently turn every other item in the fridge bad. That included the milk John had just reached for, the vegetables he had naively bought for supper one night this week, and all the rest of the food, EVEN THE JAM, that John had wished to eat.
"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, not even paying attention. John felt his anger incandesce into the very real want to hit Sherlock in the face till he was bloody. Sucking in a sharp breath that was loud in the flat, John snapped his heels together and made a quick march to his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Chucking the scarf he found atop it away to a corner, Sherlock's scarf, not where it was supposed to be. It was his chair, John's chair, which was filled with experimental dishes, notes, and John's laptop which Sherlock had uncaringly dumped there.
He was halfway out the door putting his jacket on when Sherlock deemed to ask, "Where are you going? John? Where…"
"I'm done with this Sherlock!" John snapped, too angry to even think. He slammed the door on his way out, "I'm done with it all, done!" It was later that he would realize what exactly he said, what he meant, and what Sherlock thought he meant.
Back in the flat, Sherlock seemed frozen to his chair, staring with wide eyes at the closed door. John never slammed doors, never. He never made any unnecessary sound either, one of those military habits of his. But he had just watched John yell, stomp, throw things, and even slam the door all in sixty seconds.
Something hollow filled Sherlock's chest until he couldn't breathe. As though someone had kicked him, the long man flew out of his chair, threw open the window and half hanged out of it to catch sight of John, and John's direction.
Breathing heavily, Sherlock clenched the window sill when he could see nothing of John. He had disappeared in the few seconds it had taken Sherlock to get up and out of the chair.
Oh he had ruined it this time. He had done it, done something so bad that John had said, had said-!
Gripping his hair harshly, Sherlock tried to kick his brain into thinking, it seemed to be strangely stuck on the sight of John's back storming out the door, stuck hearing again and again, 'I'm done with you Sherlock! I'm done!'.
John had left, oh God, John had left. Sherlock couldn't THINK. Where would John go? Not to that one girlfriend he had gone to before, that ship had sailed. Not to Mycroft, Sherlock was sure of that. Not Lestrade, he was out of town. John didn't know his wife well enough. Mrs. Hudson? Maybe, maybe John had been faking, and had just gone downstairs.
Yes, that's a good idea, a smart idea, let's go check that Sherlock.
Striding quickly to the door, Sherlock carefully opened it, John had slammed it fairly hard and it wasn't the strongest of doors. Then when it was open he looked at it, narrowing his eyes. It would have to be gotten rid of. Sherlock would never stand to see it closed, ever again.
"Mrs. Hudson!" He hollered, his voice booming. "Mrs. Hud-Son!" she puttered out to meet him on his way down, he swept straight past, asking quickly, "Have you seen John?"
"John?" the old woman blinked in confusion, "Well I heard him shouting at you a while ago, dear, what did you do?" she turned on him, finger waving, "It takes quite a lot to get Dr. John Watson in such a tiff, and when I didn't hear you running out after him I thought maybe he had given you a whollop. But then I realized that John would never hit you, so tell me, what did you do dear?" Mrs. Hudson looked concerned; she hated it when her boys fought.
Sherlock's carefully blank face crumpled, and his desperation welled up in him again. Now that he found Mrs. Hudson's floor empty of anything John-looking, Sherlock didn't know what to do again. His mind resumed that terrible melody, 'I'm done, Sherlock! Just, fucking done!''
"I don't know!" he nearly wailed, startling his landlady so bad her jewelry jingled, "I don't know but he's gone! John's gone!"
Alarmed, Mrs. Hudson reached out and steadied Sherlock seemed to waver from side to side. "Have you called him dear? He may have cooled off by now." It was obvious Sherlock had sat in a stupor for longer than a few seconds.
Call him! Of course! Why didn't Sherlock think of that? His phone was upstairs, and he had never climbed those stairs so fast in his life.
John, come home. SH
After he sent it, Sherlock realized that it wasn't necessarily nice, so he tried again.
Please, John? Come home? SH
I'm sorry. SH
Which was in his opinion, more than enough, he didn't even know what he was sorry for. (Though, if he thought about it, Sherlock found he had a lot of things to be sorry for)
John, where are you? It's nearly dark. SH
John, please.
