You have no idea how much I want you all to like this chapter, I have just about everything crossed, including a wide variety of internal organs.
MB
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Closer Still
Chapter 7
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out
'And now time for the weather. Over to you Ellen.'
John blinked, suddenly realising he had just watched the entire six o'clock news and not taken a word of it in. Not that it mattered, it was all the same nowadays, economy in crises, war in the middle east, job losses somewhere, the government doing a decent job of running the country into the ground, wash, rinse, repeat. John doubted it was any different from yesterdays news, and if it was, John would not know, his mind was elsewhere, his mind was in a hotel room, or technically speaking, being kicked out of a hotel room.
Sherlock's words had stung him, Sherlock's actions stung him, in fact he was hard pressed to think of something that had not kicked him in the guts and left him gasping for air. What the hell was he thinking? Who the hell had he been kidding? He had hurt Sherlock, badly, one quick blow job would not make up for all that. He had tried and failed rather spectacularly in his attempts to tell Sherlock how he truly felt, and he was, rather deservedly so, now paying the full price for it. He should just be grateful all he got was a door slammed in his face, in reality he deserved at least one black eye, possibly even two.
He leaned back into the sofa, fiddling with the remote in his hands, all he could do was sit and think about Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. He had been wrong, he had been oh so very wrong if he just thought all they needed was to meet again and suddenly everything would magically snap back to how it was. He had spent so much time daydreaming and fantasising about what finally seeing Sherlock again, he hadn't given a thought to what he would do afterwards. It had all seemed so simple, just one look and they would fall back into each others arms, oh how wrong he was. He had not seen Sherlock since that night, he wanted to, he wanted to go and knock on that hotel door and beg forgiveness but each time he had chickened out. Each time he had thought of something else he had to do, it was too late or too early or too something. He was a bloody coward and he knew it.
There was no going back, he could see that now, what they had had been sealed off, a different place, a different time, one that was fixed, there was no changing it, it was a locked room that John knew he could no longer just go back into. No matter how badly he may want to. The film that played out, the memories reliving themselves in front of him were unreachable, untouchable, he could not fall through the screen and find himself back in that place. There was an island, a magical land called being okay and one that he was desperately trying to swim to, but he kept feeling himself being pushed further and further out to sea, the surface of the water hitting against his face till eventually he was pulled under, never to be seen again. There was a small part of him that wished he had never seen Sherlock again, that he was just left to wallow in the memories and hold onto an impossible dream that somehow he would see Sherlock and everything would be just fine. Now, all he had was the harsh truth, that Sherlock just did not want him. Not that he could blame him, he was beat, broken up, damaged goods. Who would want that? It was a dream, an impossible dream and now there was nothing left. He wished he could just snap out of it, but it was too late, he was just too far gone for that.
Unless. He thought for a few moments, it was silly, a silly stupid idea but suddenly it overcame him. What if, what if he just gave it one more chance. He remembered being in the pub with Greg, he remembered how he had promised himself that the next thing the fell into his lap he would hold on with both hands and never let go. Could he really forgive himself, in a month, a week, a year, a decade, a lifetime, if he looked back and knew he did nothing, knew he had just let Sherlock slip through his fingers like he had done two years ago? What if he just came clean? What if he just sat Sherlock down and told him the bloody truth? Yes, there was a high chance, actually more then a high more like absolutely certain chance, that he would be shot down in flames, but at least then he wouldn't have this constant nagging what if feeling. What if he could really, just really, put all his cards on the table, of course the rejection would hurt, of course it was going to be deeply unpleasant, but at least then his future self would know he would die trying. Surely, in the future, he would sit around and mope over the fact he had not tried to win Sherlock back, rather then the already forgone conclusion that Sherlock was over him.
No, if he was going down, he was going down fighting.
A strange energy suddenly came over him, he had no plan of action, he still had not decided what he would even tell Sherlock, but suddenly it felt as if someone had put a fire underneath him. He got up, pulled his coat from the coat rack and grabbed his keys. He was doing this, he was actually going to do it, screw the consequences, to hell with fear or dignity. He was going to lay himself bare and who cared about what happened after that. Really, what did he have left to lose? He was nothing, he had no job, a marriage that was not so much on the rocks as cast out and shattered over them, and it was all down to Sherlock. His life was like this, because he did not have Sherlock, and if Sherlock was the only way he could ever be happy, then he had to stand and fight, he had to try and try until there was just nothing left to do but face facts. He needed Sherlock, he needed him like oxygen, he had to have him, or he would just die trying.
