Hello all! Apologies for the late update. I've been busy shopping for college and completing some online homework.
InvisibleBlade: Sherlock, Greg
Me: John, Mycroft, Violet Holmes, Dr Mary Morstan
Warnings for this chapter: angst, Sherlock being a lying bastard, mother-son feels, and Sherlock trying to protect his heart and John's
Chapter 26 – Welcome Back
John stuttered awake, something urgent rousing him from his slumber. Sherlock's heart monitor. It was beeping like crazy and his body was thrashing in the sheets. John rushed to his side, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him down.
'It's alright, Sherlock,' he said to the comatose form. 'It's alright. I'm here. It's ok now.'
Sherlock could hear John's voice breaking through the veils of death. He let out a sob. Was this his punishment in hell? To hear his husband's voice speak to him so tenderly as though nothing had happened? To make him feel his guilt every moment he was here?
'I'm sorry!' he cried. 'John, forgive me! I didn't mean– Didn't mean to–'
John gasped and tears gathered in his eyes. Was he waking up? God it felt good to hear his voice again.
'Sherlock? Sherlock, it's ok now. Everything will be alright, I promise.' He pushed the nurse's call button and continued to speak soothing words to his lover. 'It's gonna be ok, love. It's alright. The nurse will help you and explain what happened.'
Sherlock's eyes flickered open. Just the fact that he had eyes to open in the first place confused him beyond belief. Wasn't he dead? Hadn't the bullet shot up into his skull?
John cried in relief. Thank god! He was awake! The nurse arrived then, smiling at the sight of Sherlock having regained consciousness.
'Hey there mate. Remember me?' Rory asked, smiling warmly down at the very confused Sherlock. 'Gave us quite a scare there. But we're glad to finally see you awake. I should let your brother know. He'll have me sacked if I don't.'
John handed Rory his mobile, staring down at Sherlock with watery eyes.
'Hi, love,' he croaked out. 'I missed you.' He ran his fingers through Sherlock's significantly longer curls, wishing he had been allowed to trim them. His hair was too long now, he didn't like it, and he wanted it back to the length he was used to. But now was not the time for selfish grievances. Now was the time for being there for a soon-to-be shocked and confused and possibly violent Sherlock.
Everything was so god damn bright. He couldn't see anything. Everything was a horrible bright blur of white. When his eyes had adjusted to the harsh light his breath hitched. John was hovering over him, completely unharmed, stroking his hair.
'J-ohn?' his voice stumbled, struggling to piece the name together. Was it really him? Was John ok? What was going on?
'Hi, love,' John smiled, tears of relief and joy falling down his cheeks. 'God, it's good to hear your voice again.'
'Wha–?' Why was John smiling? What the hell was there to smile about?
'I'll explain everything when you're more coherent,' John said, reading the confusion on Sherlock's face plain as day.
'He's on his way,' Rory said, handing John his mobile back. 'Hey there, mate,' he said to Sherlock. 'Welcome back.'
Sherlock wrinkled up his nose. 'Am I dead?' he choked out. God he hoped so. But then why was John here too? Horror sped through Sherlock's entire system. Was John dead too? Had the fall done more than cause him a few broken bones?
'No, love, you aren't dead,' John said gently. 'You've been in a coma. For quite some time too.'
'Coma?' Sherlock breathed as though the word was completely foreign to him.
'Yeah. You know. Comatose,' John explained gently, still petting Sherlock's hair soothingly. 'You've been lost in your head for a good...' He paused. How long had it been? He looked at the date on his phone. Wow. Almost to the day.
'You've been in a coma for four months,' John said softly.
'Four?' Sherlock gulped, still completely dumbfounded.
'I'm afraid so,' John nodded. 'It was touch and go there for a while. Where it seemed like you wouldn't wake up. But I never lost faith. Because I know how strong your mind is. If anyone were to fight their way out of a coma it would be you.' He gingerly clasped one of Sherlock's hands in his, rubbing soothing circles on the back of it with his thumb.
'Your mother was very supportive,' he continued. 'If I seemed to be losing faith for even a second, she would set me straight. You have a wonderful, loving, very caring mother. You should consider yourself lucky to have her. She is a brilliant, wonderful woman.'
Sherlock tugged his hand away, the fear of touching John still running through him like wildfire.
'Where is my mother? Has she gone back home?' he asked, trying to make conversation despite his inner panic.
So it hadn't been real? Benny? Felicity? Marrying John? Moving into that big house? Hurting John?
None of it had.
He wasn't sure if that made him sorrowful or relieved.
John was hurt when Sherlock pulled away so quickly. Maybe he was still confused. He needed to give him time to recuperate.
'Your mother is in the café right now,' John said softly. 'She needed some food. She was almost pulling a you. She hadn't eaten in a couple days and her blood sugar was drastically low. So, I had a nurse take her to go get some food. She should be back soon.'
Sherlock nodded, frowning. 'Right... Thank you. My mother can be quite stubborn.'
'She's a wonderful woman,' John smiled softly. 'I know I said that already, but she really is.'
Mycroft burst into the room then, looking very much like a bat out of hell. He was panting, his suit looking like it had been work for days in a row, and his eyes were frantic.
'You're awake,' he gasped. 'Oh my god, you're awake! You're alive!' He rushed to Sherlock's side and, without thinking about what he was doing, wrapped his arms around his little brother in a tender hug.
Sherlock froze in the hug. He was still confused by what was going on and being wrapped up in Mycroft's arms didn't help. Then, of course, his fears of hurting his family were at the very tip of his mind. What if he hurt Mycroft? With that terrifying thought he pushed his brother away. He didn't want to hurt him. No. Not Mycroft.
