Quick note: I know it's February! But I needed some Christmas feels. Thank Mrs. Hudson in advance! Mystrade will be apparent.
John collapsed onto the hospital bed, mentally murdering 'Brad' the funny little sketch artist that doubled as a drug smuggling git! The man was in some secret prison of Mycroft's-because yes, everyone has their own personal fucking prison-but John wanted to rip his throat out. He'd been America for three weeks now, and he was prepared to deem Moriarty's members here the most violent, half witted, jackasses that he's ever faced. He had three bruised ribs, a contusion in his right wrist, and at least seven gashes that'd result in scars. He'd been called the same spiral of ten names that were considered offensive in American slang at least 80 times. He was still trying to figure out what a 'rat bastard' was, and why it's different from a normal bastard. 'Brad', whose name was so obviously fake it hurt-who the hell was named Brad Smith?- had loved calling John an ass hat, with different terms thrown in for good measure. had oh so kindly slashed John up from his left side, right under the last rib, all the way to his arm pit and left him to 'paint the town red' as he put it. One of the team members, who John didn't even bother remembering the name of anymore, seeing as they changed weekly, had chased the bastard down and blown his knee caps out.
"Oh Christmas in a hospital, brilliant!" John sneered at the empty room, cursing it with his very soul at this point. Everything was wrong, wrong, wrong! He was being chased by endless amounts of knife wielding underlings, and every time they saw him they all asked the same question.
"Aren't you dead?" John was so tired of that particular phrase that he always deemed it with the answer: "Yeah I am." Then they'd stare at him in confusion and it would commence is a fist fight, a great number of which left John aching and bleeding. This was the worst holiday season he'd had in years, it even topped the one were Harry came out of the closet and his parents treated them to silence until Harry gave up and moved out Christmas eve. John wanted to summon Satan to kill all of Moriarty's people, he wanted to cry out for Sherlock just to hug the idiotic genius, he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of decorations the people of Wisconsin had hung around their capital city, and he wanted to go home.
It'd been 6 months now, and he was so heavy with guilt he was sure he'd put on a stone or two. Sherlock's 'investigation' into his feelings was hitting a dead end, and last Wednesday the curly haired man had a near mental break down at John's grave-bench. John had a suspicion that Sherlock had something else going on, not another investigation, but some half cocked plan of some kind. He needed to get home, he needed to end this stupid game, and he really needed to stop hearing about the Green Bay Packers.
Sherlock had three bottles of Lorazepam and a large storage of the strongest vodka his homeless network could come up with. He didn't do much research on the dosage, or the lethal dosage that is, because Mycroft surely would have put it together from his browsing history. Anything above 6 mg should do it, he was told, so he was going to take three bottles, chase it down with Vodka, and hope the homeless know what their talking about. He'd spread out the people he asked to collect things, varying his requests all over the city so none of the cleverer members put it together. This should work-No-this would work. It had to.
Even 'The Work' wasn't enough without John.
Sherlock was sitting in his living room, sorting through the John floor of his mind palace to try and place all the facial expression.
John looking him after a chase, pupils blown so dark the denim blue was barely a ring around the ebony.
John typing-if you could call it that- on his laptop, his breath hitching, pulse racing when Sherlock whispered in his ear.
John living lingering touches on Sherlock's arms, shoulders, hands, everywhere when he was checking for injuries.
All of these things pointed to the obvious John had romantic feelings towards Sherlock, but the mad genius was having trouble accepting that. He'd had partners in the past, no matter what Mycroft or Moriarty thought, but the relationship was always more for the sex. Neither party developed a very emotional attachment, at least non like the one he had with John. Love? By the definitions he'd found in books, and gotten from people, it seemed to fit into that category. No, no that wasn't good enough. The way he felt about John, that wasn't something you put into one word.
Love, yes. Devotion, completely. Annoyance, most definitely. Dependence, obviously. All those things, and so many more adjectives swirled around the floor that held John in his mind palace. He wasn't prepared to accept those feelings, tucking all the words into a closet in the corner and ignoring them, when John was alive, but now he was gone. Gone forever, and Sherlock could never tell him how he felt. John Watson turned a sociopath into a love sick puppy, he'd have laughed at that. From the evidence so far, he'd probably have also kissed Sherlock.
Kissing John? Sherlock collapsed onto his couch, flinging his arm over his eyes, and took a deep breath. He had wanted to kiss John since the man shot that cabbie, he wanted to pull him onto his tip toes and snog him until his thin lips were bruised. Now, John was gone and all Sherlock had was a few images caught in his head and a great deal of fantasies. Now, as Sherlock walked through John's floor in his mind Palace, he caught glimpses of memories and it was all so obvious.
John had wanted him, not as quickly as Sherlock had wanted John, but he had. These past months he'd practically posted it on his blog, he'd written it in every movement, every word, every breath and Sherlock was blind! Blinded by Moriarty and his useless game! It had been fun, and it had kept him from being bored but that didn't matter now. Now John was gone, and the game had ended. Moriarty hadn't tried anything recently, but his little pet Moran had killed a few people in Manchester.
Pointless. Dull.
John was gone, John loved him, he'd loved a sociopathic fool who drove him mad and left severed head's in the fridge, but now he was gone. He'd left before Sherlock even had a chance to realize he was in love, that they were in love. Sherlock had known he was physically attracted to John from the beginning, but pushed it away because John was straight, or he'd assumed so. Bisexual seemed more likely now. Love? No, he hadn't realized how much he cared for John until the pool, love was inconceivable. Now John was gone, Sherlock was desperately in love, and Moriarty had ended the game. Nothing was left for the genius, so he may as well follow John in oblivion.
