Disclaimer: Still not owning anything. Otherwise this song would have found its way into the actual OST
Trigger warnings: Talk of drug use, talk of overdose, suicidal thoughts.
Season 3 – You don't have to say you love me by Dusty Springfield
Sherlock thought he would have to suffer through no more silences. Not when he got home. His absence from Baker Street has hammered what it is to truly be lonely, rather than alone. Perhaps because he's never had anyone to miss, before. But this all was supposed to end when he would finally reunite with his friends. With John.
There would be his used-to-be-exasperating two fingered pecking at computer keys (how can you miss something so maddening?), random Dr. Who and Bond nights, the kettle's whistle and the shower running (especially don't think of that, or what you thought you glanced from the partially frosted glass door leading to the bathroom from his bedroom), even when John was in a quiet mood. And when he wasn't, there would be soft chatter about random trivia, and 'amazing' and 'fantastic' mixed with the frequent 'show off' and 'git' (weren't there?), and just John being John.
Instead, back at Baker Street, Sherlock discovers that he's supposed to stay there alone. John's moved. He's moved on. That's almost the same verb – for a reason. When he used to yearn for enough quiet to hear himself think, now the silence is creepy. Eerie. No telly can fill it – not without John by his side to tease him about deducing actors, rather than plots – and the violin can only help so much. It reflects Sherlock's feelings, usually, and when you want to escape them, it's not really a wise choice. Of course, there's always the radio. And of course, Sherlock's rotten luck holds true. Why, if he was less rational he might start to think he's cursed.
When I said I needed you
You said you would always stay
It wasn't me who changed but you
And now you've gone away
Not that they ever said anything cheesy like that – they're British blokes, after all – but words need not be spoken to be understood. Especially from the world's only consulting detective, who invented (and married) a work out of noticing what the others couldn't, and John Hamish Watson, who has the most expressive face anyone on this planet can be graced with, and will make himself perfectly understood with the arch of a brow or one of his 114 (until now) classified smiles.
It's from Sherlock's petulant "I need an assistant", and consequent job offer, that they've been a unit. And is it really surprising that, discovering that John was willing to kill for him (from the start) and die for and with him (a few months later), the sleuth would assume that his blogger-cum-flatmate-cum-doctor-cum-bodyguard was unwilling to forsake him like anyone else had?
The detective certainly has not changed. Obviously, he has – physically, he's left with a few painful reminders, and there are way more bolted and blinded doors in his mind palace than it used to be – but not fundamentally, no. And certainly not regarding his feelings toward, or addiction to, one John Watson. He's left aching, more than the need of a fix ever did, by the sheer absence of his…friend?
John has changed – before, the thought of a girlfriend talking him round in Sherlock's favour would be as unneeded as absurd (mostly because it was the boffin's job to scare them away) – and the lonely detective honestly has no idea how to react. He's not prepared to interact with this new, foreign John. The one who changed, who moved on, who moved away.
Really, the consulting detective should just get up now and change radio station, but this is the one John left it on before moving, and he's loath to break even that one, flimsy connection. Sentiment. He's disgusting. He should get up and turn it off, then, but he's overcome with a lethargy that won't let him move at all.
Don't you see
That now you've gone
And I'm left here on my own
That I have to follow you
And beg you to come home?
No, no, of course not. What even is the singer thinking? That would ruin eveything. If anything, Sherlock has to up whatever attracted John in the first place. The cool, mysterious, untouchable look. If he suddenly started acting clingy – God forbid – John would rightfully be disgusted.
Perhaps the singer feels free to act so unsightly because she's a woman, which means she's allowed to be more emotional. Or maybe she knows that her lover would be flattered by such a self-abasing attitude (in which case, he's an idiot, and she's lucky to have lost him even if she doesn't realise it yet). Anyway, there's no way that Sherlock can follow such a plan.
The secret – the secret he isn't willing to admit almost even to himself – is that, if he could, all the sleuth's instincts would agree with implementing such behaviours. Following? Hell, that used to be a cherished habit, and he still might – no, Mary is too smart, she would notice, and if she tells John he'd be even angrier. To be avoided at all costs, no matter what his very cells are screaming at him.
Begging? If he thought it could make a difference, the once proud consulting detective would happily spend hours – days – forever on his knees, if he was sure that it would grant him John moving back in. It wouldn't.