Mycroft stumbled back, hurt tremendously. He knew he and Sherlock were never ones for sentiment, but he thought maybe just this once they could make an exception.
Apparently he was wrong.
He straightened up, smoothing out his suit and lifting his chin in a semblance of being back in his natural state of order.
'Well, it's good to see you awake,' he managed to say.
John just stared, dumbfounded. He had never seen Mycroft show such a high level of emotion before. And Sherlock rejecting him had him reverting back to his old ways. John frowned but didn't say anything.
Sherlock proceeded to say something that broke his brother.
'Anyone would think you care.'
That one sentence was laced with far more coldness and anger than Sherlock had meant it to. He supposed it was because, even if what had happened in his mind hadn't been real, Mycroft had failed him. Failed to keep his family safe. And for that he resented him.
Which of course was ridiculous but it was true.
Mycroft swallowed, his unfeeling façade falling. His brother had said a lot of scathing words to him over the years, but none of them had hurt. But those? Those five words? Those hurt.
'Yes, well.' He swallowed, straightening up again. 'Just goes to show that caring is still a disadvantage. Brother, it is good to see you awake. I hope you have a full and speedy recovery.' He turned on his heel and opened the door, turning back to nod curtly at John.
'John,' he said in goodbye, taking his leave and closing the door behind him.
Sherlock's heart twinged and for a moment he felt guilty. That didn't last long. 'Caring is a disadvantage,' he sighed. 'A disadvantage indeed.'
'What?' John asked, appalled he could even still think that. 'No it's not. Caring about someone means you're willing to do anything for that person. Lay down your life for that person if you cared enough. It isn't a feeling that puts you at a disadvantage.' He grabbed Sherlock's hand again, gripping tight. 'It makes you strong.'
Sherlock once again tugged his hand free from John's grip. 'It really doesn't. It is a disadvantage.'
How did he explain to John that he had cared for him deeply in his dream, and in said dream had all but pushed him down the stairs? How did he explain how hurt he was feeling because his children and his nephew weren't real? He had cared for them.
It was like they were dead.
'What now, doctor? Are you going to cry? Not much good this caring lark,' he snapped.
John sighed forcefully through his nose, holding back the tears Sherlock had seen forming. What had happened during those four months he was in a coma? Could he remember anything? Not just about what had happened while he was in a coma, but about their lives together. What did he remember?
He swallowed thickly and sat up straight, defensive soldier mode activated. 'No, Sherlock, I'm not going to cry. I'm concerned is all. And, I was just wondering, those four months you were in a coma... What can you remember? About anything? Did you dream at all? Did your memories come back? Anything?'
Sherlock swallowed, angry at the emotions building up within him. 'That, Doctor Watson, is none of your business.'
God he felt horrible. He was hurting John all over again.
At least it's emotional, not physical.
He wasn't prepared to hurt John physically. He wasn't going to stand by and watch him get bloodied and broken by his hands. He would cut him from his life if he had to. He just wouldn't risk hurting John in such a way.
John steeled his jaw, letting Sherlock's words roll over him.
He has just come out of a coma. He is confused and traumatised. He needs time to heal and adjust. Give him that time.
John sighed loudly again and nodded. 'Ok. That's fine. I was just hoping you remembered us is all.'
Sherlock laughed ridiculously loud though there was nothing in the slightest funny 'Us. Oh yes. I remember us.'
John blushed although there was no reason to. It was only Sherlock; he shouldn't be embarrassed. He should be ecstatic he remembered, he should be crying with relief, bouncing off the walls.
So why was he doing the exact opposite?
'Good,' he managed to say after clearing his throat rather loudly. 'Good. That's, um, good.'
Yes, I remember us, John.
I remember all the pain and suffering I have put you through. Both in the dream my mind twisted from my memories and in real life. And I cannot do that anymore. No. Look at you, John. Look at how much weight you've lost. You're like a bloody skeleton. You haven't been eating properly then. Why? Because you've been too busy watching over me. That only affirms that I bring you more harm than good. You've got bags under your eyes. Not sleeping then. You lost sleep over me? Enough. This is too much. I can't watch as you do this to yourself because of me. No.
Sherlock licked his lips and turned his eyes away from, John. 'I remember the little experiment I was trying out on you.'
John licked his lips and looked up, his eyes wide. With fear or hurt he wasn't certain.
'Experiment?' he asked in a small voice.
'Yes, John. An experiment,' Sherlock scoffed. 'For science and nothing more.'
'God dammit, Sherlock,' John sighed loudly. 'You know how I feel about you experimenting on me without my express permission. What was is this time and did you at least gather some quantifiable data from it?'
'Yes, I suppose I did,' Sherlock replied sharply. 'And the experiment was you. You, John.'
'Yes, I realise I was the experiment,' John sighed. 'What I want to know is–' He paused, things clicking into place in his brain. 'Wait. You mean, you didn't experiment on me, but I myself was the experiment? What was the experiment, if I may be privy to know?'
'Yes, John! That's exactly what I mean! Perhaps you're not such an idiot after all.' He very nearly flinched at his words. They sounded like venom. 'I was experimenting what it was like to be involved in a physical relationship in order to understand one of the possible motives for murder in greater depth.'
John's heart plummeted. It had been an experiment? All of it? Had anything been real?
'Wait. Let me get this straight.' John was surprised at how level his voice was. 'You let me take your virginity, kiss you, profess my love for you, and open up my heart to you... all for a bloody experiment?'
Now he was fuming.
'You do realise it is more than a bit not good to mess with people's feelings like that, right? Because all those feelings and thoughts and actions? They were real for me. I do love you, I do care about you, and you claim everything you said was for an experiment?' He let out a loud, delirious laugh.