He slammed to door behind him and ran out into the warm air, it would rain soon, he could feel it. He ran to his car and yanked the door open, he realised right there and then that he had no idea where Sherlock was, or if he was still in Bakerford. He thought for a few moments, trying and failing to calm himself, he felt so worked up there was a high chance he would be sick, his heart beating in his chest so violently it felt as if he would leap out through his ribcage and onto the steering wheel. Was he really doing this? Yes, it seemed he actually was. He pulled out his phone and dialled the only number he could think of.
'Come on come on' he muttered to himself as it rung out.
'Hello.'
'Mrs Hudson.' John practically screamed down the phone, throwing his hand into the air. She was in, oh thank god she was in, he could kiss her, the old woman only had a land line, he had prayed she wasn't at one of her bridge nights.
'Oh hello John' she cooed 'How are you? And how is Sarah? Oh I haven't seen you for a while, I really think you should come over for tea, Sarah to, I can make you something nice.'
'Mrs Hudson.' John tried to interrupt.
'Is Sarah free at all this week?' She continued 'I need a new prescription.'
'Mrs Hudson' he tried again
'And those herbal soothers she recommended are working a treat, my hip has never felt so sprightly, its just like new'
'Mrs Hudson!' he shouted, he heard a small squeak from the other end, he felt rather guilty but he would apologise later, right now too much was at stake, he just didn't have time for her nattering.
'Sherlock, have you seen him today?'
'Yes dear, he was round this afternoon'
John breathed a huge sigh of relief, he was still in town 'Any idea where he is now?'
There was a few moments pause 'Well yes, he went back to pack and to catch his train'
Train, train! John's mouth fell open, what if he was too late? What if he had missed him? Oh god what would he do?
'What time does his train leave?' John asked rather optimistically, though immediately preparing himself for the worst.
'Well let me think' again there was a pause, it seemed to last an eternity. 'Yes, it leaves at eight.'
Eight, eight? Eight! He checked his watch, and the clock on the dashboard, he still had time, there was still time, he could kiss Mrs Hudson, if he was there right in front of her he would pull her into his arms and snog her face off.
'Thank you, you have no idea how much this means, just, thank you.'
'Why, what's the hurry?'
'One day' John spluttered, 'One day I will sit you down and explain everything.'
'oh' was the rather confused reply.
'Got to go, bye'
'Bye dear'
He hung up. He slammed the clutch to the floor and turned the key in the ignition like a man possessed. He yanked the gear stick into first with such power he almost snapped it off. His mind was spinning so hard he almost forgot how to drive, in fact he was such a mess it took him a few attempts before he realised he had left the handbrake on. Finally, this time, clutch up, accelerator down, he over revved it like a bitch, but he was away.
Charging down the streets he new exactly where he was heading. Every traffic light he came up against, every turn, every tiny bit of traffic and he let out a string of expletives. He couldn't miss Sherlock, he just couldn't, he was certainly not going to be late because some idiot had decided to obey the speed limit.
After what felt like quite possibly the longest drive of his entire life, he finally came to the hotel. He parked in the street, not giving a shit if he got a ticket or not, and ran inside.
The stitch he got from charging up the stairs hurt him badly, he clutched his side wondering when on earth he had got so unfit, and started banging on the door.
'Sherlock! Sherlock open up' he yelled, no answer.
He tried again, and again, but still no answer. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know if Sherlock was inside or not.
He charged back down the stairs towards reception.
'Can I help you sir?' the pretty receptionist asked.
'Yes' John wheezed, still clutching his side 'Sherlock Holmes, I need to see him but he is not answering the door.'
The receptionist gave him a weak smile and then but her lip 'I'm afraid Sherlock Holmes checked out ten minutes ago.' She said apologetically.
