Define Vulnerability
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.
I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!
This chapter was beta-ed by ImaginaryNumber. Many thanks to her.
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Chapter 3
Thursday
In the morning, after they both had packed a bag, John dropped Mary off at the station. She would be in Manchester for two weeks to finish her studies, he then headed to the surgery, where he spent the day seeing patients.
After his shift, John picked up Chinese take-out and headed to 221b, where he planned to stay for the next few nights.
While he had waited for their meal to be prepared he sent a text advising Sherlock of his impending arrival, but received no answer. In fact, he had - again - not heard from Sherlock all day, and was longing for the days when Sherlock enthusiastically shared his thoughts with him.
.
The flat was all quiet and only dimly lit when John opened the door to the living room. Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and jerked upright on the sofa, startled by the noise. It seemed he had indeed been asleep if the disoriented look and his fluttering eyes were any indication.
"John?"
"Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
What was the matter with him? Sherlock looked like death warmed over.
"I'm not startled..." Clearly a lie. "What are you doing here?"
John took in Sherlock's appearance casually while putting the food on the table and getting some dishes, bowls and cutlery. Then passed the other man again, observing, while bringing his jacket to the wardrobe.
Sherlock's eyes were sunken and dark, and he was pale, like he hadn't had a good rest for weeks. His hair was sticking to his skull and he looked as if he hadn't showered for at least two days. The dressing gown was rumpled and the pyjama pants were even worse.
"I told you I'd stay over for a few days, you know, solving some cases, having some fun, watching crap telly..."
"You're sure you told me?"
"Yes. Though not sure you listened… Any news on the case?" John changed the subject before it became awkward in a more negative way.
"Lestrade sent some reports, now that they are digging deeper they might have found another victim… from Bristol. The body was already on the way to the burial site when they retrieved it.
"Great, grieving family having their daughter's funeral without her body."
"Son."
John raised his eyebrows, "Doesn't matter for the grieving ones who are interrupted that way."
"Maybe they'll bury it empty for show and not tell the rest of the family. Would probably be easier with the sentiment thing."
"God! Sherlock…"
"Didn't mean it that way… I meant it might be more clement to let them go on with their good-byes rather than prolong the suffering…"
"Please spare me anything that would remind me of your funeral, or empty coffins for the next week, could you?"
Sherlock looked up, a silent 'oh…' on his lips. He did in fact look like he was sorry now, that he had finally understood why John was sensitive to the topic.
"To you, it might have been a small detail, to make the whole suicide-thing more convincing, but to me, attending your funeral was one of the hardest things I've done in my life… So show at least a bit of consideration for the hurt you caused with this little detail, okay?" John's tone was not angry, just sad and tired.
His words visibly affected Sherlock.
John had forgiven him and was more than glad to have him back, but he was still angry and he still hurt - a lot. He wanted Sherlock to understand the enormity of the pain he had caused by keeping him in the dark. He was sure his former flatmate wouldn't have reappeared the way he did if he had the smallest inkling about how inappropriate it was.
Well, now, about two weeks later, he behaved as if he was at least starting to understand.
The silence was growing awkward. After a few seconds, Sherlock gestured towards the files and pictures that were spread over the coffee table.
"Yes… Male victim, police was sure it was… sorry, but… a suicide… No coroner report therefore, yet. The similarity between this death and the other ones brought it to the police's attention. The drug probably won't show any longer, it seems to break down quickly…"
"Maybe the paralysing agent, but there were other drugs in the mix. Maybe some were slower to break down?… Can you show me the components again?"
Sherlock held out a sheet without looking up.
"Do you know these two?" John pointed at two chemicals he was unfamiliar with.
Sherlock stood up, looking at the sheet, "That… Designer drug, expensive, rare. Might show on an extra thorough tox screen, that other one… no."
"Any news about the autopsy from the Plymouth victim that Molly wanted to do today?
"She didn't. Corpse wasn't there, yet."
