Chapter 3

John woke up the next morning feeling anxious. The promise of meeting Sherlock again and made his insides flip with... he didn't know. It was either that or he was subconsciously pushing a feeling down deep. His brain was foggy as he had a shower, got dressed and prepared a tea, as was his normal routine.

He was dressed in a white button-down shirt with black trousers. He didn't see the point in wearing a jacket since he would wear the same one as before when he went back into the house. Walking out of his front door, he called a cab, which managed to come to him quickly.

John watched as the world zoomed past him in colours beyond the gray of the sky, creating a beautiful contrast, it was until the taxi stopped on the road further down Sherlock's house. He paid the driver and waited patiently for the black van to arrive.

Ten minutes later, luckily in warm weather, the van showed up, and John entered.

"I never thought someone would get two goes to get one picture." Moriarty muttered as Anderson produced the jacket to which John changed into.

"He doesn't sound a thing like Moriarty described. He seems... misunderstood." He whispered to Anderson as Moriarty was in the passenger seat, mumbling to himself.

"Probably is. But I need this photo."

"Why?" They hadn't explained that part to John, and he always wondered. Anderson looked reluctant to divulge that information, which just fuelled John's curiosity.

Changing the subject quickly, and nudging John out of the vehicle yelled, "Good luck."

John walked toward the gates and waited a while, before a man came out of the house, dressed also in a suit, and opened it for him.

"Follow me, sir." He said, to which John obliged. The first time he had walked in, he never took in the sight of the beauty. The walls were white although others would say cream, and the windows were big. It looked like nearly every room was the same as he walked through.

"What's your name?" John asked the man.

Glimpsing over his shoulder the man said, "It's Dimmock, sir."

"How long have you worked here, Dimmock?"

"For a while now, sir. I think it has been at least 20 years in total. I was hired a ten years after Master Sherlock was born."

"You hardly look old enough."

"It was work experience, which lasted the rest of my life. Once you're here they don't let you out." He was being sarcastic but there was bitterness behind it. "Also, I moisturise."

John chuckled at that, to which Dimmock seemed to smile a little.

John thought it odd that people still had servants, but it did look like the Holmes' were very posh, and he was sure he heard their names before somewhere, even before his... mission.

He noticed the contrast between the rest of the house, to the viewing room as he entered. Where the rest of the house was bright, calm and welcoming; this room contained a dark presence probably given by the grass colour green walls and carpet. The books lined up in perpendicular order only furthered his thoughts, he felt as if he was trespassing on someone's privacy. Maybe it was meant to be Sherlock's.

He sat down on the sofa and waited for any sign of Sherlock. It didn't take long though, looked like Sherlock was just as apprehensive to see him as he was to see Sherlock.

"You came."

John smiled slightly, hearing Sherlock's voice again made his skin tingle. He felt his chest swell to hear vulnerability in his voice, and he want to correct this. Sherlock should never feel like that again.

"Of course." He stood up and walked to the mirror. "When am I ever going to see you? I would like to see you for the first time."

Sherlock hesitated, "you probably won't when you do."

"I'm not like everyone else, Sherlock." John lifted his hand and placed it on the glass, though he had no idea why, it seemed a bit cliche actually. Sherlock reached up, placing his hand over Jack's. John felt a little tingle shot up his arm and wondered if Sherlock was doing the same thing he was doing. "I can't see, but are you doing what I'm doing?" There was no answer so he smirked, "I'm a good influence on you."

"Oh, shush." Sherlock chuckled; there was no venom in his words. He was in a slightly better mood now that Jack had actually come back. He was anxious and scared that he wasn't and so was a pain to his brother and everyone in the house.

John still had his hand up on the glass. "Do you get lonely, Sherlock?"

Stunned by his sincerity, Sherlock took a while to respond. "Most of the time, it's easy to ignore, but when I look out to the gates, see other people outside enjoying their lives, I only see the prison I'm forced in... it makes me feel..." He let it fade.

"Sad? Upset? Lost?" John prompted due to Sherlock's pause.

Sherlock nodded, though John couldn't see. "Surprisingly yes, I feel lost when actually my whole life is planned out for me."

