A/N: So sorry this took so long. I couldn't seem to get the ending right (I'm still not satisfied with it. I might end up rewriting it, so watch this space. I've also had an influx of company lately, making it difficult to find times to slink away and write. So, without further ado, the third and final part (unless inspiration strikes, I suppose...).
COPING
The next day was a slow one. Lestrade tried to call them in for their statement and to fill out paperwork but John expressly forbid it, telling the DI to stop by the following morning to get it from them over breakfast.
He didn't allow Sherlock out of the flat. Without a case to occupy their time, John knew it was a only a matter of time before the storm clouds eventually pushed him close to the brink and John knew exactly what Sherlock was capable of doing under those types of circumstances.
Aside from Sherlock's broken ankle, their post-case routine commenced as usual. John was up at his usual time and Sherlock slept in. He knew it was only a matter of time before the whinging started about being bored and he sat in relative peace until 11:00 when the detective finally awoke. Mrs. Hudson was feeling generous and made them both breakfast as she was wont to do when either of them were particularly sick or injured.
"The state of your leg, Sherlock! How could you let it get like that?" she cried, and then turned to John as though it were his fault. His bowed his head in shame, knowing that, in some respects, it was.
"Tomorrow I'm going to take him to the surgery with me and get it taken care of." His supervisor Brent was a good bloke and probably wouldn't make any noise about it. Sherlock didn't give any indication that he'd heard John until he levelled him with a stare. He gave a brief nod and stabbed at his eggs. John thought how odd it was; how naturally he had come to pay attention to Sherlock's eating habits, his sleeping habits, even his bathing habits. He usually didn't have to raise any hell about the last one, but could tell with two back to back week long cases and a broken ankle, showering had fallen by the wayside.
Around three O'clock he decided to spare them both an argument and drew a bath, wordlessly steering Sherlock inside the bathroom and throwing a towel at him. For now he didn't have to worry about wrapping up a cast and he was glad when he heard water shifting a minute later, not up to a row just then.
He made them lunch practically around the time they should have been eating dinner, resigning himself to doing the cooking and shopping diligently over the next month or two. When Sherlock got hungry enough he would do it himself, but he didn't exactly have the option and John couldn't help but feel like the man could use a bit of mothering, especially knowing he barely had one growing up as it was.
He watched him over the meal; not bothering to be furtive about it as there was no point when dealing with Sherlock. He remembered the conversation the previous night. "These memories were long buried, and now they're dominating my every thought!" If a case couldn't take his mind off of everything, the two of them sitting there in silence would turn up the volume on it even more, and he knew by the glazed look and sudden flinch that Sherlock was thinking about it now.
He laid a hand over Sherlock's gently but it was as though he had stabbed him with a fork for the reaction that he got. Sherlock jerked, his eyes swinging around wildly and John tried to clear his face of the pity and shock he knew would put Sherlock off even more. He gave the younger man's hand a squeeze and did his best not to be overwhelming with his concern. Still, he couldn't stop the thought that things were hopelessly and irreparably changed.
After they had eaten, Sherlock picked up his violin, John read the newspaper and they tried to pretend everything was as it had been. But after trying to focus for a half an hour, he realised it would be fairly obvious to the world's most observant man that he wasn't reading the words on the page. Lowering one edge to peer at the man, he picked up that same remarkably unfocused look in his eyes from before. Even when he 'went to his mind palace' his eyes continued to dart around as though the room had morphed into somewhere else entirely. This, well, this was a memory, and judging by his pallor and the careless way he was absently playing the violin pizzicato, he wasn't particularly engaged in his surroundings.
A sudden dissonance as one of the strings snapped back from his fingers and John realised it was because the younger man's hands had begun shaking, right along with the rest of him. John had to quickly catch the Stradivarius as the instrument dropped off Sherlock's lap and John noticed the faint beginnings of a splotch of colour forming, but his attention was torn away by the look in Sherlock's still blurred eyes. He quickly set the violin in its case, watching as Sherlock's face crumpled, and he breathed raggedly in short gasping bursts and John was on his feet at once, one leg kneeling on the seat beside Sherlock and the other straddling his legs. He squeezed the younger man's shoulders, feeling his startle at the sudden contact but held him at eye level, one hand combing through the man's hair, hoping the sensation might distract him a bit from whatever was knocking around inside his head.