It doesn't mean he won't try, because really, pack animal instincts might overcome him someday. But it's not enough. It's not what John wants – he has apologised already and failed utterly at it – and if the only detail lacking was a bit more of contrition, John would have let him know. He hasn't. The doctor doesn't need his abasement, no matter how fitting or even relieving it might seem to Sherlock.
Two years (ages) ago, his blogger asked for his return. The detective assumed it meant he wanted to go back to their routine. If not… What is even the point of Sherlock Holmes being in London? And how, if at all – oh, there must be a way! – can this rift between them be repaired?
You don't have to say you love me
Just be close at hand
You don't have to stay forever
I will understand
Believe me, believe me
I can't help but love you
But believe me
I'll never tie you down
Now that sounds like a plan. One that might be hard to execute, sure, especially because, contrarily to the singer, Sherlock can't just come out and say it plainly. John would balk – or start loudly affirming his sexual orientation, again (does he never get bored of it?). But if the sleuth has ever heard a reasonable offer, that's it.
Of course John doesn't have to say he loves him – nobody ever said they loved anyone, in their relationship. No matter the newfound self-awareness of the exact depth of his own regard – and isn't it bloody irritating that Jim bloody Moriarty realised as much long before him? Actually vocalising their feelings could only highlight the disparity of their affections, and drive John even further away, if possible.
But yes, John 'close at hand'…that's all he's ever wanted. (Liar. He wanted much, much more, but he couldn't get it. At least close wasn't supposed to be an unattainable dream.) He should invite John on cases, shouldn't he? Or would he get angry again? He needed John. No, he needs John. Isn't it obvious? How does one earn his confidence again? Maybe Mrs. Hudson has some suggestions…
And yes, of course it's not going to be forever. Whatever the sleuth has dreamed, wished, to keep himself sane, is willingly…not deleted, he can't, but bolted away. There will be no going on till they retired – together, in some warmer place maybe, Greece, Provence, John might like that, or even nearer, somewhere they could commute to London if they got nostalgic.
There will be nothing of that, he accepts it. But now… isn't he entitled to a bit of his blogger now? Hasn't he paid for it? Not forever. Just a while. A few cases still, at the very least. John's blog needs another few posts.
And – oh – truth. So much truth. Can't help but love you. Exactly how he'd word it. For everyone's convenience, he would get rid of his feelings if he could. Tone them down, at least. It's not like he's asked for it – the yearning, the aching. Are there really people who want to fall in love? It's awful, and illogic, and above everything else painful. And he's never been encouraged by hiss beloved – certainly – nor nurtured the feeling himself. (He might have…indulged it, a bit, sometimes – rarely – but that was a horse of a very different colour.) This utterly unrequited and unwanted love still won't stop.
Naturally, he's no about to let it guide his actions, like he taught Irene so long ago. Wanting John safe is not a question of sentiment, thank you very much, it's a question of cold logic. The detective evaluates their respective value, not just for him but for the universe at large (John saves lives – all day, every day, half the time without even realising), and puts on the line the less precious one. It's not love. It's economy, and even Mycroft would agree.
Ignoring his wishes and cravings, he certainly won't 'tie him down'. There's a nuance of constraint in the words that repel him instinctively. He doesn't want John by his side because of obligation, trickery, or anything that is not his friend's pleasure to be with him. They used to enjoy themselves like children. How can it be gone?
Left alone with just a memory
Life seems dead and so unreal
All that's left is loneliness
There's nothing left to feel
That's wrong, too. Which makes him wonder about the singer. Or, to be precise, the first half of it is spot on. Memories are certainly haunting the flat (it's the only verb that fits, honestly), hiding in every piece of furniture and speck of dust. Some more than others, of course.
It's no surprise that he spends most of his waking hours, when not planning how to gain John back, wondering if this horrible, hellish mock of a reality is real at all. His brain is capable of some amazing feats of mimesis after all. Hopefully he's just still in Serbia and his brain is on a pain-filled (and poorly successful) attempt to escape reality. And when you start hoping to be in the hand of merciless torturers (because then you might still be saved), well, you're fucked up.
Sometimes, he even ponders if the Lazarus plan worked at all. He did promise to shake hands with Jim in hell, and while his experience entailed no horned, hooved demons with pitchforks, he's never tried to especially please a God he didn't believe in, and everything that happened since Bart's in his experience could easily be described as hell. If he finds Moriarty again, he supposes he'll have his answer.