'I don't believe you. I don't. No one can fake that level of emotion for very long before they start to think it's real too. And you, Mr Emotional Range of a Teaspoon, expect me to believe that everything we did was for an experiment? Ha!'
'I think you'll find I am a man of many faces, John. It was an act. All of it. Just an act. I needed to know what emotions a human being feels after participating in such sexual acts together. You were the test subject.'
Lies all lies. All of this was one big lie. He loved John. He'd felt things that he couldn't even describe for the army doctor. He cared about him on a deep, emotional level. He supposed that's why he was doing this. Why he was pushing John away. Because he cared.
'And you have proven yourself to be very useful. For example, I see you have mistaken sexual acts as love. I guess that's where you are wrong. How are you feeling now? Angry? Used? Upset? Tell me. I need to know.'
John clenched his jaw shut tightly. He wasn't going to answer that. He refused. Sherlock was lying. Why was he lying? How could he lie about all they had and claim it wasn't real? How?
You want to know how I feel? I feel used, abused, and betrayed. I trusted you, Sherlock. I trusted you with all my heart and soul and you took that trust and threw it in the dirt, stomping on it for good measure. I still refuse to believe that everything was a lie. I refuse to believe that you could manipulate me for that long without me noticing. I would have noticed. I would have. I should have. But we were so happy. So very happy. And you agreed to marry me! I had it all planned out too. Fuck.
The ring he had picked out a few weeks ago was burning a hole in his pocket now. He felt like an idiot. He felt betrayed. But most of all he felt like his world was crumbling down around him and he didn't know what was real anymore.
'You're lying,' he grit out. 'I know you are. I know it. I refuse to believe that you would manipulate me for weeks just to gather data about motives for murders of passion. No. No.'
'Am I lying? Or am I telling the truth for the first time in a very long time?' Sherlock cocked his head to one side on his pillow. 'I used you. I knew you had a big heart so you would be a willing subject and would give me some reliable data. I should have seen that you were going to fall for me. I'm sorry. I was unaware of how deep your feelings really went.'
'You liar,' John growled. 'You're a fucking liar. I don't believe you. No. You're lying for a purpose. What is it? Are you trying to protect me from something? Someone? What? Tell me!'
'You aren't a child, John. Why on Earth would I bother protecting you?'
Sherlock's heart was feeling heavier and heavier in his chest by the minute. He was still filled with rage and confusion and hurt. Self hatred bubbled beneath his surface. He was feeling something that could only be described as grief. He was grieving for his children, for his nephew, for his non-perfect but perfect life. He just knew one thing: be wasn't safe and he wasn't the good man John believed him to be. The less he cared for his lov–flatmate the less danger he would be in.
'You would protect me because you love me!' John cried. 'Yes, I am perfectly capable of defending myself, and so are you, but we've fought for each other's protection on numerous occasions. Why? Because that's what people do when they care for one another. They fight the battles not truly worth fighting because they care about the person they are fighting for.'
His throat was choking on his unshed tears and emotions. He swallowed audibly before moving quickly, sealing his lips to Sherlock's in a deep and passionate kiss. He heard Sherlock's heart monitor soar, his heartbeat skyrocketing. He released him after a full minute.
'Now try to tell me that you didn't feel something during that,' he panted, a few stray tears falling down his cheeks. 'Try and explain your heart beating so erratically at my touch. Go ahead. Try to lie that one off.'
Sherlock raised a finger to his lips fir a brief second, tracing where John's own lips had been melded to them. He gave John a calculated look.
'Years without any sexual activity and then you come along and assault my body? Of course my heart's going to speed up. Besides, what I do feel is nothing more than a slight sexual attraction to you. I do not love you.'
Of course what he was really thinking was: Kiss me again, John. Now! Make my emotions melt away into nothing but the simple love I have for you.
'"A slight sexual attraction?" Is that what that is?' John pointed to the very prominent tent forming in Sherlock's sheets. 'Because I don't think a reaction that strong would come from a "slight sexual attraction." And don't give me that "years without any sexual activity" bullshit. Your body may not be experienced, but your mind is. And you still want me and care for me, maybe even love me. And nothing you say or do will ever change my feelings for you.'
Sherlock cursed his bodily functions and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. 'I have always been a man of addiction, John. And currently my body is craving you. My body. Not my mind. Can't you see there was nothing but sex between us? Meaningless sex. Not love.'
'Meaningless? Meaningless?' John's jaw dropped before he clamped it back shut with a snap. 'Losing your virginity was meaningless? Taking mine was meaningless? How could you say that? What is going on? This isn't right, isn't you. Please, love, tell me what's going on.'
'It was all for science, John. As I have told you if you were listening. Now stop calling me love. The experiment has run its course. There is no need to keep up the facade.' Sherlock was swallowing down screams now. He wanted to scream that he was sorry, that he didn't mean it, but the damage was clearly already done.
'You know what? You may claim that you don't love me, but I still refuse to believe that,' John choked out. 'And you're trying to push me away. Even I can see that. I'm not blind nor stupid. You care about me, you love me, but if you're going to be a dick about it then fine.' He fished the ring out of his pocket and dropped it onto Sherlock's bed, just within reach of his fingers.
'Think about that while I get some air. And I'll be coming back. You won't be getting rid of me that easy.' He stormed out of the room and to the elevator, taking it down to the basement where the cafeteria was. Mrs Holmes was there, waiting.
'Oh. Hello dear,' she smiled warmly. 'Oh my. You look a bit ruffled. Is everything alright?'
'Sherlock's awake,' was all John managed to say before stalking off for a cup of coffee and a banana. Violet's jaw dropped and hurried into the elevator before it closed, taking it up to her son's floor.