John's hand slid down the mirror, the look in his eyes were honest as he said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Me too."

Looking around, John tried to get the conversation away from the depressing note it now had.

"What do you do to cure your boredom?"

Sherlock noticed the change and was grateful for it. "I read, learn and I play violin. All together it is very solitary and mundane life. You?"

"Sounds better than mine." John laughed, "I spend some time at this restaurant called Angelo's, it's brilliant in there, best food in the whole of London. I don't really do that much actually, it's very boring – my life. But, if you don't mind me asking, would you play some violin for me? I always loved the sounds of the violin, but my mum didn't and so told me to learn clarinet."

Sherlock was out of his chair in a shot and got his violin out. Thinking through all the works of famous composers and their brilliant symphonies, but he wanted to play his own one.

When his bow made contact with the strings, the music that came out was like a heavenly chorus. Notes were played with cautious but confident strokes, which made the piece contradictive even before the introduction had finished. John was imagining Sherlock playing with his eyes closed; he didn't know what he actually looked like, but the picture was perfect for now.

John was struck by how powerful the melody was. The long strokes made it sound lonely and isolated, but when it began to pick up in tempo and the staccato strokes began it sounded like a resolution, a happiness that was needed in this tune. It told the story of Sherlock's life and his future dreams of freedom.

Sherlock finished on a slow note, opening his eyes and seeing Jack's awe struck face.

"Sher-" He couldn't even finish one syllable. His throat had dried up and he couldn't even swallow.

He coughed, twice, and tried again. "That was so beautiful."

"Thank you."

"You wrote it yourself." It wasn't a question, but an admiration.

"One of a few I've written."

"There are more, more compositions? You should publish some, become the next Mozart."

The idea did sound compelling, to be liked for his talents rather than shunned for his appearance, but... "I couldn't. I am only a legend, or nonexistent to anyone else. I would be indulging people rumours and whispers. I would rather live the life I'm living then let people call me 'freak' or other such words, I would rather be on my own."

Before he could stop them, John said the words with anger deep in them, "I wouldn't let them. You're meant to be respected for your intelligence and wisdom, not branded as a monster because of an appearance. Most people can hide their true self, but yours is trying to break free."

John stole a breath as his speech rushed out in one breath.

"Thank you, Jack." Sherlock was truly stunned at Jack's protectiveness, and felt his stomach twist slightly at the fact that he liked it, a lot. "Thank you very much."

It felt wrong to hear Sherlock call him Jack when he wanted to hear what his name would sound like in the deep baritone, but instead he carried on with the truth, "like I said; I'm not like the rest."

I'm worse.

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"I can't do this anymore." John said, shrugging Anderson's jacket off. "Leave him alone, he deserves more than publicity."

"You can't give up now, he trusts you." Moriarty came out of the van and walked in front of him, leaning his head so they were face to face. It was meant to be intimidating but John had gone through a lot worse.

"Exactly. I don't want to hurt him." He was turning away, planning to never return.

"Fine, give us the money back." John stooped immediately. Moriarty, held his hand out palm facing up, and as John turned back, he saw the triumphant glint in his eyes.

"...I can't."

"Then the deal still stands. Give us the picture and we won't ask the money back." He waited until John dropped his hands before grinning with evil intent. "See you tomorrow."

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If John thought he was anxious yesterday morning, it was nothing like what he felt that morning. He didn't want to do this to Sherlock, he really didn't. He said he wasn't like everyone else. And it was true; everyone else was very different to him.

People didn't wake up to night terrors of the past, blood, dust, sand, screams, camouflage and the heat.

Normal people didn't limp around, sticking out like a sore thumb, with a wound that wasn't physical but just his bloody imagination. He thought it was hard to do that, seeing that London was a big place with a huge population, but he managed to find a way

Average people didn't want to curl up and let the darkness surround them until they couldn't breathe anymore. Until you couldn't think about your pitiful life. Until you couldn't feel anything.

But he also said people hide their true self, and he was scared of finding out what his inner self was. Would he regret finding it out? Probably, he didn't like himself right now; in fact he hated himself with a passion.

He took a shower, trying to rub off his guilt as he was under the spray. He was trying to get rid of the shame that was wrapping around his organs and twisting them painfully.

