AN: This is not as long as it was meant to be but I had to cut up this beast of a chapter... The next part will be a kind of continuation during John's therapy session and contain more (I hope) interesting interpretations of Sherlock's oddities...
Happy wave to my three new alerters: FelicisEcho, Mitaya and, as of today, Jodi2011 (thanks for fav-ing too!). I hope you enjoy!
Thank you so much for your reviews! Particularly Sky Writes, who also left a review! I know it's been a week but they REALLY do make me write faster :)
Azlira: LOL, your comment had me laughing. I totally agree though I think Ella should talk less, maybe John would tell her more... Anything particular? Anything you'd like them to talk about, or rather ask (unanswered) questions?
I've rewatched SiP and BB so far. I guess you can tell by the list in this chapter that my memory gets fuzzy towards the end but I don't want to rush through the episodes, SO much time to kill till next year!
Sky Writes: *blush* Well, it is. It's the first piece I've done in English, as well (apart from 'scientific' uni papers) but I have been writing in German for quite some time, though no fanfiction.
Thank you very much for your praise on the story as well as pointing out the layouting issue. I have started on improving the first chapters :)
Mitaya: I totally agree, I'm so happy to hear that you follow my ideas on John's feelings! I feel kind of bad to have him suffer on and on and on... Well, there's nothing for it, there's still some time to cover (and things to happen ;)).
missan95: Thanks so much for reading on your phone AND reviewing ;) Well, I'll keep Ella though she won't... mwahaha, I'm not telling! Anyway, you get a break of Ella this time.
Don't worry about the angst. I'm SO looking forward to what you all will say.
And now: Have fun. And share it via reviewing ;)
12 – Seeing the stars (8th month, +8m)
All in all, Ella had not been as happy with him as he had meant her to be even though John found he had forced himself to say so much this time!
Still disappointed he arrived at Baker Street and let himself in. Like telling her you miss me would be such a revelation to her. What did you expect her to do? Throw confetti? John gritted his teeth.
Of course Ella had known that before. Still, he had tried... He supposed it was more the fact that he was still focusing all his thoughts on Sherlock (there just was nothing else in him he could find, though he would not admit to it for obvious reasons) that did not conform to her idea of optimal progress.
But she must have sensed some change in him for at the end of the session she told him to tackle 'task one'. John had been sure she would start on that "Saying what he needed to say"-spiel again but no. She had given him the order, to be completed before their next meeting, to tidy and clean their flat. All of it.
John stepped into their living room and let his eyes roam. God, it was awful. He no longer left everything from 'before' like it was glued to the surface it had happened to be on but he had not even thought about actually removing anything either. There was a pile of small plates and a row of cups standing at attention, though much fewer than there would be if Mrs Hudson had not regularly been sneaking in to do a little unobstrusive housekeeping.
Honestly, how could the woman (Ella, not Mrs Hudson) talk about accepting and expect him to quietly close Sherlock's record when he had just found out how fucking little sense the entire man made? (Ella should count herself lucky that she wasn't even aware of it!)
Yes, John had thought it absolutely possible that Sherlock's addictive nature would drive him up on that roof, would make him follow Moriarty's taunts, because he could not act differently provided the challenge was intriguing enough. He had good reason, first-hand experience to know, after all.
But in the end, it had turned out, Sherlock had done it not to satisfy his own needs at all. And apart from feeling guilty (which he didn't anymore, of course) it made John feel soiled and corrupt for all those thoughts he'd been pondering before he had eventually got it.
With the realisation of Sherlock's motive – and John was absolutely sure he'd got that right eventually, it had taken him long enough, by God – he was now forced to face the gross ambivalence of Sherlock which had been there all along, puzzling, angering, fascinating John.
Ella could keep bandying around her wisdoms about the uselessness of asking questions of those who could not answer them; how on earth was he supposed to get his head around... anything?
For example, could you even deduce people like Sherlock did if you actually were 'beyond' emotions, caring, feelings yourself? How would he have been able not to do the deductions themselves, those were (mostly) logical, but to interpret them? It was one thing to observe the things Sherlock did but quite another to understand-
No, focus, John! Right, have a go at her task. She's your therapist, it's her job to make you whole... well, whole enough to let yourself be shipped off to some war to get yourself killed, you mean. John would have hit his fist agains this temple but knew by now that it hurt a lot and had no effect on the voice at all. The task.
