Title: A Small Sacrifice Pt. 3
Pairing: Sherlock and John
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rated: T
Notes: I. AM. SO. SORRY. My new job is draining me dry, I haven't had the mojo for updating in so long. Please forgive me guys! I'm afraid this chapter may not be that well written, I'm so tired. I'll go through it again later and fix stuff up.
:
This guilt thing… Regret, remorse, shame, self-depreciation… Something completely foreign and new, something that leaves him baffled and speechless, something that hurts physically when there is nothing tangible about it. He absolutely, to the core, loathed this feeling.
It has been eighteen days since the accident, thirteen days since John has been released from the hospital, eight days since John has given up lessons completely, and four days since the last time a full word aside from 'yes', 'no', 'sorry', and 'ta' has left John's lips. Sherlock doesn't bother with experiments or cases anymore, mostly because he can't concentrate when his John is acting this way, partly because his hands have been trembling out of frustration since the second day John stopped talking to him. All John did was mozie about the flat in silence, read, go through emails, watch the telly, eat, and nap on the couch. Everything he did had such a slow, eerie calmness to it, a sense of defeat almost. When Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or a possible new client showed up (only to be turned down right away, no matter how interesting the case), John would hide away in their bedroom. Sherlock was silently thankful that he could at least keep that, John willingly staying in the bedroom with him. It was the only time John wasn't totally avoiding physical contact with him.
John had moved into Sherlock's bedroom several months ago, Sherlock had never been so compliant to sleep's pestering beckoning until he had a Watson waiting for him nightly in bed. Waiting, smiling, eager to place his hands and lips anywhere on Sherlock's body that he desired whether it be out of lust or need of innocent intimacy. The pre-John Sherlock would have been disgusted at how sentimental it was for post-John Sherlock to be longing for those nights again so badly. Now… Well, now John was just there, eyes avoiding, back turned, he didn't even lean into any of Sherlock's touches.
Sherlock would never admit it so blatantly, normally he just tells John that he is not most people, but what he means is that no matter how hard he tries, he can never predict what John will do next, how John will respond to something, which laugh John use (he has so many and Sherlock loves every one of them)… So of course, it's only natural that John's general air of 'giving up' had completely thrown him off the wall. The fact that John had given up after only five days of lessons, they weren't that unbearable… were they?
In the end, Sherlock concludes that John is a doctor and doctors, especially ex-army doctors, have seen what all can happen when you get hit a tad too hard on the noggin. John has seen this many times and he has seen how a good ninety-four percent of the brain trauma victims have had no progress in fixing what has been damaged. He knew his odds, he knew that if it doesn't come back on its own, it never will, and he knew that trying to re-learn it all would be futile.
This is why John gave up so easily.
Because he knows.
:
Sherlock's phone rings, he doesn't need to look at it to figure out who it is. Lestrade's been buggering him to help on a specific case that at any other point, Sherlock would have leapt on.
Sherlock's phone rings again, this is the sixth call today alone. Sherlock shuts his phone off and tosses it on the coffee table from the couch, bringing his focus back to his laptop. John sits in his chair reading the newspaper.
Several moments of silence pass, this is common, until John finally folds the paper up neatly and places it on the pile at his feet. Green grey eyes land on him and watch him carefully at a distance as he stands from his chair and heads for the door, limp a little less slight than it was a few days ago. At first, it was barely there, only Sherlock could have pointed it out, but Mrs. Hudson decided to comment on it the other day as he was walking to the bedroom to avoid her. That didn't go over well. At least not for Sherlock.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock begins to panic internally, he knows John blames him, he knows John is punishing him, but where on Earth could this recent mute/shut in be going all of a sudden?
John doesn't answer, of course, and makes his way downstairs. Sherlock swallows hard after the door had shut and he was alone. He looks at the phone, and he can't take it anymore.
:
Sherlock's phone rings, he doesn't need to ask to know who it is. Greg's been buggering him to help on a specific case that at any other point, Sherlock would have leapt on. John wishes he would take it, he'd feel less like he was holding the detective back. He hasn't taken a single case or done any experiments what so ever since the accident. It crushed John really.
Sherlock's phone rings again, this is the sixth call today, nineteen in the past three days all together. John hears Sherlock's begrudged sigh and the shut off tone to his phone before a loud clutter on the coffee table. He doesn't bother looking over the newspaper. He wants Sherlock to take the case, he doesn't want to hold his partner back, but the idiot won't take a hint. He's kept himself as distant as he can, John honestly didn't expect Sherlock to last this long, but here he is, still by his side. Sherlock probably hates him for giving up so easily. Being a doctor, especially an army doctor in Afghanistan, you see enough head injuries and brain damage to know your odds in the healing process. The brain is a very fragile… bipolar thing. He could wake up in the middle of the night tonight and remember all of it, he could be eating soup years from now and suddenly remember all of it, he could also very well never remember any of it again. Sherlock knows this just as much as John and John knows Sherlock knows this just as much as John. Sherlock probably blames him for getting the brain damage in the first place. Sherlock probably hates him for ruining what they had going, something so perfect. Sherlock probably…
Suddenly, John is craving Italian food. Baked Ziti sounds wonderful right now. Sure does.
John folds his paper neatly and places it down by his feet, he can feel those green greys on him already as he gets to his feet. Walking towards the door, the damned voice piped up behind him.
"Where are you going?" The question is almost answered. Almost, but no. John ignores the voice and leaves the building.
:
It's four in the morning. Sherlock steps cautiously into the bedroom, eyes adjusting accordingly to the darkness. The bed is empty. The light switches on and Sherlock looks around. The bed is empty and several miscellaneous items belonging to John are gone. Sherlock stares at nothing for several moments and before he realizes it, his legs are moving and he is walking upstairs to John's old room.
Several more moments later, Sherlock is back in his bedroom, his, singular, and his chest feels like something tangible and extremely heavy is pressing down on it. Knuckles hit paint and plaster, a poorly suppressed groan slips past his lips, he doesn't do this out of anger, Sherlock does not lose control like this. No. He does this because the wall is the same color as the van that hit them on that day. He does this because this color now makes him nauseous. He does this because guilt is the most disgusting, vile thing he's ever felt, and now there is no going back.