He knew Sherlock had an eidetic memory and had to wonder just how clearly he was recalling the abuse, how close to the surface those memories now lurked and what the hell he was going to do about it.
"Talk it out, mate. What are you seeing?" he asked in a low, calm voice. He half expected Sherlock to ignore him completely. As his hand dipped further down the other man's neck he could feel the gooseflesh rising along the base. His stomach plummeted, and he prayed that whatever it was that Sherlock was remembering wasn't something he'd repressed; wasn't as traumatic as his physiological response was indicating. From what he'd been told already, Sherlock had enough to work through without any more ordeals to cope with. Sherlock pulled back, blinking in confusion and seeing that they were in their messy flat, seemed to come to.
And then Sherlock was meeting his gaze, wheezing out breath after breath, and John wondered where his stomach had gone, because it seemed to have disappeared entirely at the horror he could see in his best friend's eyes. He'd seen that look… More times than anyone should ever have to see it – had worn it himself – but never on someone who he cared about so immensely. More than he cared about himself, if he was pressed to admit. And it fucking hurt.
His mouth was hanging open and he looked so lost suddenly, like a child who'd lost track of their mum in the grocery. "You're all right, 'Lock… you're with me, in our flat. Take it easy… deep breaths."
"I could feel it. I was there, John. I was there and I was nine years old and he was… He could have killed me. I… I could actually feel it. He had a belt around my neck and he kept choking me until I was seeing spots and releasing it. Over and…" he met John's eyes again, and John grimaced, reading the question in his eyes. "Why?"
He wanted to say he had no clue, that it was senseless, that it wasn't his fault. A million other empty platitudes that wouldn't make a hell of a lot of difference for either of them. Instead, he realised, he had to give the man something that his brain could process.
"He may have been abused himself and never learned that it was wrong. Thought it was how a child should be properly raised… I think it's most likely an issue of control, though." Sherlock looked up at him as if he had the answers to the mysteries of the universe. So much like a child that he truly wanted to bundle him up in a blanket, hold him close and shush all his fear and pain away. "That's… one of the more common reasons. To feel control over something, to feel powerful. You were a child… most-likely a bit of a smartarse I reckon, and perhaps small for your age. I can't really say for sure, and who honestly could? All you can really know for sure is that it wasn't your fault and that he'll never hurt you again."
They fell into silence, and John moved back to his chair, not wanting to hover or loom over the younger man. He could see how exhausted Sherlock was and had to wonder how long it took him to fall back to sleep after he'd passed out. He hoped he hadn't left him alone in a state like the one he was in now.
It took a while of John staring at his knuckles and Sherlock coming to terms with his surroundings, but eventually, against all John's expectations, Sherlock began to speak.
"I had an uncle that was kind to me. And cousins… My mother's brother wasn't well off and my father didn't really approve of him, but he would come at Christmas time and bring presents for me. Things that weren't academic or proper. He must have noticed what an odd child I was, but he was either too kind or too sympathetic to let it affect the way he treated me. I'm certain he had no idea about the abuse, though I can recall at least two Christmases where I had visible, noticeable injuries. He didn't hurt me around the holidays or during the three weeks in summer when Mycroft was home from school. He was clever, my father. Perhaps not as clever as I or Myc are now, but smart enough to keep it from becoming known. Myc only found out when I was 11 and I told him… He confronted my father about it but was sent back to school early and nothing was done about it.
"I was home schooled up until that time by private tutors. I don't know how father kept them from revealing it… or if they simply didn't care. We had a private family doctor that looked the other way. Father had enough money to keep the whole thing concealed. I… I sometimes wonder how long it would have continued if he hadn't been in that car accident. He nearly killed me for telling Mycroft. Eventually he would have had to let me go to boarding school. The more he hurt me, the more I pushed back and the angrier it made him. You were right, I was small for my age and I was a right smartarse. I'm surprised he didn't kill me."
He looked so fragile, sitting alone across from him, and John's heart went out to him as he opened up. He could see the exhaustion setting in, his eyes unfocused and his lids seemed to get heavier. It wasn't really late enough to sleep, but he'd been living on Baker Street long enough to know that when there was downtime and you were tired you simply didn't worry about the time. "You should lay down, mate. You've not had a full night's rest in almost a fortnight."
