Title: Adrift
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: John and Sherlock find themselves adrift and stop to re-evaluate.
Notes: This chapter is about Sherlock. But next chapter will very definitely have a boat.
Chapter 3: Becalmed
It was about two hours before Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. Sherlock could typically accomplish a lot in two hours. He could perform an adequate experiment on the reaction of specific metals to corrosive acid. He could read several volumes of the latest psychological journals. He could update his catalogue of tire tread mark patterns. But Sherlock had done none of these things by the time Mrs. Hudson found him. Instead, he had sat down, his still-damp trousers clinging to the material of the sofa, and stayed there.
After John left, he hadn't cried. Not that he expected as much. He hadn't shouted. He hadn't watched as angry, bitter thoughts whisked through his mind. He hadn't silently reviewed every syllable of their final conversation. For once, for once in his entire life, his mind had gone utterly blank. There was nothing but static, and unsure how to react, Sherlock had slid numbly onto the sofa and stared at the opposite wall. For two hours.
Mrs. Hudson's gentle taps on the doorframe couldn't break through the static. Nor could her words.
"Sherlock?" she asked quietly. "You all right, dear?" He said nothing. He did not blink.
She sighed gently before coming to sit beside him on the sofa and tenderly resting a hand on his upper back. Had she heard their fight? Probably. Or perhaps not? Could she hear down there? Why would she come up here then? Think. Come on, stop this, just think.
"Sherlock," she began again. He remained still. "I, well I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I might have overheard a bit. You were quite loud…I'm so sorry, love. I know you and Dr. Watson…well, you were happy with him. I could see that. You smiled a lot more." She began rubbing her hand in comforting circles. Sherlock lowered his eyes. "It's going to hurt for a while. I can't change that. Neither can you. Nobody can. That's being human." She patted him lightly. "But if it wasn't meant to be, then it wasn't meant to be. You can't hang onto something that is never going to work. Believe me, Sherlock, I know," she whispered. Then she smiled at him. "You know I liked Dr. Watson. A good man. But your happiness is what matters to me. Always, Sherlock. Always. So if he's going to walk out on you, then that's his bloody loss," she murmured. "In the meantime, you stay here as long as you like, at half rent. Don't even worry about it."
He barely nodded. "Good. That's settled then." She smiled weakly.
He registered when she had gotten up from the sofa after several more minutes of back rubbing. He registered when, ten minutes later, a mug of tea appeared on the table in front of him. He even thought he heard her light footsteps going down the stairs. He couldn't be sure. He could only stare at the wisps of steam floating up from the mug until they vanished.
He didn't notice when the sun set. He didn't notice when it rose again.
He didn't notice when a car pulled up outside or when feet could be heard climbing the stairs.
The feet stepped quietly into the room and moved to sit in the armchair. For a moment, there was silence. Sherlock continued to stare at the mug of tea.
"What do you plan to do, Sherlock?" Sherlock exhaled, but he did not look up. "You cannot sulk forever, brother."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched almost imperceptibility.
"And no, that is not a theory for you to test. I asked you what you planned to do."
There was a pause. "What does it matter, Mycroft? What I do now. It doesn't make any difference," he whispered.
Mycroft folded his hands and peered carefully at his brother. "Oh, come now, Sherlock, look at yourself. You haven't slept. You haven't moved. You claimed to do just fine before Dr. Watson entered your life. Surely you're capable of functioning without him? Hmm? The 'brilliant mind' of Sherlock Holmes certainly doesn't need some feeble and weak-minded human. As I recall quite vividly, it is only your work that matters to you and nothing else. That cannot have changed. So do stop sulking and pull yourself together."
"Shut up, Mycroft," spat Sherlock.
"Please, brother, don't be petulant. I'm only calling your attention to the truth. John Watson proved this to you himself. I do believe he left because your work was more important to you than him. He knew the truth. Accept it, Sherlock."
"I said shut up!" Sherlock glared at him fiercely.
Mycroft glanced at his watch. "Why? I'm only making you face reality. Unless you know of some other reason why John Watson's sudden departure should bother you? Make me understand, brother. Tell me. Tell me why you're upset."
