I made it M for chapters to follow. Don't hit me. Anyways, again helped by Howlynn, thanks for that! As for my readers, thank for reviewing the first chapter. This are rather dark and angsty and sad, and I wished I could promise you that will change. It probably will, but not any time soon.
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Chapter 2
Sherlock walks down the street, paying no attention to the cold rain that soaks his skin and bones, ignoring the coldness that creeps through his body.
He slowly and heavy-limbed climbs the stairs to the train platform and walks to the small office. He places one of the two tickets on the till in front of the girl who sits there.
"How can I help you?" she says in a thick Welsh accent, not looking at the man in front of her.
"I would like to get a refund for this ticket. It won't be used."
The girl sighs. Those kinds of things take an awful lot of paperwork.
When it's done, Sherlock clutches the 42 pounds in his right hand as he walks down the platform. He doesn't want to sit in the train for over two hours on his own. But he has to.
It is the second time in seven weeks that Sherlock had to ask for a refund for his train ticket. The first time he had just gone to John, thinking everything would be alright. It turned out it wasn't.
Sherlock closes his eyes as he sits down on a bench beside an elder lady, waiting for his train to arrive to bring him back to London.
He had knocked on the door, seven weeks ago. John opened the door, and had just stared at Sherlock.
"So," he had said. "Not dead then, I take it." He didn't make it sound like a question.
Sherlock could only nod and followed his friend to the living room of the small Cardiff flat he shared with some obscure fellow soldier he had met in Afghanistan.
Sherlock's eyes flew all across the room, deducing, analysing. Photo's, papers, chairs.
"Sam isn't in," John said, leaning against the counter in his kitchen. "He had work to do. We do have to pay the rent every month, of course."
Sherlock bit his lip. "Is it hard to pay the rent?" he asked. Perhaps he could help. Or perhaps John would love to come back to the much more comfortable and luxurious Baker Street.
"No." John shook his head. "We can manage perfectly well."
They walked over to the living room, seven weeks ago. Sherlock sat on the worn sofa, John sank down on a stool; he doesn't have many chairs. John made tea; exactly the way Sherlock liked it. John was silent, neither of them was able to think of anything to say, and suddenly Sherlock couldn't contain it any more.
"I love you, John Hamish Watson," he softly said, slowly, like he tasted the words. Bitter.
John hadn't responded, but his face paled. He continued sipping from his tea, his gaze anywhere but on Sherlock.
"I love you, and I jumped for you," Sherlock mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by what he had said. Finding it too late to back away now, too late to fight the words that spilled from behind his lips, he looked at the floor. One continuous blur of words, feelings and all the oh-so resented sentiment wanted to follow the words he had said so badly, he wanted to explain them, but something blocked the way.
John grimaced at Sherlock's declaration that hung dead-still in the air. "Jump for my love, eh?"
Sherlock didn't understand the reference. "What do you mean?" he asked, bewildered.
"It's a song by The Pointer Sisters from the mid eighties. 'If you want more, if you want more more more, then sis, jump, for my love!', it's a quite famous song." John sighed, stirring his tea. "It's on YouTube, just in case you'd…"
Sherlock's hands firmly clasped the mug, the cooled content, brown with swirls of white, suddenly looked very interesting and finally the words could come out.
"Moriarty had a sniper aimed at you, and all I could think about is; 'how can I save John?' I couldn't let you die, I refused to let any harm come to you. You had to watch me die, that was the only way they could believe I was dead, it was the only way you would be utterly and completely safe. I was so alone all those years and I missed you so much, I wanted to come back so many times but Mycroft didn't let me. Now all is finished, and we can go back to where we were and how we are."
Sherlock's hope-filled, begging grey-blue orbs had been fixed on John and suddenly the blogger inhaled sharply; like he had been holding his breath for too long, which he probably had.
After all this time it was quite ironic, really. Sherlock Holmes never begged for anything in his life. John reduced him to this, and Sherlock was more than willing to stoop for his – well, whatever you call someone who means that much. John could cut him down by just using the right words. He knew what he wanted to say. He had the power, but the reduced state of the detective tugged his heart.
"We can't, Sherlock," John whispered, breaking Sherlock's train of thought, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze. More firmly, like he had gathered courage, he continued, using his perfectly steady doctor's hand to make the incision to section off the veins of hope.
"We can't go back to that, Sherlock. You have been dead for over two years and now you say you love me. You, of all people." John laughed scornfully. "Do you even know what love is?"
His blue eyes were lighter than ever. "Love isn't about hurting friends. Love is about trust, confidence and sharing, Sherlock. Not about jumping for my sake, not about sacrificing yourself so I will live."
John bowed his head again, staring deep in his empty mug. Some brown flecks were all that was left. "I don't know what trick this is, but I'm not going to be your forgiving pet any longer."
"You believe I am unable to love? Never crossed your mind that I am more than a machine? I always miss something, don't I, John? In case you were looking for the right word… Freak might work well in this case."