Her son was awake. Her son was awake and alive.
Greg had been looking for Mycroft all morning, but it seemed the man had disappeared into thin air. He had left the hospital till last to look for his love, seeing as Mycroft was finding it increasingly difficult to be around his comatose brother. In all honesty, Greg didn't blame him. As horrible as it sounded, Sherlock had become a terrible sight to look upon. He'd lost weight from being bed bound for four months, he was an even more sickly pale colour than usual, and although a coma was effectively a deep sleep the poor detective looked a world away from being peaceful, as he should have been.
He headed to the cafeteria first, knowing Mycroft's belly had probably bullied the man into stress eating once more.
He didn't find Mycroft there however. He did, on the other hand, find John. And he looked... devastated.
Oh god. What had happened? Had Sherlock's condition worsened?
John scowled down at his banana, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup tightly. He'd made the mistake of accidentally crushing the last cup too tightly, spilling coffee all over the floor as his shoes.
Why would Sherlock say those awful things? He was lying, he had to be. It wasn't an experiment. John knew in his heart it wasn't. It had been too real and spontaneous to be an experiment. No scientist would conduct an experiment so randomly. The variables would be all over the place. It couldn't possibly be consistent.
He heard a soft cough come from beside him and he looked up. Greg was standing there, a concerned look on his face.
'Oh. Hey, Greg,' John mumbled.
'God mate, you look like death.' Greg took a seat opposite his friend. 'Is it Sherlock? What's happened?'
'He woke up,' John answered simply.
'Then why do you look like you've been chewing on lemons?' Greg questioned. 'It's good that he's woken up, right? Wait– When did this happen? My didn't say anything to me.'
'I don't know, maybe a half hour ago?' John shrugged. 'And he told Mycroft off, much to my surprise. And yeah, I should be happy that he's awake, and I am, but I'm not as happy as I should be.' He looked up at Greg with morose eyes.
'He's different, Greg,' he said softly. 'Something happened while he was in a coma. Something bad. I know that has to be it, because I wouldn't be able to bear with the alternative. Because, according to him...' He swallowed thickly, dropping his head.
'He says none of it was real,' he choked out. 'Says everything we did, everything we said, everything we shared was for an experiment. To gather information about motives for murders of passion. And I know that isn't true. It can't be. It just can't. He says he doesn't love me, Greg. He says he never did. It was all for science. And I... I...'
His sobs broke free then. The tears he didn't allow himself to cry in front of Sherlock fell from his eyes, running down his cheeks like two tiny waterfalls. He buried his face in his arms, hunched over the table, sobbing loudly. He didn't care who heard him, it was a hospital cafeteria. A lot of people cried here. He wasn't the first and he certainly wouldn't be the last.
'He what?!' Greg felt outraged. John shouldn't have had such a bomb thrown on him, not after four months of hell. 'He's an idiot, John.' Lestrade reached forward and squeezed John's shoulder. The poor man was an emotional wreck.
'I don't think he's telling the truth. I think you're right. Something happened to him. Who knows what's been going on in that mind of his over these four months? He is Sherlock after all. He's probably scared witless. But that doesn't give him a right to say what he has.
'What you just said about Mycroft only affirms that. Their relationship was better than it ever had been before he went into a coma, right?'
John merely nodded, his sobs quieting. He still didn't trust his voice though.
'Told him off. Told me off,' he choked out. 'Were we in the dream? Did we hurt him? Did he hurt us?'
'I wish I could answer that but I can't. Just give him some time. I'm sure he'll come around.' Greg gave John's shoulder one more light squeeze before releasing it.
'Think about how this has been affecting us. You've barely slept or eaten. Whereas Mycroft has been doing the opposite. I don't know if you've noticed but he put on quite a bit, and that's probably putting it lightly. He doesn't do much these days. He mainly curls up in a ball under his duvet covers and refuses to come outside and eats - a hell of a lot - and then eats some more. I've started up smoking again. I don't know why, but this whole thing has kinda hit me hard too. But none of that, none of that can possibly compare to what he must have been through. Trapped inside your own mind for four months. God knows what that does to a person.'
'That's what has me worried,' John mumbled into his arms. 'What happened in there that would cause him so much stress and grief? He's actually grieving, Greg. Over whom, I don't know. I thought coma dreams were supposed to be pleasant and perfect. But, then again, this is Sherlock we're talking about. His perfect would probably be murders galore.'
Greg laughed lightly. 'Murders, and a world where Anderson doesn't exist. Yes, that would be Sherlock's perfect.
'But from what I'm gathering, that isn't what happened at all.' The silver haired man exhaled. 'You're just gonna have to be patient with him.'
'I'm trying, Greg. Believe me, I'm trying,' John sighed. He lifted his head off the table and wiped his face clear of tears. 'But it's hard when he doesn't want me to touch him, doesn't accept my love. I gave him the ring and he didn't even flinch. God.' He ran a hand down his face and sighed loudly.
'I wish I could help him, but he'll probably need a therapist. Both mental and physical. After four months his muscles of atrophied and he's gonna need to get his strength back.'
'He's probably just on the defensive because his body has started to waste away. You know how Sherlock is. Vain as ever. Probably conscious that he looks akin to a warmed over corpse right now. Just needs time to adjust and find his feet.'
At that precise moment there was a sharp ping. It was Greg's mobile. He fished for it in his jacket pocket and pulled it out. He frowned and let out a loud sigh as a result of the text. It had been from Anthea about Mycroft, and it wasn't good news that she was reporting back to him.
'Oh, Mycroft,' he whispered.