'Fucking, shit, cock, balls' John exclaimed running a hand through his hair, then immediately began to apologise as soon as he saw the rather startled expression on the young ladies face. 'Sorry. Right, thanks' he smiled back hoping he had not offended her 'thanks for all you help' he called back as he ran out the door.
This was not the end, this was just a minor blip in the road, he had till eight to find him, well, he had till seven something and enough time to explain everything properly. there was still plenty of time, all he had to do was find him in time. He was not beaten, he was not beaten yet.
Running back to his car he ripped the parking ticked off his window and threw himself back into his seat, he heard the honking of a few cars as he pulled away without really looking what was behind or in front of him. Bakerford train station, that was the next logical place, he looked at his watch quickly, it was nearly half past, he had half an hour. Was that long enough? It had to be, it had to be long enough as there was no other choice.
Again he drove like a man possessed, again he drove with no regard whatsoever to the highway code or other motorists, it was a miracle he was not pulled over and arrested. He should be, he had seen better drunk drivers. It took him around ten minutes to get there, ten long, agonising minutes, once again the roads were against him, it seemed everyone had decided to just go out for a drive and purposely get in his bloody way. It seemed every light was on red, every zebra crossing had a crowd of slow moving pedestrians he was tempted to just plough straight through, he had never known a worse drive then this one, until finally he arrived.
He pulled into the car park, again not bothering to pay and display as he shut slammed the door closed and ran into the small station. He checked the board, only one train time was up there. Oxford. Eight o'clock, on time. Dammit the one time a train was actually on time and it was this one. The universe really did have it out for John H Watson. He ran out onto the platform, hearing screams from the staff behind him and saw him, he saw the unmistakeable sign of dark curls and pale skin, a bag at his feet, Sherlock saw his head snap round to face him. A puzzled look on his face. Sherlock.
It was going to rain soon.
Sherlock could feel it in the air. The dark clouds hung ominously above him, the dusky evening air around him was hot and stifled, a large bubble of pressure pushing into his skin. It had been a hot day, the first truly hot day of the summer, he had seen everyone out in shorts and shades, and now as evening approached the air became even more oppressive. Soon, very soon, it would give out and rain. Summer rain, Sherlock imagined the hot droplets falling on his skin, he imagined the rain soaking his clothes. He would not seek shelter from it, he already decided he would just let it fall all over him. He would enjoy it, he would feel like new.
He shuffled slightly on the bench he was sitting on, the black iron dug into his back, the heat from the day warming his skin through his clothes. His hands shoved in his pockets he exhaled impatiently. He wished time would just get a move on, it had suddenly seemed to slow right down much to his annoyance. There was nothing he could do, he had no book to read, no experiment he could conduct, he could not smoke, all he could do was sit and try not to think. Sadly this was easy to say, and seemingly impossible to put into practise. Unless he really, really concentrated, his mind would slip, wondering down to places he did not want to think about. He had to focus, he focused on keeping it blank, on keeping it fixed on nothing. Unfortunately his mind would not listen, would betray him over and over again, would slip into the ether and find itself in that hotel room.
He shook his head. Immediately dispelling the thoughts before he could think of them, but even though it had lasted a split second he could feel his stomach tie itself into a knot. He tried to once again focus his mind on something else, he recited pie back to himself, an old way he used as a kid to calm the storm inside his mind. He had not seen or heard from John since that night in the hotel, he didn't want to. There was nothing John could do or say to him that he did not know already, he did not want to retread old ground, he just wanted to be left alone. John didn't need or want him, he wanted a quick fuck, like he always had done, there was no point in trying to fight against it, he was swimming against a ferocious tide, he should just give up. Finally, rather then try and make it into something it wasn't and could never be. He had spent enough of his life carrying it around, now it was time to just let it go. There was no point in getting angry or upset, John certainly was not, so why should he? John had used him, he could see it now, that night was all about him and he had just let himself be carried away. He was disgusted with himself, how could he not have fought, actually for once in his life just said no, he should have told John to leave straight away, he should have slammed the door shut right in his face as soon as he saw it was him, rather then let himself be dragged inside.
