Author's note – Thank you so much for those of you who are reading and following/favoriting/reviewing. I can't describe how much it means to me to know that people enjoy my writing.
A little disclaimer about this chapter: one, trigger warning, for references to cutting. Two, I portray Sherlock's recovery as taking place within a very short frame of time. I realize this, and it was a choice I made as an author. I do not mean to imply that such recovery is as simple as depicted. It is not.
I debated about chapter length, but ultimately decided that this was sufficient. I didn't want to go into lots of detail and angst and internal monologues; muddying the passage of time is a device that I felt lent itself splendidly to this section.
As always, let me know what you think.
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Mary
She thinks her husband may be losing it.
It isn't just the sulking and the drinking. It's the hollowness, the preoccupation, and when they run into poor unsuspecting Allison Roche in the lobby, she becomes seriously concerned.
The hotel is amazing. Gorgeous, stunning, luxurious, and she can't get over the fact that Sherlock paid for this, all of this, just for them. It would arouse her suspicion if she wasn't so certain about his character: that what you see is what you get. He doesn't sugar coat, he doesn't hide things; this much she is sure of.
"Let's go outside, get some fresh air," she says, tugging John by the hand.
"Yeah, alright," he says, nervously licking his lips and glancing at his mobile. "I need to check my email."
"We can go to that restaurant down the street. They have wifi there."
"Okay."
A young girl, probably no older than sixteen, approaches them as they head for the sliding glass doors. "Hi," she says breathlessly, eyes shining. "You're John Watson, aren't you?"
"I am."
"Hi. I'm Allison Roche, I'm a huge fan! You're Sherlock Holmes's partner, right?"
He stiffens, squeezes Mary's fingers a little harder, and replies tightly, "Not so much right now, seeing as I'm in a foreign country, but yes. He and I have worked together in the past."
"How is he? I've sent him fan mail, but I don't know if he reads them."
"Um. He..." John is cutting back a smirk; he and Mary both know full well that Sherlock despises his following. "He's busy, a lot."
"Oh." Her face falls. "Well, would you mind – could you maybe – could you –"
"Do you want an autograph?" Mary asks gently.
"If you don't mind?" She produces a Sharpie and hands it to John, bouncing up and down eagerly. Starstruck. Mary finds it endearing.
"Oh. Right." He scrawls something across the proffered scrap of paper and turns to leave.
"Wait," says Allison. "Are you... are you still friends with Sherlock? You two are so cute. Like, as best friends. I know – this is your wife – hi. But I just was wondering, and my friends were wondering, because we haven't seen you around or read anything talking about you. And him."
Mary feels John clench his jaw beside her, snap into army mode: cold, hardened, braced for impact. Shit. "They've been busy," she steps in desperately. "They –"
"No. We aren't friends anymore."
Allison's mouth makes a little shocked 'o' at the intensity in his gaze. He leans forward, eyes blazing.
"But if you see him, you can tell him from me to go straight to hell."
"I..."
"John," Mary says sharply, and steers him off to the side, mouthing I'm so sorry to the poor girl. She waits until a crowd moves past before hissing, "What's wrong?"
"I can't do this."
"What?"
"Sherlock..."
"What? Tell me." A seed of panic is planting itself in her stomach. If Sherlock did something to John – if John did something to Sherlock – well, shit.
"We aren't talking anymore. His and Mycroft's orders."
What? "That's bollocks. Mycroft can't dictate that."
"He has. And Sherlock made it abundantly clear that he 'can't handle' me being in his life. Ever again." His voice breaks, and Mary gathers him into her arms, murmuring,
"Oh, darling. I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," he says, though it clearly is not. He holds her desperately, full of need. "He's my best mate."
"I know, I know." Her heart is breaking; John, sweet John, who's had to endure so much loss, and now this.
"It's not fucking fair. He shut me out. I didn't do anything. I swear to god I didn't." He pauses, as if something's just occurred to him, and his shoulders droop disconsolately. "Maybe I did. I..."
"Shh. I know you didn't, love."
"I'm so angry. So fucking angry. God, I could punch him, shove him off a building, for all I care."
Her husband is falling apart and she is powerless to stop it. All because of one man, because of one snarky detective. It's neither one's fault. Sherlock is difficult like that, and while she didn't see this coming, she isn't surprised that he would retreat. But still. John.
"I care about him."
"Yeah," she says, pressing her lips into his hair. "Yeah, I know you do. I know you love him."
He says nothing, simply shuts his eyes and leans against her shoulder, eyelashes fluttering against the nape of her neck.
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Friday, November 29, 2013
Sherlock
John.
John John John John.
He wakes up.
John.
The razors, the backups, are in his dresser. There's no way Mycroft would have missed them. It's a test. A bloody fucking test and god, he wants to fail it.
John.
He texts his brother.
Can't do it. SH
Please. You are strong enough.
You know. SH
About the dresser? Of course.
Is this how it normally is, with these things? I can't stop thinking about it. About him. It's a disease. I think I'm getting ill. SH
You can survive without him, you know. That's your problem. You are black and white. Life has gradations, Sherlock. You are letting one man dictate your emotions, your mental stability, and I think you are braver than that. This is not forever.
Were you always this annoying? SH
I've been told so.
I want to. To cut. SH
What purpose does it serve?
The emotional pain won't feel as real. SH
You'll still love John.
I shouldn't. SH
Black and white, brother mine. Black and white.
I don't want to. Love him. I don't. It's messy, and inconvenient, and awfully troublesome. SH
That's what love is. Unfortunately, you don't have much of a say in the matter.
They're so close. Right there. Two feet, seven and a quarter inch away. SH
You are strong.
Get me out of here. SH
Be there in eight minutes, forty-five seconds.
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And so it continues, Sherlock leaning on Mycroft more than he feels is remotely suitable. John's stay in Bora Bora is scheduled to be a month long, and Lestrade informs Mycroft that per Mary's request, they are extending their holiday and will not be available for another two weeks. No further explanation.
Mycroft drives Sherlock places, as if his younger brother is a child again. He takes him to museums, to parks, to obscure little villages. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don't. Sherlock starts fights when he gets bored, and Mycroft turns up the radio or does a U-turn. Some days they take back roads and sandwiches; others they follow random exit signs and slink home under cold white lights at two in the morning.
They don't take the tube. The tube reminds him of John, and John reminds him of pain.
But it works. Fresh air, sunshine, maps, and new scenery.
"I miss him," Sherlock says one evening.
"I know."
"It's not as bad." He is very surprised.
"I know."
"It still hurts. I miss him," he repeats, so Mycroft doesn't think he was too right about the whole business.
"I know."
Mycroft is looking at him funny. Sherlock doesn't know what to make of it. "Are you angry?" Reasonable question.
"No."
"Please don't stab me with your umbrella."
"Wasn't planning on it."
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On day six, Sherlock goes back to eating.
On day eleven, Sherlock smiles. (Granted, he's smiling at a photograph of a decapitated head that he stumbles upon online doing god knows what.)
On day twenty-six, Sherlock goes back to solving cases.
On day thirty, he throws out the blades.