'What? What's happened?' John was suddenly on alert. If Sherlock's words could affect him so badly he could only imagine how they would affect his brother.
'It's Anthea. She found Mycroft,' Greg replied miserably, running a hand through his hair.
'Wait. Found him?' John asked, beyond worried now. 'Where the hell did he go?'
'God knows where he has been but she found him–' Greg took a deep breath. 'Knelt by the toilet in his flat puking his guts up after practically gorging on the entire contents of his kitchen.' He shrugged. 'Not an uncommon thing to happen of late but still.' Greg's lower lip trembled. 'I'm really worried about him.'
'Oh my god. Is he going to be ok?' John asked, reaching a hand out to take one of Greg's. 'I knew he had been over eating but I didn't know it was that bad.'
Greg snorted. 'Mycroft hasn't been okay since this whole thing started.'
'None of us have,' John mumbled. 'You should go to him. He needs you right now. A lot more than I do. Go. I'll be fine.'
'I can't be around him right now. I've tried to get him to stop but he still insists on stuffing himself silly until his stomach can't hold its contents anymore. He's closed off, won't talk, at least not to me. His father's still on the loose and I think he's terrified. He just isn't the man I know. And that scares me.' A single tear drop fell from his eye. 'He won't even sleep in the same bed as me anymore.'
'He's scared and worried,' John said softly, squeezing Greg's hand. 'He probably isn't used to those feelings. And with Sherlock having been in a coma and their father on the loose, he's stressed and frayed beyond belief. I still think you should go to him, no matter what he says. He needs you, that much is evident. He needs someone to stand behind him during all this, and I'm pretty sure he wants that person to be you. He loves you, Greg. He does. Don't let him pull the "I'm distancing myself from you to protect you" bullshit. Go to him, stand your ground, show him that you're going to be there for him and help him and support him no matter what. Because he needs you, now more than ever.'
'Are you talking about me and My, or yourself and Sherlock?' Greg asked, wiping at his tear-filled eyes to stop more from running free. 'Because it's good advice. You gonna follow it yourself?'
'Huh. I never made the connection, but it does work for my situation.' John raised his eyebrows and nodded. 'Yeah. I'll follow my own advice if you follow it to. We'll go to our respective Holmes boys and show them that they won't be losing us so easily. We're here for good; they're stuck with us.' John smiled softly and squeezed Greg's hand again.
'Thanks for this, John,' Greg said, sounding entirely awkward, removing his hand from John's and getting to his feet. 'I forgot how nice it is to talk to someone who isn't a Holmes.'
'I wish I could remember what it's like to talk to a Holmes,' John frowned. 'Sorry. Let's not go there. You're quite welcome for the talk, Greg. We should definitely try to do the Wednesday night pub talks again. Maybe now that Sherlock's awake I'll have more to talk about.'
He stood to his feet and bid Greg goodbye, striding with purpose over to the elevators. He was going to make Sherlock listen to him. He was going to talk, Sherlock was going to listen, and everything was going to be okay.
He hoped.
Sherlock had been thumbing the ring John had placed on the hospital bed, crying silent tears. That's how his mother found him.
He'd been crying because in his dream, he'd married John. He'd been crying because this only made his fears seem more likely. This was too close to his dream. Too close. If he married John it would become true. Maybe not to the last detail but he was certain of one constant. If he married John he would only end up hurting him.
He was also crying because he had given up on finding someone to love him so much as a child. Crying because he loved John just as strongly back and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with him. Crying because he knew that he wouldn't.
And then when he saw his mother, both alive and well, he cried some more. This time his crying wasn't silent. It was loud and pathetic, and child like.
All Violet Holmes could do was hug her son tightly and offer words of what she hoped was comfort.
'Shhh. It's okay now, honey. Shhh,' she soothed her son. She wrapped her arms around him gingerly, sitting next to him on his bed. She began petting his hair, continuing to shush him soothingly.
'No!' he sobbed. 'No, it's not okay!'
'Why not, sweetie?' she asked softly.
Sherlock clasped the ring John had tossed at him and pushed it into his mother's hands. 'This is why not.'
Violet gasped at the sight of the ring.
'Oh, honey! This is wonderful!' she grinned widely. 'Why are you upset by this? He loves you and wants to spend the rest of his life with you. Why are you distressed?'
'Because I can't spend the rest of my life with him,' Sherlock stated bluntly. 'He'll get hurt.'
'Sweetie, everyone gets hurt,' Violet said gently. 'You can't prevent it. Why can't you marry him? You love him, don't you?'
Sherlock nodded, sniffling and biting back more tears whilst clinging onto his mother for dear life. 'I do. Which is exactly why I have to let him go.'
'Honey, that is an incredibly stupid reason to leave someone,' Violet scolded him gently. 'You're afraid of hurting him? Trust me when I say you rejecting his proposal will hurt him more than any physical pain you could ever inflict.'
'You're wrong,' he told his mother, something that was rarely told to Violet Holmes. 'I am being merciful by letting him go.'
'Take a good hard look at your John after you reject him,' Violet said sternly. 'And then you come find me and look me in the eye and tell me that was the merciful thing to do. Because a rejection like that is like a punch to the gut, and the look on his face will kill you.'
'He isn't my John. I made sure he knows that,' Sherlock sighed tiredly. 'And it really doesn't matter if this kills me. At least he is safe.'
Violet slapped a perfectly manicured hand across her son's cheek.
'Now you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes,' she hissed. 'You do not, I repeat, do not ever say or think that you would be better off dead instead of hurting the people you love. And you already rejected him? I did not raise an idiot for a son. You fix this. You fix this right now or I swear to god I'll do it myself.'