Still, the singer's description make her seem like more sociopathic than him. Overwhelming, crushing loneliness, yes, of course. But no feelings? Sherlock would pay her for the trick to finally lose his feelings, because no matter what he does, or what chemicals he assumes (he's tried them all in the past), they refuse to go away.
So no, there are still emotions eating away at him, while he does his best Madame Tussaud's exhibit impression. Longing, guilt, a good scoop of despair, that all-powerful, useless love which refuses to take any hint. And half a dozen others he's too confused to even name, all making an inestricably tangled ball of yarn inside his chest, that somehow weigh more as if each string of yarn was built out of lead.
What do you do with Gordian knots? You cut them. But how do you cut things out of your chest? John was a surgeon before his hand started trembling, he would know. (He can't ask Molly because, in case he's still alive, he'd like to maintain that status, and living beings are not exactly her specialty in surgery). But John refuses to talk to him. And they're back to square one.
You don't have to say you love me
Just be close at hand
You don't have to stay forever
I will understand
Believe me, believe me
So her (statistically, probably male) lover doesn't believe the singer, either. The repetition should annoy Sherlock, but honestly, he can understand the feeling. He's lost count of how many times he's apologised (or at least tried to) since he's been back, and this is a message that bears repetition, too.
No love, no forevers, nothing his vehemently not gay (back then; now that he's actually engaged… probably ten times worse) blogger could interpret as a request for more than he's willing (should be willing - has always been willing, in the past) to offer. But there are cases to solve, and adrenaline highs to enjoy, and criminals who might not want to force the sleuth to kill himself but will certainly attempt to get at him with a variety of weapons.
Of course, the consulting detective can take care of himself – has been doing so for years, as unpleasant or not exactly successful as it has been – but John killed a man for him before 48 hourse since the fateful meeting in Bart's lab had gone by. If the detective plays the 'dangerous – for both of us' card well enough, he should obtain John's company. For a few hours at least. 'Just be close at hand' – that would probably be the wrong thing to text John, at least until he's back in his former friend's good graces, but it is oh-so-very tempting to send it anyway.
He'll take anything John is willing to offer, any scrap of attention, and yes, it's pathetic, and he shouldn't even entertain the thought, but he's pathetic, and desperate, and having to pretend he's not does not help him to actually bury his feelings deep enough that they won't resurface.
You don't have to say you love me
Just be close at hand
You don't have to stay forever
I will understand
Believe me, believe me, believe me
Again? Ok, there's "bears repeating" and there's "You probably got dumped because you bored him to tears, girl." He gets the feeling – utterly so. It doesn't mean that he wants to hear it again, and again, and again. Certainly not when John still refuses to talk to him.
He needs his blogger, his doctor, his colleague, in any capacity the man can spare a little of himself for the sleuth. No lover, fine. Though some choices of words, before he left, made him wonder if…but any chance he might have had has clearly past. Out of sight out of mind. (The Italian version of that saying uses heart, rather than mind, and it might be more accurate in his situation.) No flatmate anymore. John has moved on, moved away…just moved. So much moving. And now Sherlock is moved – almost broken – by every empty space in the flat where the man used to be. Not even a friend – he's hurt John, and doesn't deserve it.
John has better things to do – domestic life with his surprising fiancée, his job as a doctor, pub nights with friend who did not betray his trust…anything he likes, really. But still, the consulting detective needs at least a few moments with him. If he's supposed to keep breathing, and take Mycroft's case instead of overdosing in a doss house, he requires at least bits and pieces of John. If his former friend stays adamant on cutting him from his life entirely, believing that the detective should have just stayed dead, it would be a pity to disappoint him again.
So yes, Sherlock will understand. He'll accept any condition. Just as long as John comes on another case (he used to like that, and honestly it's his best chance to lure him back)…or really, steps into their flat with any sort of excuse. Even to ask if Sherlock's mind palace holds Victorian flower language (note to self: look it up), to consult him on Mary's bouquet. He proposed. They'll have a wedding to plan. If (big, mammoth if) he's ever forgiven, maybe he can use his talent to focus on details to get involved in it. It'll require John coming by Baker Street, won't it? Multiple times. At least until he's actually married. That would be heaven. (And hell. But he'll take whatever he can get. Now, back to plan: obtain John's forgiveness.)