There was a strange sort of calm, in knowing he was back to solitude. In knowing he was back to his default setting, no one cared about him, no one gave a flying fuck what he did or where he went. He was at peace with that now, perhaps that was why he had loved John as much as he did, that he could get swept up in the belief that someone out there wanted him, that he was needed, that he was loved. But it was all a lie. Who the hell was he kidding? He was Sherlock Holmes, a lonely figure, a ghost, an island. No one loved him, no one liked him, no one wanted him, no one cared for him, no one even wanted to give him the time of day. He would spend the rest of his life alone, and that's the way he would just have to get used to being. It was better this way, of course it was, relying on only himself, it was always easier to live with disappointing yourself, rather then being disappointed by other people. He was in charge of his own destiny, he would have to rely on himself, and only himself. This way, with the walls high up, closed off, he would never be hurt again, he would never be rejected, or neglected or ignored. To put your heart, to put your happiness, in other people's hands, was a big mistake. It was as if he had put all the love and happiness he had know into a jar and sealed it off, out of sight, out of mind, he could not touch it again, it was unreachable now, it was alien, something he would never be able to open up again. It was worth it, yes he would never feel those highs again, he would never feel the ecstasy or the sweetness, but he would never feel the lows, to be spared that, was worth living in a state of numbness.
He looked around, the clock above him had just struck half seven, he had half an hour, just half an hour to get through. He still had the sandwiches Mrs Hudson had made him in his bag, but he was not hungry, once again she had made him an enormous lunch, he would be digesting that for weeks. They had said goodbye once more, Sherlock had once again lied to her and promised to be back soon, but he would not, he was never coming back. Not for all the tea in China.
Bakerford Train station was as silent as the grave, he was the only one on the platform, there was a few staff members dotted about, but that was it. The week was up, in half an hour he would be getting a train back to Oxford and never return. He had promised Mycroft one week, one week and now that time was up, he had breathed a massive sigh of relief when he had woken up this morning, to know this was the last morning, and to know that that by evening he would be back to his flat and his own life. He had fulfilled the deal he had made, one week, nothing more, and now he was going home.
Mike had told him that the funeral had gone well, his father had been cremated and the ashes were in an urn on his mantelpiece. Unsure what to do with them Mike had asked Sherlock if he would like them, Sherlock had promptly told him no then hung up the phone. He had sorted everything out. The homeless charity had collected all the furniture, Sherlock had chucked everything else into a large skip, and the estate agents were dealing with the selling of his childhood home. They had promised to get a good price for it, Sherlock did not care, he just wanted it gone. With all of it sorted, Sherlock finally felt as if a large line had been drawn in the sand. That his old life was well and truly over. He could finally move on without all this hanging over his head. He remembered the last time he had left this town, all the tears and all the anger, there was none of that now. All there was now was a cold harsh realisation that this was the situation, there was nothing he could do to change it, and that he would just have to accept the situation and move on with his life. If he could not forget the past, he was just going to have to find a way to live with it. Once again his left arm burnt.
He had thought, foolishly hoped, that somehow, if he waited long enough the world would magically right itself, that somehow everything would just fall into place and he would be okay. Yet the more he had grown up the more he realised the world was not a warm and forgiving place. He had spent a magical time in his life doing everything he had always wanted, he had been in love, and solved crime, but now he knew this could never happen again. There was no going back, he had used up all his happiness quota and now he would just have to live with the hand he had been given. Whatever life had in store for him, he could not control. All he could do now was sit, and wait for the train to show up.
He heard a commotion from behind and suddenly the last person in the world he had expected to see ran out onto the platform. John.
Again, there was a horrible stitch on the side, he was quite out of breath.
'H...H...Hi' he wheezed, leaning forward, resting his hand on his thighs and almost falling, he reall needed to get back in shape.
He saw Sherlock's face with a confused, demanding expression, he held up his hand to silence him.
'Just give me a sec' he wheezed again. After a few minutes he finally got his breath back, standing up straight, mere inches from Sherlock's folded arms and stony look.
'What the hell are you doing here?' the younger man demanded.
'Mrs Hudson, told me when your train was' he explained, yeah, great thinking John, blame the old lady.
'That does not answer my question.'
