Sherlock
I tear out of the flat, slamming the door loudly behind me. My legs are giving out and I push past the people in my way, not caring who I hit.
My heart beats painfully, I feel like I'm dying. I wish I was. I wish I was dying and not John. Not my John.
I stumble over my feet and fall into a wall. I see an alley in the distance and will my legs to move me towards it. I throw myself into the dark, dank alley and let a sob escape me.
My hands hold me up against the wall as I place my forehead against the cool, hard surface as tears stream down my face.
John's face flutters in front of my closed eyes. He looks happy. His smiling face looking back at me, comforting me.
John.
The images in my head slowly begin to change. John is now typing up a blog entry, using just two fingers to type. I smile. He never uses all his fingers, it use to agitate me to no bloody end, but now it makes me smile as it is something that makes John who he is and I would never want that to change.
The image waves away and new ones begin to form. John falling asleep on the couch, snoring softly. John trying to force me to eat and failing. John flinging insults back at Donovan after she insults me. John running with me trying to catch a criminal. John giggling at a crime scene. John killing someone to protect me...
John sitting in the doctor's office, emotionless. John refusing to talk to me. John wincing at any form of light. John falling trying to bring me tea. John lying in his bed, dying. John taking his last breath. John closing his eyes for the last time. John being lowered into the ground...
John. John. John.
I push myself roughly off the wall and begin to pace, anger beginning to build inside of me. I crouch down on the ground, running my hands harshly through my curls, pulling some out. I stand quickly and throw my hands hard against the wall. Tears of anger, sorrow, and devastation pool in buckets down my face.
I slam my fist against the wall. Pain shoots through my hand, but I don't care. I hit it again, harder. Then again and again and again, my hand going numb from pain. I keep hitting it, my hand breaking, but it doesn't stop me. I hit it over and over again harder each time as blood coats my entire hand.
I hear someone approach, but I don't care. I don't care about anyone or anything right now. Only John. All I care about is John.
"Sherlock." A sad, familiar voice says.
I ignore the voice and continue punching the wall. Blood blots the wall from my hand now, but I continue to hit it, beginning to break some of the weakening plaster.
"Sherlock. Please stop. Stop for John." Mycroft says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Why. Should. I?!" I say, punctuating every word with a blow to the wall.
"John will be upset. He doesn't want to see you hurting yourself over him." He says, trying to get through to me. It works as I stop beating abuse to the wall and place my forehead against it in defeat instead.
Mycroft's hand still rests tenderly on my shoulder, as waves of sobs rack my entire body. He waits silently, letting me sob through my pain.
"He's dying, Mycroft. John's dying." I say, brokenly still not looking at him.
"I know, dear brother. I'm so sorry."
I finally turn to look at him. He looks at me tenderly and consumed with worry. Our brotherly war forgotten.
"I don't know what to do." I cry.
"There is nothing you can do." He says, solemnly.
"There has to do something. Anything." I reply, strained.
He remains silent. For the first time unsure of what to say. Unsure of what to do to comfort his baby brother.
"I wish that were possible, but John's condition is extensive. There is nothing you can do." He says, eventually.
"STOP SAYING THAT!" I shout, rounding on him. "YOU EXPECT ME TO SIT HERE AND WATCH HIM DIE!"
"Yes." He says, simply completely unaffected by my outburst.
"I can't, Mycroft! I can't! I won't be able to live through this! I need John! I need him!" I sob frantically. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Like my mind palace is crumbling down around me.
"I've always told you that caring is not an advantage." He says, coldly.
His words shock me like a bucket of cold water being splashed upon me. I take a step back, stunned as he continues.
"If you didn't care for John Watson you wouldn't be affected by his impending doom." He says leaning against his umbrella.
My vision clouds in rage. It turns everything to shades of red. It's so strong I feel my head is going to explode. The red hot boiling rage consumes me and I snap.
I bring my mangled fist up and swing, punching Mycroft right in his jaw. He stumbles backward, stunned as he touches his cheek.
"Don't you ever say that to me. Don't you ever say that caring for John was a mistake." I say deadly quiet.