He could do it, he told himself, standing now in the centre of the very dusty, very dirty, very untidy living room, using his cane to poke at a high stack of magazines next to the sofa. He took a slow tour of the flat, dragging his leg along upstairs. John tried to remember when he had last spent a night in his own bedroom and found he couldn't say (although he was, secretely, still counting the days since the day but told no one anymore how much time had passed).
Why was it he slept only on the sofa now? Every night when it got too dark to stare at the magazines he pretended to read and the only light came from the street lamps he sat in the gloom of weird shadows and wondered about getting up and going to bed. And every time it was like leaving the flat proper might mean he'd miss... something. Anyway, his rather austere, military way of living was still best conserved up here, and there was nothing to do but sort the clean laundry (yes, not your housekeeper, right; thanks for doing the laundry) into his chest of drawers and wardrobe.
He managed to do no more that day, the sheer amount of work, emotional more than anything of course, was too daunting and once he had sat on the sofa, the therapy session started replaying in his head. Yes, he had admitted to missing Sherlock and it had not been as hard as John had feared.
But he shuddered at the memory of what else he had shared with Ella, had regretted telling her about Sherlock's claim to be a sociopath right the moment it had slipped. (It was very similar to the feeling he'd had when Donovan had given that derisive, sneering chuckle at Sherlock's ignorance of the solar system because he'd mentioned it in his blog.) Even though he knew that the bad things he had told Ella about Sherlock were true: John knew all of his best friend's faults, his vices, his sins (or so he thought) - but what about the other side? John was full of nagging doubts and the growing conviction that, no, he did not... (It had first really struck him when Sherlock commented on the stars, completely out of the blue).
And he was still trying to process Ella's words, most of all her claim that knowing the truth about Sherlock was meaningless and that he should view death as a quiet entity.
If the acceptance phase of grief was about accepting those two suppositions, John was bound to fail...
In the course of the next weeks, it came all down to one question he couldn't seem to escape: Was Sherlock indeed a sociopath? Did – could - a proper sociopath (yes, John had looked it up, done his research, and he had never done it before because when Sherlock had been here he had not given a fucking damn if the medical diagnosis had fit or not) do, what Sherlock had done? Would he be capable of doing the little things that were so hard for him, that did not come naturally to him at all? Could he say those odd things then and again that seemed so inconsistent with his usual arrogance and contempt?
Like occasionally checking with John if he had got off the track of normal human interaction? That small "Not good?" had stuck in some corner of John's heart ever since that evening in the first week of their partnership.
Like looking at the stars, appreciating their aethestic value? Beautiful. John couldn't quite believe he'd heard Sherlock say it and hadn't been able to resist probing. That must have been a first: Sherlock acting disgruntled at being taken for less... well fanciful (to avoid the word romantic here) than he was.
Like caring (yes, you did) that he disappointed John by viewing Moriarty's victims as nothing more than pawns?
Like choosing to stay with John at that pool and rip a bomb from his body with shaking hands? It was the first time that what John was becoming increasingly sure was an incredibly complex mask had slipped completely, if only for a moment.
Like not quite thanking him for saving, or trying to save, his life? Their first encounter with Moriarty, the one they had both survived (though not through any feat of their own) had, John believed, changed the way Sherlock saw him.
Like saying sorry, every once in a while when he knew John expected him to? John knew he had probably not looked less shocked than Molly when Sherlock had kissed her cheek to apologise for his cutting remarks on their Christmas gathering.
Like accepting gifts with good grace (more or less) no matter how tedious and deplorable he thought them? John stared at the pile of unopened boxes containing tie needles, ties and other well meaning, unappreciated signs of gratitude from Sherlock's numerous clients.
Like panicking as the agents at Irene's mansion had been one step from shooting John in the head?
Like admitting John was his friend? Yes, alright, this had been a landmark experience for John.
Like lying to him about being a fraud?
Like finally, and most importantly, taking the step to his death to save John.
As he first reached this inexorable ending of his ever growing 'list of doubtful occurences', John's knees buckled under him, and he sank on the ground amidst the debris of their time together, their friendship, of what - as far as he knew - could have lasted for the rest of their lives.