John thought for a few moments, waiting until he was fully prepared, and began 'I couldn't let you leave without telling you the truth.'
'The truth? What truth?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically.
'The truth is I still love you, I never stopped loving you, I love you just as much now as I did then and I could not let you leave like this. I let you walk out of my life once? Do you really think I would let you do it again?'
There was a long pause. Something in Sherlock's face seemed to soften, a fleeting moment of confusion sprang up in his eyes.
'You still love me?' he mumbled.
John nodded 'I love you more then anything, and I was an idiot, a total idiot, for thinking I could live without you, I can't, I tried Sherlock, for two years I tried so hard, but I couldn't, everyday it was just you, I lost my job'
'You lost your job?'
'Yeah, yeah I did. Look Sherlock I can't let you get on the train without telling you how I feel, really feel, I love you, I never said it enough, but I do, more then anything there is on this entire planet. There is eight billion of us but I just want you.'
Sherlock looked like someone could easily knock him over with a feather. He looked wide eyed and rather comical. His mouth hung open, for once John doubted there was a great mind in there, he looked utterly dumbstruck, gobsmacked, human. Then he paused and shook his head.
'And Sarah? What about her?' he furrowed his brow.
'What about her. Whatever you want, if you want me to divorce her I will, if you want us to run away to Outer Mongolia I will. Anything Sherlock, anything you ask I will do it.'
Again, there was another long pause, John had never felt so exposed in all his life. He felt quite naked, with all his feelings right there on the floor in front of him.
'Why should I believe you? Why? What makes this any different from all the other times? Why should I think that you don't just want me because everything else fell apart?' he demanded.
'Because.' John replied 'You never said I fought for you, you said I just gave up, and I did, but I'm fighting for you right now.' he choked back a tear. 'I'm nothing without you, I'm nothing I'm no one, and I can't just let you leave.'
Suddenly there was a whooshing sound as the train pulled into the platform.
'The train now arriving at platform one is the eight o'clock train to Oxford' the tannoy crackled into life. 'Calling at...'
John looked back at Sherlock. 'It's too late isn't it? I'm sorry I.'
The younger man looked away, he did not look directly at John, he just stared ahead into the windows of the train.
'Goodbye.' John spluttered. Wiping his sleeve over his nose he turned and left. Walking back to his car he felt as if there was no air whatsoever in his lungs, every step was like lead, he was wading through treacle. It was too late. He was too late. He walked over to his car. He was too late, it was all just too late.
'For fuck's sake' he glared, ripping yet another parking ticked of his car, he had lost Sherlock, for good this time and now he owed the council. Twice. 'Fucking extortionate parking fares.' he grumbled. Wiping back a few tears, it was a relief to have something to direct his anger at. To put off reality for a while.
Suddenly, there was a small tug at his elbow. 'Yeah I get it' he snapped 'I've already got a ticket'
He turned, again the air rushed out of his lungs, his heart seemed to stop beating. Could it be? Could it possibly be? It was a mirage, a trick of the light, there was just no way.
'I was wondering if you could help me' Sherlock smiled 'it appears I have missed my train.'
He dropped the bag he had been carrying by his feet. John gawped. Then he felt his face pull into a smile.
'Sherlock' he squealed flinging himself at the younger man.
'John' he replied.
Their lips crushed together for a few brief moments, John felt utterly elated, he felt as if he would just float away. He hugged Sherlock close.
'I love you' he stammered, unsure of what else to say, unsure if there was anything he could say.
'I love you to' Sherlock replied, still smiling, a faint tinge of red appeared in his cheeks. John felt himself grinning like an idiot, any minute now he would burst.
'This isn't going to be easy you know' Sherlock said, his face suddenly quite serious. John rolled his eyes, annoyed at being brought back to reality.
'I know, but, god let's give it a chance eh?'
Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, let's.'
John decided there was nothing he wanted more then to kiss Sherlock, so he did, and he felt Sherlock kiss him back. It was as if they were still out in a snow filled field, he was still a teacher, Sherlock was still a student, and nothing whatsoever had changed.
A raindrop fell but John didn't mind. He didn't mind one bit.
Heaven was in sight.