"I never called you—"
"Did you not? I missed it, you see. I was foolish enough to imagine you always forgave me because you cared. You acted so offended when they said that to me, but secretly you agreed with them. Deep down, you didn't see me any more than they did. I am just a freak with no heart to wound. It is an easy thing to say, isn't it? Think, John. You were never my pet. Those are his words, not mine." Sherlock focused on John, looking again at the empty eyes, dark and distant.
John lifted his head and shook it, smiling in curious annoyance. "I was your pet, your keeper, your handler. I was alone and depended on you and you always let me down. You lied to me and used me and then discarded me every single time a new shiny thing caught your eye."
"No. It is impossible for you to be my pet, when in fact you are, right this minute, proving who your master is. Jim would have been so proud of you right now. Doing the thing even his lover could not. Go ahead. Burn me, John. Finish it for him. Make me pay for the crime of doing exactly what you threw at me. Friends protect people."
John sighed. "I hate you for torturing me. That's what you did. You might as well have killed me too. You left me alone, all this time you left me without as much as a word and only a cold grave stone to keep me company. All those years I had nobody. You were the only one who made the choices in this matter. You should have let me choose. I would have done anything for you, but you left me to whatever pain your loss would bring. You didn't do me any favours. I will never be the same. We will never be the same, and you did that. You made a fool of me and now that you have finished with all the fun, you are bored and you show up wanting me to entertain you. Not this time."
"I did all you ask of me. I thought it would matter, because even this second, I don't regret anything I did, because you are still alive. It was your life I cared about. Mine didn't matter. It probably never did. Shall we deduce who the real fool is? I seem to be the one reaching out and begging for my life. Begging for any chance, only to discover that I shouldn't have bothered."
John lifted his head to look at his friend. His blue eyes weren't kind and open now. He has donned his harness and had activated the battle mode, not letting his friend in any more. His friend who had been dead and is so alive now simply wasn't capable of the love John had been yearning for, for so long. John knew he had to go on, and moving on meant staying away from Sherlock Holmes, the man who knew nothing of love except for the chemistry.
Two years of utter loneliness had effusively shown that the great Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat, was not capable of love.
He was so good at acting; he would have won a BAFTA if only consulting detectives could be nominated. He had seen it before, Sherlock knew how to get inside somebody and make them do what he wants. He can play people like a doll on strings. His words hurt, but they are meaningless. They are just another part of his manipulative personality, and John just promised himself he would not fall for that again. He had just promised himself no longer to be a lab rat to be experimented on again.
John had put up with so many whims of the man, but it was time he drew the line.
Enough was enough. He didn't plan to drown. He didn't plan to burn.
John got to his feet, his stool scooting back with a groan. "We have said all there is to say. I want you to go." He walked towards the door and motioned the tall man out. "Leave, Sherlock."
Sherlock stood as if in slow motion, obeying without saying anything. Stepping closer to John, he lowered his head, his eyes flickering from John's slightly parted lips to his eyes and back. John knew what was coming, and pushed him away, with gentle control and rough determination.
"I mean it, Sherlock. I don't want this. I suppose there was a time when you could have made me the happiest man on earth by saying and doing all this, but that time has passed. We should both move on. The times that I drop everything I have just to be on your side are over." The unspoken, "and it is entirely your fault, mister brilliant" lingered in the air.
All Sherlock could do was do as he was told, but he didn't want to leave without one last stand. "If you want me to leave, I will. If you ever change your mind, John, I will do anything for you. Anything at all."
"I don't think I will. There is just nothing left to do, Sherlock," John said. He leaned against the door, waiting for Sherlock to walk through. His arms were crossed defensively, his eyes looking out of the door, squinting against the bright sun light.
Sherlock walked through, but turned before he left. "I just want you to be the happiest person on the earth, John. I want you to know that. The happiest man, even if you never talk to me again."
"No more lies. I don't need them any more."
"John, I will be back in seven weeks. Please, think it through. Don't push me away." Sherlock left in further silence, the question – the plea – running in loops in his eyes.
John closed the door. Sherlock would try again in seven weeks. In vain, it would all be in vain. He would not allow Sherlock back into the flat, but leave him begging on the pavement.
The shrill sound of an approaching train startles Sherlock, ripping him roughly from his mind palace. He blinks twice. He is no longer in John's company. He is alone.
The elder lady smiles at the handsome man beside her on the bench and pats his arm soothingly. "I think you need some sleep, young man. You look tired."
…
Two and a half hours later, the train arrives at King's Cross. Sherlock leaves the train and walks outside. The rain has stopped.
He hails a taxi and gives the cabbie his address. Baker Street; his haven. He enters the small hallway and quickly disappears upstairs. He had promised Mrs. Hudson that John would come home with him. He doesn't want to explain why he has returned alone.
He enters his own living room, and immediately his phone rings.
He fumbles with the phone before answering. "Hello Mycroft."
"Hello Sherlock."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, despite himself. "What is it, Mycroft?"
"John isn't there, is he?"
Sherlock closes his eyes. His brother's words make him face the full truth. "No, he is not."
It is silent on the other end of the line. Then, "I am so sorry, Sherlock."
"Yeah, me too." Sherlock breaks off the connection and slumps down in his chair. Alone. Alone. He is all alone. It's what protects him, isn't it?