Sherlock reached out a pale hand for the pills hidden under the couch, stealing himself a deep breath, one last moment to reconsider. He wrapped long fingers around the first bottle, bringing his hand back up, and letting icy eyes flit over the information displayed there.
"Oh dear, tell me you've eaten today?" Mrs. Hudson's worried voice carried up the stairs, followed by light footsteps. Sherlock sighed, dropping the bottle into the couch cushion to hide it and swung long legs over the side.
"I suppose you'll be making me eat now even if I said yes." He replied as she bustled into the room, and the woman grinned.
"It's Christmas tomorrow, we're going to have a little party." Mrs. Hudson smiled, her eyes landing on John's chair, she gave a sad sigh. "Just like the last one, he'd have loved it."
"Yes, he would have." Sherlock agreed, ignoring the fact he'd thought it was still November. After Christmas, he'd end it all after Christmas. For Mrs. Hudson.
Christmas morning in a hospital was probably the most depressing thing ever. John glared at the movie on the tv screen, Miracle on 34th street, and cursing everyone for being so happy. His nurse came in, smiled, gave him a cookie and left. Mycroft called him, wished him a happy Christmas, and reminded him to keep the Irish accent heavy, his British lilt was slipping through and that 'was most certainly unacceptable, John. Wouldn't want to be discovered after all this time and work, would you?'
If John had his Russian frying pan, he'd probably have thrown it hard enough to fly across the Atlantic Ocean and knock the British Government on his arse.
It was already late in London, or at least he thought it was. The time difference between Wisconsin and London was bloody ridiculous. He hoped Sherlock was having an alright Christmas, Mrs. Hudson would make sure he did something. Mycroft had said she was having a small party late in the evening for everyone close to Sherlock-and John, but he was dead there wasn't he? Mycroft was going, apparently Lestrade had insisted he go. John had a sneaking suspicion their relationship wasn't as just colleagues anymore. John was alone for Christmas, singing a song of self hatred in his mind and watching the same movies 'ABC Family' had shown for weeks over and over.
In the amazingly articulate ways the people around him would put it:
This totally sucked.
"Mycroft." Sherlock sneered, plucking viciously at his violin. His older brother smiled, swinging his umbrella and stepped inside, trailed by Lestrade. Sherlock's eyes blew so wide it hurt, and he took in their appearance in a second.
Crooked buttons, slightly wrinkled waist coat, a few hairs out of place, pink cheeks, dilated pupils on Mycroft.
Hair spiked in places, flattened in others, walking a little crooked, favoring right side, hint of bit mark under collar on Lestrade.
Sherlock nearly vomited then and there. His brother, and his DI? No, no, nope, not happening, NO! Sherlock shook his head so hard he thought his brain may have actually turned to mush. "You 'bottomed' as they say, Lestrade? Never took you for the submissive type." His mouth threw out before his shaken brain could stop it, and he grimaced at the grin his brother shot him. Mrs. Hudson tutted from the kitchen, but she was smiling, and Lestrade was redder then a bus. Molly giggled from the kitchen where she had been helping , and patted Lestrade's arm.
"You caught a Holmes, you should be proud." Molly smiled, kissing the DI's cheek and sipping her third glass of wine. Lestrade turned so red Sherlock was considering calling 999, and Molly tipped the rest of the wine into her mouth. The group fell into not-so-easy conversation, Molly giggling like the mad hatter, Sherlock insulting every move his brother made, and Lestrade remaining fire hydrant red as he held Mycrofts hand. Mrs. Hudson kept going on and on about how happy she was to see everyone, and Mycroft glanced worriedly at Sherlock.
The night lumbered on, Sherlock played 'I'll be home For Christmas' while staring out the window. He played the notes long and sad, sending heartbreaking music through the flat. If anyone saw the tears on his cheeks they didn't say a word. Everyone listened to the music as it slowly danced into their hearing, all of them staring with aching depression at John's chair. When the last note was drawn out, shivering through the silence until it couldn't possibly keep going, everyone was in tears- except Mycroft, he just looked horribly guilty. Dropping the violin from his his hands and onto the crouch, Sherlock crouched beside the tree and pulled a small box from the back and set it gently on John's chair. He turned away, staring out the window, and everyone in the room resolutely ignored the strangled, sobbing noises he made. They all looked at the gift, sitting silently on the dusty chair. It was perfectly wrapped in shiny green paper that reflected the Christmas light wrapped around the tree, a scarlet red ribbon made a rose like bow on the upper left corner.
To anyone else it looked like a box, a simple, plain box. To Sherlock it was an 'I love you' sent to the heavens, a final admission to the wind of London, to London herself. Inside that wrapping was a handwritten book. Bound in black leather, golden cursive on the cover reading 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.' The pages reading Sherlock's every thought since the moment he met John, recounting their cases and how John had helped without knowing it. Every few pages there was a list of deductions, the 'morning deductions' that Sherlock had made about John everyday. John never knew about them, but on his floor in the mind palace was a room where the daily deductions were listed in the air under each date. Since their first hello at Barts to that phone call, everyone was listed. The final page of the book read simply 'It took loosing you to discover I loved you.'
Nothing about that gift was Sherlockian. If you asked anyone Sherlock knew in his entire life all of them would tell you that there was no way in Heaven or Hell he wrote that, that he felt so much for one man. No one would ever think Sherlock Holmes could possibly love someone so truly, so madly, so deeply, but he did. He always will, and that journal was his proof of it. His proof to anyone else, and his proof to himself.
Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson, and without him nothing really mattered. John was gone, so Sherlock was leaving.