It wasn't working; he couldn't get rid of it.

Dressing in business clothes which was another black suit, he walked outside, lifted his hand up to the sky, hailing a cab. It seemed as if he were on autopilot, mostly because his mind was telling him to not do this. But throughout all of this, he wanted to see Sherlock. He wanted to look at the man that had brought him life again. His limp was all but gone every time he went to see him. If anything he was just being selfish.

The cab stopped round the corner of the house again. As John got out he glimpsed at the black van already waiting there, parked closer to the house than normal.

"Good morning!" Moriarty said in a sing-song voice as he walked out holding the jacket folded over his left arm. "You have this one chance to get the picture, or we get the money back, understood."

It wouldn't have been a threat if Moriarty wasn't wickedly smiling at him, almost manic, so John was just stuck where he was. He nodded silently, eyes falling to the floor.

He walked up to the gate again. And Dimmock greeted him again.

When he got to the viewing room, he noticed the violin on the sofa. He guessed it was Sherlock's own, and walked up to it slowly scared that he may break such a gentle instrument. He graced his hand over the strings and felt the ripple slightly underneath his fingers. He smiled softly, this was Sherlock's way of saying he trusted him.

All thoughts of this morning were all but gone when he heard Sherlock again.

"Hello." His voice was even deeper than before.

"Nice to hear from you again." John smiled brightly "This is your violin?"

"Yes. I want to see if you're a natural at it. But first, do you play chess?"

By Sherlock's instructions, John moved the chess table over to the window, grabbed a seat and sat down. He set the board up, so Sherlock was white and had the first move.

"Why did you want to play chess?" John said moving Sherlock's pawn as he was told.

"I thought you might like it. One uses strategies; they protect King and Queen, although you protected a lot more, you defended a nation."

"It wasn't just me." John took his turn. It seemed almost domestic, to be playing with an unseen opponent. "Though it was probably the stupidest thing I've done, and that is saying something. I was a rebel in my teenage years, smoking, drinking, parties that lasted till seven in the morning. But then I sobered up and because a soldier, a field surgeon." The last section was the hardest to say, he didn't like thinking, let alone saying he was a doctor, but with Sherlock, he felt like he could tell him anything.

After a while of silent playing, Sherlock abruptly asked, "Why don't you practice medicine anymore?"

John breathed in through his nose, looked down at the chess board, and moved his king out of danger from Sherlock's knight.

"It's a long story."

"I'm listening."

John looked up at the mirror with a sad smile, "A very long story."

"Jack, I have all day, it's not like I've got anything better to do." Sighing in recognition of his defeat, John started to tell his story.

"Afghanistan is a bleak desert of nothingness. It seems as if nothing grew on the plains, and the sun beats down on you through the day, and its heat stays with you through the night. If I didn't know any better I thought it would be my Hell." John paused at that, and thought to clue Sherlock in everything. "I know now though that my Hell was seeing nearly everyone I knew die. Or maybe not being able to save them. Or maybe having to choose who should survive and who to treat and who to not save because of their position. That's why I don't practice anymore, because I don't think I have the right. That was definitely my Hell.

"It got easier to handle, not gone but easier to ignore, when you have great friends and survivors that said we were brothers. One of the best though was a man called Bill Murray. He was a good man, a brilliant man, a true friend. It was during one of the raids we did that my life went totally wrong.

"We were nearly finished, when an ambush came out of thin air and we were soon surrounded with guns and explosions. Bill fell down, shouting in agony, along with other screams, but I knelt down as soon as he fell. His stomach was bleeding and blood was coming up from his mouth as I was trying to find anything to stop the onslaught of blood. I was fussing over him when silence had won over sound; our side had won the ambush – apparently. We picked our injured on stretchers, which were many, and I took to the back, me and Smith were carrying Murray out. Ironically we had nearly managed to exit when searing hot heat ripped through my shoulder."

John took a deep breath, "you know what happened then."

After a beat of silence Sherlock asked a question in a quiet murmur, almost fearing to put full volume to his words.

"What happened to Bill Murray?"