It was truly a sign of overwhelming exhaustion that he didn't argue. "Would you stay with me until I fell asleep?" John knew somewhere along the way, the dynamic in their relationship had shifted, softened somehow, but it was unnerving to hear the vulnerability in that deep voice, laid bare and open for nobody but John to witness. This new level of intimacy was still new and while he embraced it and cherished it, he was still coming to terms with it.
"How about we bunk in my room for a little while? We've both been having nightmares pretty regularly, and it's not as though it's anything new… My mattress is better than yours anyway."
Sherlock didn't respond, simply hobbled to his feet, taking the crutch which John was quick to hand him and go into his bedroom, re-emerging in a different set of pyjamas and damp curls freshly combed, making for John's room without even acknowledging him.
To be honest, he was still a bit ambivalent about their sleep situation, finding it an occasional nuisance, but mainly uneasy with how comfortable he found it. He'd slept in other peoples beds all his life, and didn't find the act of sharing a sleeping space at all bothersome, but Sherlock had never actually asked him before. He'd always relied on the pretence of 'sleep-walking' or simply shown up, neither of them making eye contact. It was almost… welcome to acknowledge it. And perhaps a bit frighteningly indicative of what they were in for.
John shut his book, considered bringing it along; perhaps as an excuse to keep the light on, but ultimately deciding that perhaps the lack of light would be better. Their unspoken talks could be a true blessing when the lines of communication were limited, but they tended to hide behind it sometimes; used it as an excuse to leave things unsaid; apologies, bargains, permissions, forgiveness… It worked immensely in their favour, but it was becoming clear to him that there were some things that warranted being spoken aloud.
John followed after him, ascending the stairs and finding the detective sitting up in his bed and picking absently at John's duvet and worrying his thumb. He undressed, happy for the opportunity to sleep in something other than jeans for the first time in ages. He jerked his head, indicating for Sherlock to move over and watched him oblige, getting in on the side he always slept on and settling back, switching off the light as he listened to the sounds of shuffling.
Then there was silence. Silence wasn't a fair assessment. The sounds of insects, passing cabs and street noise were audible, but all he could focus on was the sound of his flatmate's breathing. Unconsciously, he turned onto his side facing his friend. "I want you to do something for me," he whispered lowly.
He felt Sherlock turn towards him, waiting.
"I need you to trust me. Will you do that?"
"I always trust you," he heard Sherlock scoff, as though it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
"Pretend that I'm him. Like you're talking to him. I won't say anything back, just… say the things you've always wanted to say," John said quietly, uncertain of what he was suggesting but unwilling to let that stop him.
"That's ridicu-"
"Stop." He let the man lay in silence for a bit, wishing for thousandth time he could read the man's mind. "It's me, here, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do or say that'll chase me off, got that?" he murmured, finding his hand beneath the sheets and giving it a tight squeeze.
Beside him, he could hear a shaky breath, long and drawn out and then he waited. This wasn't for him. It wasn't going to happen on his time frame. He was prepared to wait for as long as it took.
"W-" the whispered syllable somehow seemed like a shout in the silence of John's bedroom and he shifted to attention. Without uttering another word, Sherlock shifted onto his side, pulling John's arm until it was wrapped around him, and John followed, mimicking their position from the previous night.
Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and shifted until John's arm was cradling his head. It took him a few minutes, and when he began to speak, it was with a hoarse voice. "When I was very young, I used to dream about the day that you'd pick me up and apologize… hold me and cry and say how you didn't mean to do any of it. That it had been a mistake... I remember I planned it all in my head, how I'd pretend to think about it long and hard just to make you squirm, but that I'd say, if you promised you'd never do it again, that I'd forgive you. I dreamt about that until I left for Eton, and then I wouldn't let myself think about it at all."
The words held deadness. A disconnect that John found terrifying and nauseating all at once. "Every time my mind strayed to think about any of it, I'd pinch my arm and tell myself thinking about it would only make it worse. So I didn't. I shut down all thought of you ever being an actual human until you existed in my memory as this… black sludge that caused pain, and every person that called me names or tried to hurt me eventually started to look like you, sound just like you. I resented it, but I forced myself to forget everything you ever did to me until only your words remained. I couldn't let myself forget what you said. I defined myself by it. I was useless, worthless, pathetic…" the monotone broke, and the heart-breaking word were suddenly coated in the agony that John knew was behind them. "unlovable. And I knew why you hated me; because I was a despicable person."
