TITLE: In the Name of the Father
CHAPTER/TITLE: Four/ Stop
RATING: T (language, violence, abuse)
A/N: I kept the birth certificate dialogue/scene similar to the one in Father's Family Name because I think John's reaction in that was spot on to how he would react and I can't imagine writing it differently. Obviously, it takes a far different turn toward the end of the conversation.
Please read and review, many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter Four: Stop
Sherlock was still buttoning his jacket when he heard his flatmate's sharp intake of air from behind the bathroom door. He paused in the hall, stealthily listening to his friend trying desperately to breathe properly, and quite honestly doing a poor job of it.
He had been around for enough of John's nightmares and knew people well enough to know exactly what he was hearing.
He had thought that something had been amiss with John's reaction to Sherlock's initial inquiry regarding the man's middle name. It was what had spurred the entire investigation, that, and his ridiculous sense of curiosity.
Now, there was no question about it.
Merely alluding to the topic had somehow sparked this severe reaction from his friend.
At first, Sherlock had to admit that he wasn't all that concerned with the little case of the middle name. It was barely a four. He was treating it more with casual interest. But now, now it took top priority. When it came to John's health and safety, be it physical, psychological or emotional, it was beyond a ten.
Sherlock acted quite perfectly nonchalant when his flatmate emerged from the bathroom later, having obviously attempted to compose himself. The detective already has his plans to solve this little mystery under way. He had made several calls and the document he required was to arrive at Baker Street within the next few days.
In the interim, before receiving the parcel, Sherlock took special care of closely watching his bothered blogger. He secretly monitored the man's health and took great care to avoid even broaching the subject. He would save that for the final confrontation. John needed to get this out, whatever it was.
Sherlock wasn't one to put much stock into sentiment, but when things came to his friend, his life philosophies and mantras tended to get a bit skewed. This secret was tearing John apart from the inside. And the former soldier could ignore it as he probably had been for years, stuffing it away, but eventually, the truth would seep out. Maybe not in exact words. But in anger. In reactions like the one he had in the shower. In nightmares and every other way it would attack him until John finally confronted whatever he was running from.
Sherlock, of course, had his assumptions, his deductions. He was quite honestly pretty close to the mark before he even finally received the document and did a little online digging. But this was John. It didn't matter how close he was. There was no room for guesses or error.
He had to know the truth, and he had to hear it from John.
So when Sherlock finally had the birth certificate in his hands, he knew what had to be done.
The pair weren't the kind to sit down and share each others' feelings over tea and tears. John wasn't going to just come right out and spit his lifelong secrets into Sherlock's lap. And Sherlock would never ask him to. Not like that. No, this was how they did it. This was how they communicated. How they always had communicated. Through teasing and jokes. Through anger and fights.
And Sherlock knew exactly how to make John angry.
Fixing himself with his most triumphant, and yet apathetic expression, Sherlock leaned against the wall, awaiting his prey that he already heard coming up the steps.
It took John only a few steps and seconds to realize exactly what was in his flatmate's hands.
And only a few moments longer to lose it.
"That's my birth certificate."
"Yep." Popping the "p", Sherlock nonchalantly straightened and started to cross the room.
He could feel John staring after him. Staring, not glaring. Not dropping the grocery bags. Not hauling off and chinning him right there.
It wasn't exactly the initial reaction he had been counting on, but this was John Watson he was facing off with. He should not have expected anything different really. The man was nearly as stoic as the self-proclaimed sociopath. But the doctor couldn't hold the wall up forever. All the detective had to do was wait. Oftentimes John let his emotions, especially his anger, boil a bit before letting it spill over.
"My birth certificate," John repeated slowly, almost thickly, setting down the shopping, all the while keeping his head to the ground.
"Quite easy to obtain, in fact, really," Sherlock shrugged, yet still eyeing his friend from his chair, waiting.
John was gripping the edge of the kitchen table now as he leaned forward.
"So," Sherlock waved the document. "John Hamish Watson."
John cleared his throat and shook his head, his eyelids briefly falling forcibly shut.
"Good," he nodded, straightening and starting to put the items away. "That's - good for you. Now you can stop bothering me about it."
The entire time he spoke, the blogger refused to look into the sitting area or at the detective, even keeping his back toward the man. Sherlock watched with wordless worry as his friend's hand trembled when he began loading the shelves.
"Yet the case isn't entirely solved," Sherlock continued, trying to ignore the small spasm that shuddered through his flatmate's back. "You hate it. Why? Family name, I assume. Sherlock, of course, is one. As is Mycroft -"
"Just," John dragged out the "s" tiredly, "stop it."
"Well, actually, I don't have to assume, seeing as your birth certificate clearly labels you as the son of Helen and Hamish Watson. Hm. Interesting. Helen, Hamish, Harriet. Think they were going for a pattern. People do that. Have five children and start them all with "K" or "J" or something ridiculous like that. How dull and aggravating. And yet they went with John instead of the obvious "H"."
"A real mystery," John was attempting to sound casual and sarcastic, but something was certainly off in his tone.
"Or perhaps not." Sherlock crossed his legs. "After acquiring your birth certificate -"
And then, it happened.
Oh, Sherlock knew exactly what button to push. He was well aware that if he mentioned the birth certificate enough, he could produce a response. John did so have a thing about his privacy.
"Yes! My birth certificate!" John spun around, shouting. "Mine. Not property of Sherlock Holmes when he bloody feels like stealing it. Mine. Why am I not surprised? The great genius that is Sherlock Holmes doesn't have enough brain capacity to fit being a decent human being into his Mind Palace! Just once, Sherlock, could you listen to me? Once. One time! I told you, to stop."
"Yes, but why?" Sherlock challenged, arching a single eyebrow and filling his voice with feigned arrogance instead of the concern for his friend he was truly experiencing.
"I said "stop it"!" John barked, slamming a shaking fist onto the table. "Leave it alone, Sherlock. Now."
"But your father's name, John. It has to mean something to you. I mean, I'm named after some great grandfather. I don't care. But I'm not most people. And your father. Not some distant relative you never knew. This is more than just embarrassment from childhood nicknames."
"One more word, Sherlock," John threatened, stepping across the threshold into the sitting room, his entire frame quaking.
Sherlock quickly cataloged the sheen of sweat on his friend's brow. The clenching of his fists. The rapid rise and fall of his chest. He had to strike now. If John carried on much longer like this, he was surely suffer cardiac arrest or something of similar nature. He had to pierce John's breaking point to where the anger climaxed and then dropped, leaving only the truth in its wake.
"Are you ashamed of him for some reason?" Sherlock pressed, knowing very well that ashamed was certainly not the word. "No, that's not it. Angry then? Why? Hm? Did he insult you? Of course, I do that all the time. So, obviously more than that. Was he disappointed about your joining the army?" Sherlock supplied another false guess. "Preferred Harry over you? Did the two of you get into a fight? Did you run away? What happened?"
"I killed him!"
The scream that shook the flat was of a caliber neither of the men had ever directed at one another before. And then, silence. It was weighted and seemed to crash over the entire room.
John clenched his fists and bent his back, stepping forward, and then back, and then forward again. His chest was heaving, his haggard and heavy breathing the only noise for several staggering seconds.
And the sound suddenly stopped.
Sherlock snapped his head up to examine his friend to find the horrifying answer to the sudden silence.
John Watson had stopped breathing.