Mycroft shifts his jaw around, testing it before wiping a bit of blood away from the corner of his mouth with an 'MH' embroidered handkerchief before speaking.
"I never said it was a mistake. I simply said it was not an advantage." He says, wincing at the pain of moving his jaw.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Mycroft?" I ask, cross.
He pauses, picking his words carefully before speaking. "Caring for John Watson is the best thing that has ever happened to you." He finally says.
My anger leaves me abruptly as the shock of his words break through my mind.
"The love you hold for him is admirable. Something I will regrettably never feel." He says, with surprising tenderness. "You found yourself a goldfish." He finishes with a sad smile.
His words make me weak. The world swims before me in a haze, like a dream.
"I... I don't love him." I say, feebly, stuttering slightly.
His eyes soften more so as he approaches me placing a brotherly hand on my cheek.
"Dear brother, you see but you do not observe." He says, softly. "You've always loved him. It's so painfully obvious that anyone can see it. It shines brighter than the sun."
My eyes pool with newfound tears, his words affecting me as I take in this revelation. He's right. Mycroft's right. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind from my own heart?
Because John doesn't love you back.
New tears form in my eyes at the horrible revelation. John doesn't love me. He never has, he never will.
"He doesn't love me. He never has. That was paramount after my fall. He's been married and divorced with Mary. He's never loved me, nor does he now." I choke, speaking the dreadful thought that has clouded my mind.
"No, brother. You're wrong." He says, almost inaudibly, placing his forehead against mine. "Those two years without you, destroyed him. He drank himself away, lost an alarming amount of weight; he spiralled down into the pits of hell because he was devastated by your loss. You can't honestly believe he doesn't love you?"
"Yes." I say, solemnly, "None of that means he loves me, Myc." I respond, still not believing him. He's eyes flash in surprise by my use of the childhood name I gave him long ago.
"Oh, Sherlock. You're one of the most observant men in the world, but you don't see what's right in front of you." He says with a small smile, lifting his forehead from mine, but keeping his hand on my cheek. "I know you will want proof. He has a second blog, on an anonymous site. He wrote about his love and his loss for you there. He kept writing, even after he married Mary. He kept it up almost the entire time. It was how he coped. He never stopped writing until after you returned. If you don't believe me, look for yourself." He says, sliding a small note into my pocket holding the web address to the site.
I nod, unable to speak as my throat has completely constricted itself making it hard to even breathe.
Mycroft drops his hand from my face and onto my shoulder, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. For once, I appreciate the sentiment. Surprising as I repel from any sort of sentiment from anyone, especially my brother.
"Go to him. He needs you."
"I... I have to get his medicine. His symptoms have already started to emerge." I say, weakly, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Panic flashes across Mycroft's eyes when Sherlock utters about John's symptoms but he quickly rearranges his features as to not alarm his already broken little brother.
"I already have them. Anthea popped by and got them for you whilst we were talking. They're in the car. I figured you would want them around before his symptoms started I emerge, but it seems that it has already happened."
"Thank you." I say, sincerely. I truly am. My brother and I have had a strained relationship as long as I can remember. However, this rare and unique brotherly compassion is comforting, soothing and I don't care that it goes against everything I've built to conceal myself from my own emotions and if others.
Mycroft steps besides me and places his hand on my upper back, guiding me to his sleek, black car.
I step in, feeling its warmth and realising how truly cold I am. I begin to shiver and wrap my coat tighter around me, placing the pharmacy bag on my lap.
Mycroft sits across from me staring out the window deep in thought. Neither of us caring to talk anymore. Nothing more needs to be said.
We reach Baker St shortly and I let myself out, closing the door. As I turn to leave Mycroft rolls down the window causing me to stop and look back at him.
We stare at each other silently. Mycroft having an obvious internal debate with himself about something probably about what we had just discussed minutes prior.
"I need to get these to John." I say, shivering after a couple minutes of silence. He nods staring at me intently not breaking eye contact as he speaks.
"You need to let John know how you feel, Sherlock." He finally says. I gape at him hardly believing what he's telling me to do. I can't tell John how I feel. What if he rejects me and we finish his last year together shrouded in awkward filled tension?