John's mouth twitched upward, "He's fine; he had surgery and was in bed rest for five weeks, and the day after was drinking like a fish. He apologised and kept saying it was his entire fault, but it wasn't, it wasn't him. It was mine for not scoping the area before going out, I could have put more lives in danger for my stupidity. I was their captain, they put their trust in me and I failed them completely. But he went back to his wife, and as far as I now know, he's expecting his second child."

"You were a good doctor though, brilliant one if they gave you their full trust."

"I guess, but I just felt like-"

"I think you were a fantastic doctor; caring yet quick-thinking and were distant so as not to hurt yourself in the process. But I presume in that world it felt much different to colds and fevers. I know you're brave, I know you're funny and I know you are the best."

There was a long hush where nothing was said, and John was positive he could hear the silence.

"What about you? You've heard what I've done, and now I want to know what you want to do."

"I love reading people and fixing puzzles, but I don't want a normal job, I could consult the police when they're out of their depth, which from what I've heard a usual occurrence."

"You could be a consulting detective. You could be the only one in the world."

"Yeah, I'm used to that." John felt guilty as soon as Sherlock said those words.

"Well, you shouldn't be. Everyone is unique-"

"No, everyone is special. They take it for granted and never realise what it's like to be banished for you 'special talents'. I know I'm special-"

"But you don't feel the special everyone else is." John finished for him. Sherlock was stunned, although he'd never admit it out loud, but it felt like Jack could read his most inner thoughts. Even though the thought was quite creepy, he felt connected to him. But there was glass in the way.

"Pick up the violin."

The statement was said in such a way that John obliged in less than 2 seconds, leaving the game unfinished. With the violin in his left hand and the bow in his right he stood in front of the mirror with a questioning glance.

"Put the bottom of the violin under the left of your chin." John did so, but obviously not correctly, "no, that will make your playing sound horrible, a bit more to the left, and more under your chin." John was trying although a sneaking grin was showing. "Now put your index finger on the thinnest string right at the top just to get your bearings. No, not like that!"

"You're putting me off." and with that John turned around from the mirror and did as he was told. He brought the bow to the string but it bobbed up and down and created a terrible sound. John cringed and stepped back into a solid frame.

Hands were placed on his, and he felt a little shiver run down his back and nerves were racing round his body; sending electrical shocks through his body. He felt breath by his left ear as the hand on his steadied the bow. A long, yet sharp, note was played in a fluid motion.

The hand on his right started to move up his arm, onto his shoulder and down to his waist, leaving goose bumps in its wake. The hand was shaking considerably, but John kept playing the same note, though he moved his finger up a little so not as sharp as before. It felt relaxing to know that the body behind was just as excited about this as himself. Finally, John had reached the end of the bow, and let it slip down from the violin, leaving the room to silence.

"Sherlock?" John asked breathlessly. He was afraid that if he spoke louder he would break the atmosphere they were creating together. There was a mumble by his ear, and the slightest hint of mouth along his lobe. His knees felt weak, and his senses were overwhelming with emotions. The hands were back on his and he felt them prise of the instrument and set them down on the sofa.

That's when he turned around.

The atmosphere was shattered immediately as John took a step back needing to adjust, while Sherlock's eyes were downcast not daring to face John's, terrified on what he may see there.

His nose was like a pig, taking over less than half of his face that was true. But the bits of his eyes he could see, seemed to sparkle even in the artificial light. And he couldn't see if it was just one colour, there were many contained in that iris. And his mouth, the little Cupid's bow in the middle; and the soft look to them that was so inviting. His suit was crisp, black layers hugging the purple shirt underneath. His hair was a tousle of ebony locks that cascaded around his face, like a dark halo for a beautiful angel.

He was beautiful. Even with the bloody snout.

John took a step forward, to which Sherlock's eyes glanced up at him, and was lifting his hand to his cheek to feel if it was as smooth as it looked, when he heard a click.

"No!"

Sherlock recoiled, seeing Jack's reaction tore him apart. "I'm a monster!" he shouted as he ran back from where he had come.

"No, no! Sherlock! He tried to run after him but he had locked the door behind him. So John picked up his cane, ran out of the other door out, down the stairs and sprinted out of the house.

