It was a cold and damp day in London. A light rain was falling, and the storm grey clouds did nothing to improve John's mood as he marched along the crowded morning streets. Honestly, he wasn't really aware of his surroundings. He had no set destination in mind and there seemed to be a persistent angry buzzing in his brain through which occasional angry phrases (bloody sodding idiot, goddamn that man, a fucking year he left me! the bloody nerve of him, and thinks he knows every-bleeding-thing among them) surfaced with tenacity.
John shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking at a furious pace. He bumped into several people, nearly knocking them over, and didn't even stop to apologize for the bruised elbows, disgruntled tourists, and spilt shopping bags he left in his wake.
He was breathing rather harshly and he could see the puffs of condensation in the air that preceded his steps. Physical activity was an outlet, for John. It was a way to bleed off the toxic energy he felt running through his veins and a productive alternative to hitting something (or someone, as the case may be, however much that consultin—person may have deserved it). Usually, walking helped him to clear his head. Usually. This was, however, apparently an extremely unusual circumstance because he felt absolutely no relief of his inner turmoil whatsoever.
The nerve of that sodding bastard! John thought He shows up after a year and then tries to deduce me! He can't even fucking comprehend why I'd be upset! John purposely trod down on the small voice that attempted to draw his attention to the events of the preceding evening, during which Sherlock had seemed more vulnerable and emotionally demonstrative than ever before.
Who am I kidding? John's scowl deepened and his lips thinned into a hard line. Passersby began to give the stranger with such a dark countenance a wide berth. This is the same man who couldn't imagine that a woman would think of her own child in the last moments of her life; the same person who became down right gleeful at the prospect of a serial murderer. The wonderful flat-mate who leaves toes in the freezer and calls me home across the bloody city to fetch a pen from his pocked! Sherlock bloody Holmes, the self-confessed sociopath, doesn't give a damn about anybody but himself.
But, John, another voice said don't you remember?Unbidden, the image of Sherlock the night they had encountered Moriarty for the first time came to the front of John's mind. He remembered the terrified expression that Sherlock wore when he saw his blogger wrapped up in explosive equipment, recalled the way that Sherlock fingers had shaken as he stripped the bombing off of John, and his positively wrecked countenance and palpable relief when John was out of danger again…
That doesn't mean anything. John countered himself, but he remembered, too, the way that Sherlock's last few moments (or supposed last few moments) on earth had been spent with John. How the consulting detective had cried on the phone as he said goodbye…Yeah, before he disappeared for a year for no bloody reason! There didn't have to be a goodbye.
Rational John countered, I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation, which you would find out if you would stop acting like a child and talkabout it with him. Sherlock never does something without a good reason.
Sodding, shut up! He left me. He left me alone!
John stopped his relentless pacing and walked over to the nearest railing, which overlooked the river. He was taking deep breathes to try to prevent the sudden onslaught of tears, and only marginally succeeding. The crux of the matter, when you got right down to it, was that John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes with all of his (considerably large) heart. He would have done anything for him, would have gone through hell and back if necessary. And the truth was that John was terrified. He could not under any circumstances lose Sherlock again, but he didn't trust Sherlock not to leave.
All right, granted that Sherlock had made some grand and lofty proclamations the night before. John remembered them clearly. In fact, he felt his heart constrict within his chest just thinking of the depth of emotion that had been in Sherlock's eyes and face and hands. But Sherlock Holmes had also made some very serious mistakes. And the world's only consulting detective was nothing if not a consummate actor; he knew how to read people (especially John) and he also knew just exactly what he needed to do and say in order to get what he wanted…
Okay, perhaps that wasn't entirely fair, John thought. He did know that Sherlock loved him in his own strange, Sherlocky way, probably as much as Sherlock was capable of "love." But John, in that moment, was not really sure that Sherlock was capable of loving someone. And even if he did, John thought tiredly, would that be enough after all that's happened?
He had worked himself into a state of self-pity, self-righteous anger, and unrequited love. A lethal cocktail of emotion bubbled up inside of him. He had, in fact, begun to sulk. John Watson, army doctor, adrenaline junkie, man of action, loyal friend, sometime consulting detective, and faithful blogger was standing in the rain, staring at a river, with tear stains on his face, and numb fingers from the cold…sulking.
And to be quite honest, he stayed that way for a while, completely oblivious to external conditions as he bemoaned the internal emotional mess that had become his life.
After another minute or two (or ten), he looked up with a determined set to his jaw and a blazing look on his face.
"Sod this." He said. For he was John Watson, damn it, and, if there was one thing to be said about John Watson, it was that he never took things lying down. He was not passive, he was not a push over, and he did not run away from a fight if he could help it. That was exactly what he had done this morning. Understandably perhaps, but he had nevertheless retreated when he should have confronted Sherlock. He had turned around and walked away when he should have sat down and discussed the situation. No explanation could make up for the past year. None. There was very little chance that things could go back to the way that they had been before, too much had changed, there had been too much hurt. However, now that the anger had dissipated and the sane little voice in the back of John's brain had reasserted itself, he realized that his evasive sulking phase was far more suited to a certain newly "resurrected" flat-mate than it was to him. He was supposed to be the mature one in this partnership. Even if Sherlock's explanation wouldn't change things, didn't John still need to hear it? If only to try to understand what the hell had happened.
John wiped eyes, straightened his spine, and spun around, resolved to return to Baker Street and have it out with Sherlock. Unfortunately, it was at this decisive juncture that he noticed a shining black car parked at the curb about ten meters distant. He felt a strong sense of foreboding as the rear door opened and a voice from within said, "Good afternoon, Doctor Watson." This was just not his day.
AN: Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed this story so far! It really means the world to me. I do hope that John was believable in this chapter and that his chat with himself made sense. We'll be visiting with our favorite consulting detective again quite soon...;-)
In other news, I sat down today and plotted out the remaining chapters of this fic as well as plans for several out-takes, one-shots, and future multi-chapter works to come. Basically there are currently a multitude of plot bunny themed post-its all over my desk. I would love to get your feedback on this story, on John and Sherlock, and any requests or suggestions you might have! More plot-bunny post-its are always welcome. :-) And it would be awesome to know what everyone thinks of this story so far. I hope that you're enjoying the reading as much as I am enjoying the writing, and if you comment/review, I promise to reply!
Until next time!
-Nic