Where did you go? I can come to you?
John, PLEASE, I LOVE YOU
Quickly becoming frantic once more, Sherlock gave in and called. Two seconds ticked by like eternities and then he went straight to John's voicemail. He had turned off his phone. Crumpling to the couch, Sherlock's mind went over time, delving into every worst possibility there could possibly be.
John was hurt, and now lay bleeding somewhere, his phone broken. John had turned it off and now was getting slowly sloshed until he got robbed, or hurt. John was dead. John was alive, but not coming back. John was not. Coming. Back. He was leaving him, John Watson was leaving and not coming back, he could manage without his things, the man was a soldier. What was going to stop him from simply catching a train and leaving London, or after that England? What would Sherlock do?
Well, Sherlock would go find him.
But what if John didn't want him to, what if he was done, he said so. Done with Sherlock.
Well….well… Sherlock didn't know what to say to his inner voice, the thought that John didn't want him, was finally fed up, was sick of him (as Sherlock always knew he would be, some day), and never wanted to see him again made him speechless. A crushing pit of endless despair and self-loathing rose up to engulf Sherlock, causing him to breath faster, dig his head into his knees hard enough to bruise, and for his hands to shake.
He was such a monster. He drove John away, what was wrong with him?! John, perfect, wonderful John, and he had made him so angry, so disappointed that the kind army doctor gave up. Gave up on Sherlock.
He never paid enough attention to John, Sherlock surmised, within his deep tank of blackness; he never showed John how much he loved him. Always with the cases, and the experiments, ruining John's stuff, dragging him around with no thanks. Even still with this lover/relationship thing, he didn't do enough. God, he knew it! He had never been one for love, and now that he actually felt it, he fucked it up so bad that object of his love, that obsession of it, left him of his own accord.
Oh, god, John.
John.
"Sherlock?"
John.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" That was John's voice, and John's hand pulling his own away from his hair. Sherlock's scalp stung, he had been tearing at his own head.
Craning up to see, Sherlock stared in shock as John; actual, physical John knelt down with concern for Sherlock. He didn't deserve it.
"John." Oh, his voice broke, and now John was looking alarmed.
"What's wrong love?" oh, his doctor was so gentle, so kind, "Sherlock, just tell me!"
"You didn't have your phone on." Sherlock whispered, trying vainly to take that desperate, broken thread out of it. John frowned.
"My phone's charging Sherlock, over here." John stood, went and unplugged his phone, which was sitting innocently on the desk. Sherlock felt embarrassment creep up on him, horror, as John turned his phone on and waited for the white screen to clear. Another part of Sherlock had him frozen, just staring; trying to claw himself out of the deep pit he had fallen into, because John was here. He had been so silly.
John stood frozen, cycling through the texts, and the missed call notification. John, please. Where did you go? I'm sorry.
"Oh, Sherlock." John breathed, looking back at his lover on the couch, who had not yet moved from his curled up position, eyes wide and carefully staring away from John. Making a decision, John dropped his phone, advanced on Sherlock and climbed up onto his lap, forcing him to lean back. Plopping down, John went about cradling Sherlock in his arms, kissing gently along those cheekbones, tightening his hold until the taller man was cramped up under his chin, arms in and just surrounded by John.
"I love you, you great fool. When I say I'm done, I mean of the present instance, of that day, never, ever, about you. I will never be done with you, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock Trembled, and John put his lips atop his ear, "you can think all you want that I will eventually leave, that I'll get fed up with you and leave, but you will realize, when we're old, wrinkly, grey, and unable to chew food that you. Were. Wrong." Sherlock stilled, probably struck by the image of the two of them, old, eating mashed foods, still together, "because I am never letting you go."
John continued to hold Sherlock until the other breathed normally again, and fought ot lean back. Sherlock had taken careful control of his face, but his eyes betrayed him, red around the edges, full of appreciation, love, and near worship. He cleared his throat, slipping his own arms around the smaller man; Sherlock leaned back in and rested his chin on the sturdy shoulder.
"Right." Sherlock breathed, "You're always right."
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Eeeeeee….. panicky Sherlock.