"Why?"
"No one knows. Lestrade told Donovan to look into it."
Sherlock stiffly rose and reached for his coat on the back of the door.
"Now, let's go see Molly. The Bristol victim will be there shortly…"
"No! Molly's shift ended an hour ago and I brought dinner. Let's eat and look at the file so we know what to look for in the morning."
"I already know what to look for," Sherlock returned the coat to the hook.
"Then enlighten me."
"I'll text Molly to see if she's still at work," the detective insisted.
"She has a boyfriend now, and will likely be eager to get home."
Sherlock was already texting.
"I'm hungry, let's eat."
"You are free to eat, I'll have a shower," and with that the other man headed for the bathroom.
John followed him but then turned to the fridge to check what was inside.
When he opened it, he sighed. There was bagged salad that had already started decomposing, some milk that wasn't really liquid any more, some clear containers with unidentifiable red goop in the compartment Sherlock used for experiments… and several bottles of medication, probably to do with the experiments about the drug.
Was Mrs Hudson preparing meals for the detective? Was he eating regularly?
John would need to keep an eye on that and ask the landlady about it again. She had told him some time ago that she tried to feed Sherlock.
He returned to the table and opened the box of butter chicken while he reflected on their interaction.
Things with Sherlock had never been particularly smooth, but before the Fall, they had had a comfortable routine. Now, everything was awkward and rocky. The doctor knew what his problem was: Sherlock's deception still hurt, though he wanted it to stop hurting so they could continue their friendship.
But what was Sherlock's problem? Was he angry because John had not welcome him back with open arms? Because he had hit him as a welcome-back-greeting?
The consultant detective took his time in the shower and John wondered if staying over for a few days was such a good idea after all.
Maybe it was too soon. Was he invading Sherlock's privacy?… Was his former flatmate telling him he was not happy about John's plan?
No, if that was the case, he'd say so directly, not leave subtle clues, at least to that, John was certain.
Sherlock came out of his room dressed in a tightly closed fresh dressing gown and warm pyjamas underneath, it seemed.
Molly must have answered then and told him she wasn't at Barts, otherwise Sherlock would already be fully dressed. But the tall man sat down on the sofa again and started elaborating on his few ideas and thoughts on the case without preamble.
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Three hours and a boring documentary later John decided to head to bed while Sherlock continued to ponder the facts. He was lying on the sofa in the familiar pose with hands under his chin, ignoring the doctor completely.
John smiled with the realisation how grateful he was to get the gift of seeing that again. After Sherlock's 'death' he had so often stared at the sofa and wished him to be lying there. The wish had been granted… he had been heard.
He bit his lips, overwhelmed with this thought and the memory. He fought the emotions down, no need for Sherlock to see this, he'd probably not understand.
Maybe he needed to show Sherlock clearly how grateful he was to have him back, and that he wanted him in his life. Well, this was what this was all about. He hoped Sherlock would understand.
All the trust John seemed to have earned and the access to Sherlock's feelings and innermost thoughts he had been granted before the Fall seemed to have vanished. Had that happened before or after Sherlock's return?
John wondered if asking Mycroft about it would be good idea. Probably not, though the two brothers were meeting more frequently than they had in the past, or so it seemed to John. The fact that his parents had been in the flat made him wonder if Sherlock's family was as worried as he was. The detective was so withdrawn, chances were high he was not like this just with John, which made the doctor feel better in some ways, but overall made the situation even more worrisome.
Some time later John stored Sherlock's uneaten meal in the fridge and went up the stairs with his duffel bag.
His room was in a habitable state, as he had slept there already once the previous week. When he had moved out two years ago he had left many of things there, because he couldn't handle the memories of the old flat. Now he was glad it was the way it had been then. The bed felt good, so familiar… so safe… so much like home… The impression that he was an invader in here evaporated and he slept.
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A/N:
Please review, I am eager to know what you think.