'No mother, you didn't raise an idiot of a son!' Sherlock snapped. 'You were barely in the picture to raise me! And you have no right to tell me how to lead my life.'
iHelp me mummy. Please help me. I'm drowning. Can't you see? I don't know what to do./i
'Sherlock, you might not remember, but I was the one who stopped your father from killing you every night,' Violet hissed. 'Every night I would offer myself in your place. I would risk my own life to protect you. You were just a boy, I was stronger than you, and I did what a mother is supposed to do to protect her family.
'Now, I can see how much you're hurting. I can see the pain in your eyes. They're haunted. What's going on in that head of yours?'
Sherlock's lower lip trembled. 'I don't know how to explain it. It's ridiculous what I'm feeling. Utterly ridiculous.'
'You can tell me,' Violet whispered softly. 'It's ok. Tell Mummy what's on your mind.'
'I dreamed up a whole life for myself, mother,' Sherlock's voice quavered.
'Was it a nice life?' Violet inquired.
'Define "nice,"' Sherlock whispered.
'Well, for starters, was John there?'
Sherlock smiled weakly before frowning. 'Yes. Yes he was.'
'Ok. Good,' she smiled. 'Were you together and happy?'
'We were together but we were far from happy,' Sherlock shuddered. The fake memory of himself and John having that brutal argument that had ended with John falling down the stairs into a broken heap whilst Sherlock had retreated to their room to kill himself ran through his mind.
'Oh honey,' Violet sighed. She began petting his hair again. 'What happened?'
'We had this little life together. It was great! We got married and had our honeymoon.' He blushed a little as he recalled his large member. Its sudden growth spurt suddenly made sense. He continued, leaving that bit out for his mother's sake. 'But then I forgot. I missed fifteen years of our married life together and things only went downhill from there.'
'You forgot?' Violet twirled her fingers through Sherlock's curls. 'What happened after those fifteen years?'
'John and I both had our own biological child. John had a daughter, Felicity, my little princess. I had a son, Benny, an exact replica of myself.' A small smile wiggled across his features. 'And since I didn't remember them I wandered into the kitchen naked. John wasn't very pleased about that, as you can probably imagine. Especially because the children so happened to be in the kitchen at that time.'
Violet smiled at the thought of having grandchildren.
'They sound lovely,' she said softly. 'And yes, I can imagine the shock on their faces when you walked in. What happened then?'
'Mycroft caught wind of what had gone on. He was angry, furious even. But that wasn't his fault. He couldn't help but have–' Sherlock paused. Should he say anything? He didn't want to upset his mother. In the end he decided to tell her. It was just a dream after all. A terrifyingly realistic dream.
'I dreamt he had bipolar disorder like father.' He shrugged. 'Point is, he was angry, and then when he found out about my memory loss he came and apologised to me, after a punch from John that is. When we were discussing my memory loss he let something slip. He said that I was his only family.' He paused again, waiting for his mother to catch on.
Violet had begun rubbing soothing circles on her son's back, only pausing when he said that only he and Mycroft were left in his dream.
'I was gone,' she said bluntly.
More tears swelled in Sherlock's eyes and he nodded. 'I didn't even get to say goodbye.'
'It was only a coma dream,' she said softly, running her fingers through his long hair. 'I'm still alive. I'm not going anywhere any time soon. And if I do, I promise to hold on long enough for you to say goodbye. Ok, sweetie?' She placed a gentle kiss to the top of his head and held him close.
'Mummy,' Sherlock whispered, a sob breaking out of his throat. 'I never want to say goodbye.'
'I know you don't, sweetie,' Violet whispered. 'I know. And I don't want to have to say goodbye to you either.'
'I–' Sherlock gulped, trying to compose himself. 'The dream gets worse.'
'Oh? How so?' Violet asked softly. She held her son against her tightly, massaging his scalp gently.
'I began skipping more and more time. So many memories were stolen from me mother. So many.' Sherlock's weak and tired body shook in his mother's arms. 'I became depressed, distant, and I began to develop an alcohol problem. I was so lost, so confused, and everyone around me was hurting because of it.'
Violet rested her cheek on her son's head, continuing her ministrations on his head. She hummed, letting Sherlock know to continue.
'I begged Mycroft to take me away, but John wouldn't allow him. He thought that if I went away to get help I wasn't going to come back. I might not have, but I still would have gotten help. Instead, I became dependent on alcohol. I couldn't live without it.'
'Did you try to clean up?' Violet asked softly.
'Yes.' Sherlock bit his lip. 'You see, my son, Benny, he was going through an addiction of his own. We promised each other we would clean up side by side.'
'Good for you two,' Violet smiled gently. 'How did it go?'
'It went ok. I didn't touch another drop of alcohol. And Benny didn't get a fix. It was hard, as withdrawals are, but I made it harder on myself.' Sherlock took a shuddering breath. 'I came up with an idiotic plan you see. To stop my memory loss so I would be able to support my son more thoroughly.'
'You can't prevent memory loss, but perhaps in a dream...' Violet trailed off. 'What did you come up with?'
'I planned to not sleep. I thought that maybe my memory loss was connected to me sleeping. If I didn't sleep then it would simply just... go away.' He snorted. 'I told you it was an idiotic plan.'
'It was a dream. We all do stupid, impossible things in our dreams.' She squeezed him tight. 'How well did that work? How long did you make it without sleep?'
'A week.' Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. Despite it being a dream it was still burning away in the depths of his mind. It had been a terrible week. Those seven days had been like torture to him.
'A week without sleep? My goodness. That's quite impressive. Especially if you were up there in years.' She stroked his head and sighed. 'So, what happened after that week? Did you fall asleep and lose more memories?'