John felt sick with the urge he knew he had to supress. Because he couldn't say a word, so instead he hugged the man closer against him until his words were reverberating against John's chest and Sherlock's soft hair was curling around his fingers. "I thought that for so long that I stopped bothering to make an effort to hold that back. I let people see it for what it was. I let your words become who I was. And I hated you all the more for it."
"All the people I chased away, all the loneliness and unhappiness I felt; I stopped caring that I was destroying my life because, in my mind, it wasn't me who was doing it. It was you. I couldn't separate me from you. I still can't, sometimes. But… The difference is… I want to be better now. I have a reason to be. I have John, and even though… he's too good for me, he still stays even when I want him to leave. Even when he should leave." John could feel the shakiness, and pressed his forehead against his friend's neck, giving a subtle nod for him to continue. "He thinks I'm worth something even though I'm worthless. He thinks I'm good even though I'm bad. He's smart enough to know better, but he still thinks that I'm a good person. And… he thinks there's something about me that's worth loving."
There was silence that John filled by sitting up on his elbow, silently pressing a kiss to the man's temple. John pulled back as Sherlock rolled onto his back, then settled against Sherlock's shoulder, resting his hand over his heart and feeling the words as they escaped his chest.
"I think…" Sherlock took a deep shuttering breath as he rested his mouth against John's head. "I don't think I believe you anymore. I think I believe John." John had to twist his head to bury his mouth into the warmth of his shirt to stop himself from making a sound. He was close enough to hear Sherlock swallow. "I don't want to hate you anymore, father. I still want you to pull me into your arms and beg you to forgive me. I just want to let go of all of this. But I don't know how to forgive someone who doesn't feel remorse."
They laid in silence after that for a long time, Sherlock occasionally snuffling, but saying nothing, John waiting to be sure there was nothing else that Sherlock felt he wanted to say. He let it all wash over him, incredibly touched by the words and feeling immensely proud of his best friend. Both for having the courage to say the words and the forbearance to want to let the past remain there and to move on with his life. Eventually, he blinked away his tears, laying against the pillows and reversing their positions and burying his nose in the fluffy sweet smelling curls Sherlock hadn't bothered to style this morning.
"This isn't about him, Sherlock," he murmured, rubbing a line up and down his friend's spine. "He's not here now. He can never hurt you again. You don't have to live with him. It's yourself you have to live with. You have to find a way to take all of that hatred and pain and horror and let it go. Because you aren't him and you never will be; you're infinitely better than he is. I know how much you hate him for what he did to you. But the best thing you can do to get back at him is to let him go. Don't let him live up here," John lifted his hand to Sherlock's temple. "Don't let him win."
He felt the small nod against his mouth and heard the quiet sniff. He twisted his head around so that he could look at him in the dim, dirty streetlight filtering in from the blinds. Sherlock looked at him with impossibly big eyes and John smiled, content to play the role of big brother that Mycroft had never filled. "Let yourself grieve Sherlock, but remember all of what you still have. You have clients queuing up to have you solve their cases. You've got people on this planet who wouldn't be around if it weren't for you. You've got that big beautiful brain of yours. And… you've got me, 'Lock. You've got me and you always will."
John felt his friends arms snake around his chest, and for a time, they both stayed this way, John trying to summon words capable of healing past pains and Sherlock letting the type of safety, comfort and warmth he'd been deprived of for so long help chase away his demons.
"John, is this going to go away?" Sherlock asked, shifting so that they could look at each other straight on without straining their necks. "Will I be able to let it go?"
John just nodded his head. "You will," he promised. "Give it time and eventually you'll find a way to make your peace with it. Just keep talking to me, alright?" John knew eventually, everything would be fine, even if it took some time to get there. He knew that this was helping.
He shifted when he received no reply, realizing that Sherlock had fallen asleep with his head resting on John's chest and his arm curled over him and John rolled his eyes, smiling and knowing as long as they had each other, there was little they couldn't work through. It wouldn't happen in the space of a moment, but it was nothing time, tea and talking couldn't sort out.