Mycroft rolls his eyes, seeing the panic rage on inside my mind. "Look at the website, Sherlock. Everything you need to know will be there. I promise."
I give him a tight nod and turn on my heel to heed into Baker St. Just as I step through the door, Mycroft's voice drifts to me.
"Your goldfish is dying and doesn't have a lot of time. Please don't waste any of it."
I don't respond as I shut the door behind me, leaning heavily against it. I feel weak, cold, and tired.
I hear John's soft footsteps up above and our flat door open. I glance up to see John standing at the top of the stairs looking at me confused.
"I thought I told you not to move." I finally say.
"I heard the door." He says as if that's reason to get up when I asked him not to. "You okay, Sherlock?"
"Yeah... I'm fine... Just... It's just cold out there." I respond lamely.
"Right. Yeah. It's supposed to start snowing. Best get you up inside and in front of the fire; your face is all red."
I pale. I don't want John to know I'd been crying.
"Oh, yeah. It's bitter cold out." I say, hoping he'll take the bait that my face is red from the cold.
"Definitely so." He says, taking the bait much to my relief.
I peel myself off the door and walk slowly up the stairs. John's face is pale and he looks tired. I place my hand on his lower back and lead him into the flat. A low fire already roaring, casting everything in a warm glow.
"Sit." I order him once again. "I'll make some tea so you can take your medicine."
"I forgot that's what you went out for." He says with feeble amusement.
My face drops noticeably at the news of this, but I rearrange it quickly when John looks up when I remain silent.
We stare at each other for a bit, not saying anything. The conversation with Mycroft floods back to me and an overwhelming urge to tell him that I love him consumes me. I open my mouth to say the three words I thought I'd ever say to anyone, especially John. But I stop myself, fear of rejection and humiliation overcrowding my desire to tell him. I snap my mouth shut with an audible snap and turn to hang my coat and scarf near the door next to John's.
As I turn away, I hear a loud gasp causing me to turn back around. My heart stops as worry that something else is happening to him consumes my thoughts.
As I face him, I see that he's fine, but he's staring at my forgotten mangled hand with disbelief and shock.
"What happened?" He asks quietly, rushing over to me. He lifts my hand tenderly inspecting the extensiveness of my wound.
My head scrambles for a believable excuse, but coming up empty.
"I... uhh... slammed it in the pharmacy door..." I say feebly grasping the first thing that pops into my mind.
John looks up at me, squinting his eyes trying to decide whether to believe me. He looks like he's about to say something about it not looking like a door slam injury, but stops as his face drops sadly and his gaze flicks down to my bloody hand.
"It's definitely broken." He finally says. "We should take you to the hospital to get it fixed."
"No!" I shout, causing him to jump and drop my hand. It hits my side causing pain to shoot up my arm. The last bit of adrenaline I had whilst beating the wall now gone as my hand starts to throb painfully.
"Alright. Alright. No hospital." John says looking at me with concern. "Come over near the fireplace, so I can get a better look at it."
I nod and let John lead me still holding my hand.
His touch makes my heart swim and my stomach flutter. The beat of my heart so loud I'm pretty sure John can hear it. I try to calm myself, not wanting to alert John to my newfound feelings for him.
"Sit." He says, pointing to a spot on the floor in front of the fireplace. Seems a bit childish to me to sit on the floor, but I oblige giving him a smirk which he rolls his eye at in response to. "I'm going to go get my medical bag. We need to take care of your hand as soon as possible before permanent injury sets in."
I nod, watching him depart. My eyes trailing after him. I notice that he's walking slightly different. He moves slower, shuffling a bit more than usual. Most people wouldn't see the difference; it's so minute. But I can. I can see the smallest change in John that John himself won't see. This ability to observe and deduce is my greatest achievement.
But as I see every small change that John has gone through already and will go through, I only think of it as a curse. A curse I wish I could rid myself of. I want to shut it off, never to let it flick back on again. I don't want to see everything that John will go through that others will miss. I don't think I can live through it. It's going to destroy me in the end.
A single tear drips down my face as I stare into the fire, consumed with a single thought.
I wish I was ordinary
To be continued...