'No. I became very ill and ratty. John tried to get me to go to sleep and I refused, even going as far as getting my own son to retrieve me an energy drink. That's how I was staying awake you see. I then–' His throat closed up. 'I hurt John. Oh mummy. I hurt my John.'
'Shhh. Shhh. It's ok sweetie. It's ok.' She clutched him tight, holding him close as she comforted him. 'It wasn't real. Your John is fine. He's safe, he's unharmed, and he's happy you're awake and alive.'
'We had this awful argument! I got so angry. I was tired, and he brought up the fact I was starting to forget how to play the violin and–' Sherlock sobbed into his mother's shoulder. 'I pushed him down the stairs! He lay there broken and bloody and it was all my fault!'
'Oh. Oh, honey.' Violet didn't know what to say. She just hugged her sobbing son, rubbing his shoulders gently.
'I knew one thing then. I knew I needed to leave the world around me. I had to go – to die – if I wanted John and the children to have an ounce of happiness. So that's exactly what I did. I killed myself.' Sherlock's sobs grew in volume and pitch.
He what? Violet couldn't believe what had just come out of her son's mouth. No. No! She buried her face in her son's curls and sobbed loudly. She didn't want to think of a world where her son was dead, especially one where he was the one who ended his life.
'I'm sorry, mother. I'm so sorry,' Sherlock apologised frantically.
'My baby boy,' Violet sobbed, clutching her youngest son to her tightly. 'Please, don't ever think about taking that course of action. Never. Promise me. Promise me you won't take that route. Please. I can't lose my baby to... to... to suicide.'
'Never mummy. Never. I just–' Sherlock's pulse was hammering in his ears. 'I can't hurt John. It's better that he hates me for rejecting him than the alternative. Can you see that now?'
'No. I don't see it,' Violet chocked out. She took a few deep breaths, steadying herself before continuing. 'That was just a dream. Dreams are in no way a mirror of reality. Your coma dream gave you your perfect life, and it also gave you your worst nightmare. Your dream is not going to come true. Please, darling, be smart about this. Use that big brain of yours I gave you. Please. Sit back and think about this logically. Don't be stupid.'
'I can't!' Sherlock yelled. 'I can't be with John, mother!'
Of course that would be the exact moment that the man in question walked through the door.
'Why can't you be with me, Sherlock?' John asked in a small voice.
Sherlock jumped and let out a small whimper, glancing up at him with red, puffy eyes from how hard he'd been crying.
'I'll let you two talk,' Violet said softly, sliding off the bed and to her feet. She placed a loving kiss on Sherlock's forehead. 'Please. Think with your heart, not with your head. You love him. Don't be a fool.' She took her leave, squeezing John's arm gently. She offered him a soft smile and left.
John looked at Sherlock, the stubbornness he'd gained with Greg disappeared. He was hurt again, his heart constricting in his chest. What the hell was going on.
'Why–' His throat closed in on itself. He tried swallowing, only managing to close it further. He opened his mouth and gulped down deep breaths. 'Why can't you be with me, love?'
Sherlock shrugged, rubbing at his reddened eyes. 'Just can't,' he replied, his voice weary and a little sorrowful.
'I still don't believe you,' John whispered. He stepped fully into the room and closed the door. He looked on at his... What even the hell was he now? They weren't lovers anymore, not by Sherlock's standards. Were they going to go back to being flat ages surrounded by sexual tension? But, now that they had experienced sex with each other, it would be so much worse.
John didn't want that. He wanted Sherlock to still want him, wanted Sherlock to still love him, wanted Sherlock to tell him his words were lies and he was only doing it because he didn't want him to be in danger. His arguments were weak, his excuses full of holes, John didn't believe him. But that didn't make the words hurt any less.
'You're going to need more than that to make me leave,' he said softly. He crossed the room, sitting down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. 'You're scared, you're confused, and you look pretty traumatised. I can understand that. I've dealt with coma patients before, in the war and in the clinic. I know how coma patients react after waking up, and your experience is no different.
'I firmly believe you are saying these things because you don't want me to get hurt. I'm fine with that, but what I'm not fine with is you actually thinking this will work. You may be a man of many faces, but not even you could fake the connection we had during our time together. You need someone by your side, someone who will stand up for you and with you no matter what. And that person is me. That person has always been me. Please, don't tell me it was all a lie. I know it wasn't. I can see the pain in your eyes. This is hurting you too, telling the lies. So stop. I'm not going anywhere, I refuse to leave you, especially when you need me now more than ever. You've got me in your corner, Sherlock. And I'm here to stay.'
Why couldn't John drop this? Stubborn bastard!
My stubborn bastard.
No.
Not anymore.
John isn't yours so stop being selfish.
'Believe me–' Sherlock took a deep breath. 'Believe me when I say that nothing you say will ever make me want to rekindle a sexual or deep, emotional relationship with you.'
His heart twinged and pain rippled across his taut features.
'This is the way I wish things to be, and if you care for me at all you will respect my choice in the matter. For I do not need someone fighting my battles for me. I am strong, not made of glass. I am independent. I need no one. And I most certainly don't need you.'
John felt his heart stop at Sherlock's words. He didn't want him? Ever? At all? Did... Did he want him to move out? God, John wouldn't be able to handle that. He couldn't just leave Sherlock after all they'd been through. Experiment or not, they had had something. Something very real.
He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes full of unshed tears.
'Do you... Do you not want me at all? In any way? Sexual or not?' he asked in a small, almost defeated voice.
Sherlock's heart was pounding frantically now, almost screaming out to the world that he was still very much in love with John Watson.
'Of course I want you around.' Sherlock's lips formed a tight smile. 'Where would I be without my blogger?'