"Because I love him!" shouted Sherlock, rising from the sofa.
Sherlock's chest heaved, and the room was still for a moment before Mycroft slowly rose from his chair, walked over to Sherlock, and, with a hand on his shoulder, guided him back down to the sofa.
"I know, Sherlock. I know that." The two brothers stared out straight ahead. "So what are you going to do about it?" Sherlock spun to face him.
"We both know you cannot go back to the way things were. You've….well, it pains me to admit, but I never truly foresaw you ever finding someone so…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and Mycroft cleared his throat. "The point is, you have, and here we are. So what will you do?"
"I don't know, Mycroft. What can I do?" Sherlock swallowed, and Mycroft did not take his eyes off him. "I…Everything I told him last night—it was true. I can't change that. I am who I am. You know that. I know it. It's futile to deny nature."
Sherlock reached out and twisted the ice cold mug of tea. "I was just as surprised as you were Mycroft. I never imagined I would fine someone like John. But I suppose even I was too much for him. I—" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and pulled his hands into his lap. Shutting his eyes, Mycroft shifted in his seat.
"I wish I had been lying, Mycroft," he murmured. "I wish I cared about all of the things he wants me to. But…" he drew out the last consonant as he thought, "I wasn't lying about my feelings for him. Of course I care what happens to John. I love him. I…didn't expect that, but I honestly do." He ran a hand across his brow and cleared his throat. "What do I do, Mycroft. Tell me what to do." He buried his face in his hands.
Mycroft nodded. "You leave, Sherlock. You step back. You are in no position to do much of anything right now. So you walk away. I can have the family cottage on the coast opened and prepared within the hour. I suggest you go there for now. After that is up to you, but I would encourage you to stay there at least a week. No cases. No work. Just think about the things you have just told me and, well, I can see the absurdity in asking you to relax, but do at least make an effort." He smiled tightly. "If John Watson is the man you believe him to be, then there is hope, and this is all you can do for now."
"I can't just—"
"You can," Mycroft cut him off sharply, "and you will. And you will not hound Dr. Watson as I know you are tempted to do. You must leave. I have seen to it that John Watson is taken care of for now."
"What?" asked Sherlock, raising his head. "You didn't send to him to some overseas prison, did you?"
Mycroft shot him a look. "Nothing to be alarmed about. Just a few simple arrangements, chance meetings, that sort of thing. I have not sent him to an overseas prison, I promise you." He leaned back in his seat. "Speaking of Dr. Watson, I do believe he will be by later this afternoon to collect his things, correct?"
Sherlock nodded dumbly. "Then you will be out by then. In fact, if you would like, I have a car waiting outside which can take you away right now. Would you prefer that?"
"I should be here when he comes by," whispered Sherlock.
"No," said Mycroft heavily, "You will not be. Go. I will take care of things here. Your rent will be seen to in your absence, and everything you will need will be waiting at the cottage. Get into the car, Sherlock." He looked up at Mycroft before pulling himself up stiffly from the sofa. He nodded at last.
"Good. My assistant is waiting in the car. She will take care of you." He handed Sherlock his coat and watched as he moved toward the stairs.
"I'm sorry, brother. I truly am," he said to Sherlock's back. Sherlock paused for a moment but did not turn around. Mycroft waited until he heard the car pull away before letting out a slow sigh. In the next hour, Sherlock would find himself on the southeastern coast with nothing but an empty house and the ocean to occupy his time. Heaven help anyone in a fifty-mile radius. But his assistant was capable, and she would see him settled in. There was no need for Mycroft himself. He had done enough.
He glanced around the flat and pulled out his phone. "I'm at 221B Baker Street," he said quickly. "Have someone come by with some boxes. I need some things packed away." Within that same hour, all of the belongings of John Watson would be ready to leave as well. It had been the home of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Together, it had been theirs, but apart, it would be an empty place. Perhaps that's the way it ought to be, he quietly thought. At least for now. He stepped out and shut the door behind him, taking the last bit of life out of the flat.