Going to the van he knocked on the window. Anderson walked to John, apprehension in his step. "Did you get it?"

"Yeah, I got it." And with that he pulled down the camera that was in the jacket and slammed it on the floor, moving his foot to it and stepping on it with all his force. "Leave him alone."

A shout came from Sherlock's house and as he looked an elderly woman and Mrs. Hudson were staring at him. He ran towards them but they attempted to close the gates on him automatically, and they did before John had got there. With strength and acrobatics he didn't know he possessed he climbed and jumped high over the fence, the landing winding him lightly, but he marched on.

As he ran in he shouted Sherlock's name over and over until he got to two flights of stairs with Sherlock in the middle of the first.

"Sherlock, I-" what was he to say? He couldn't think of anything that could fix this.

"Jack... you came back?" The uncertainty and total shock was evident in his voice. John took a step forward. But before he could say a word, the taller man was talking.

"I know this face repels you." John wanted to disagree but his throat was constricted tightly. "And I know this is too much for me to ask, but please marry me. If you do it will go away and I'll be like everyone else, I'll be normal. Please, Jack, please marry me! I'll do anything you ask, and after I've changed you can go if you want. But please, marry me!"

The repetition of his fake name was the thing that brought him back. He wasn't of noble blood. He couldn't help Sherlock and would only hurt him in the long run, but his heart was beating frantically and he thought back to what he had felt in that room, Sherlock behind him in a comforting and secure hold. He wanted to say yes to the proposal, but he wanted Sherlock to be happy. He had to say no.

"Sherlock, I can't" and without a beat Sherlock was shouting, "Get out, get out, I never want to see you again!" Behind him a body was pulling and pushing him out of the doors, beyond the gates and through him on the ground with great vigour.

He turned round to see his escort and saw a man also in a suit, strawberry blond hair and a disgusted expression. John couldn't see anything else through his blurry eyed vision, locked tears threatening to over flow.

When the ringing in his ears had died down, he turned to the road and didn't see the van, that was the one and only thing he was happy about at the moment. He sniffed quietly, and picked himself up off the floor, and walked solemnly to the nearest road. He didn't look back, because he knew if he did, his heart would break completely. He kept Sherlock's face in his mind as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Feeling like dirt as each footstep laid on the soil, knowing this heartache was real, and missing the closeness of the hidden man behind him.

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How could I think- he wouldn't have - he couldn't have possibly- Why did I let him-

"Go."

Sherlock was laying on his bed, body curled in on himself, facing his wall. He thought back and saw Jack's face, and his reluctance to be with Sherlock and fix him. How could he have been so stupid? He thought, he really thought, that Jack was the one that could fix him, make him better; make him normal.

And every time he thought about him, he remembered the feeling of him in front of him, remembered the sparkling feeling from just touching him, the way he shivered when he was by him. He could swear Jack felt it too. He felt so happy but he was probably wrong, as his mother said after Jack had left. They had been able to see it the whole time, through the bloody small television. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and his mother all lined up behind Jack as he talked to him on the stairs.

His mother had said that he was working for a man called Anderson, who used to 'stalk' them before they moved to get away from him, apparently this Anderson works for the tabloids. But he was sure, so sure, there was something real between them, a real connection; a true bond.

A tear fell from his eye and Sherlock brushed it away quickly. Why was he feeling like this, he didn't do emotions! But why was he doomed to this isolated life?

He couldn't call it life, it was a forced imprisonment.

Mrs. Hudson came to the knocking to see if he needed anything, but was only replied by silence.

It was night time when Sherlock rolled over on to his back.

He just stood there; everyone runs away as fast as they can. Why did he just stand there? Sherlock's hands went to his face, thrusting the heels of his palms into his eyes. No one's ever done that before. Why was Jack so different? Was that why Sherlock found him interesting? Is that why he wanted him back, because he wasn't like anyone else?

It was a mistake! All of it, every single second he spent with Jack was a mistake, and now he had to suffer the consequences.

Taking away his hands, Sherlock glared at the ceiling, blaming it for what was happening inside his mind and his, he didn't want to say it let alone think it but, heart. The one he was sure he never had; the one that was now breaking.