John glanced over to Sherlock's heart monitor. It was beeping frantically, an indication of lying, but John wasn't going to bring it up. Sherlock would just cover it up with more lies, and he couldn't cope with more.
He did relax when Sherlock said he still wanted him around though. It was a relief to hear that Sherlock didn't loath him completely. Not that he loathed him at all, but it sure felt like he did.
'Good,' he choked out, the lump in his throat thick and heavy. 'Good. That's... good.'
'Yes, very good,' Sherlock chuckled, but the cheerful sound didn't last.
'I am sorry. I realise I have perhaps crossed the line with what I have done. I hope that we can at least be civil with one another.'
'I hope so too,' John sighed. 'But, um, if you aren't gonna be wearing that anytime soon, I'll take the ring back.'
Sherlock frowned. He didn't want to give it back. He really didn't. He had to though. He picked it up and reluctantly passed it over to John.
'Here,' his voice cracked.
'Thanks,' John said, not thankful at all. He stared down at the gold band, turning it in his fingers. It was simple but it was elegant, much like the man he had intended to give it to. But, if Sherlock was no longer interested, then the ring no longer had a purpose.
'Suppose I should return it,' he mused, his heart breaking at the prospect. 'We won't be needing it anymore.'
'Yes. I suppose so.' Sherlock ran a hand through his long locks. 'I mean, there's no need for it anymore.' His face was a picture of devastation and his body was shaking violently.
John pocketed the ring and sighed loudly through his nose. He looked back up at Sherlock, noting the shaking and the completely devastated look on his face.
'Hey, you alright?' he asked softly. If they were seriously going to to back to being 'just flatmates' then Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate the urge of protectiveness swelling in John's chest. 'Should I call a nurse?'
Sherlock was quick to shake his head. 'No nurses,' he sniffled. 'Doubt they'd be able to fix me anyway.'
'Why?' John asked softly. 'What's wrong? Can I help?'
Sherlock snorted loudly. 'I guess I'm just feeling–' He searched for the right word. '–lost.' Yes, that was an accurate word summing up how he was feeling 'And no, you can't help me.'
'Well, you can talk to me and I can listen,' John offered. 'It's a start at least. Talking your thoughts out is a good way to work through your feeling of being lost.'
'Where do I start?' Sherlock asked. 'Do I start with how sexually frustrated my body is after four months?' Sure enough his arousal was poking through his covers, quivering angrily, and John hadn't even touched him. 'Or shall I go into the fact I feel like death? Or maybe I should just come out and say it? I'm scared.'
'All of that is to be expected,' John nodded, falling back on Doctor Watson mode. Clearly, overprotective lover would be useless now, and he was going to have to train himself not to care so much.
'You were inside your own mind for four months, it is perfectly understandable and completely normal to feel all those things. I know you don't like to be called normal, but in this situation your experience is no different than everyone else's. I just wish I could help.'
He eyed Sherlock's very prominent and probably painful erection hungrily. It had been four months for him too. Four very long months of nothing: no food, no sleep, no sex. Well, ok, he ate and slept on occasion, but the sex bit was true. He hadn't tried to wank at all for fear of Sherlock waking up and wanting him immediately, and John wanted to be just as needy as his lover. It was a stupid reason, but John didn't care. All he cared about was Sherlock.
Sherlock shifted under John's stare. He was already filled with an unbearable desire for the army doctor and that most certainly wasn't helping. 'I ask that you not stare at me so intimately,' he practically begged before recomposing himself. 'And as I was saying, I do not require your help.'
John blinked and sat back in his chair. God, had he really been leaning closer to it? He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Good god, had he been drooling? It seemed it would be harder for John to quell his feelings for Sherlock than he initially thought. This was going to take some time, and lots of it.
'Of course you don't,' he finally managed to say. 'Since when do you need my help? You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't need anybody but yourself.' Whoa. Where the hell had that come from? John didn't know, nor did he particularly care. His emotions were rising against him and he needed to get out of that room before he broke down in front of his ex-lover.
'I'll leave so you can sort that out, yeah?' He nodded at Sherlock's arousal and stood. 'I'll be back later with your proper doctor and she and I will discuss your physical therapy options.' He paused awkwardly by the door. He very much wanted to give Sherlock a comforting goodbye kiss, but he wasn't allowed to anymore. God, this was worse than the memory loss. He just nodded curtly and took his leave, shutting the door behind him with an ominous click.
'No, John. You're wrong. I need you,' Sherlock muttered miserably as John left. The atmosphere left behind was thick with emotion. The highest on the list being desire, and right up there with it was anger and pain.
Sherlock was aroused and that little problem wasn't going to go anywhere anytime soon. And now that John couldn't help him out, or rather Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't need John (though that was a far cry from the truth), the detective would have to solve it himself.
He slipped a frail hand beneath his covers and grasped his arousal. He imagined the hands being smaller, softer, John's. His hips jerked upwards and a loud sound that could most likely be heard from miles away emitted from his throat, followed by a loud cry of ecstasy.
'John!'
John heard Sherlock cry his name, could hear the hurt and turmoil behind it, but mostly he could hear the blatant desire weaved within it. So, maybe Sherlock still wanted him after all. Maybe he was just scared and confused and he was pushing John away to protect him from himself. Whatever idiotic reason it was for, John knew that every word of denial that came out of Sherlock's mouth would be a lie. Sherlock still wanted him on some level, so maybe their relationship could be rekindled. Maybe the ring would still be used someday.
With that thought he smiled. Not a large smile or a warm one, but a smile nonetheless. He found Sherlock's doctor, a personal friend of his, and they began to chat.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to find his release though it wasn't very satisfying and only left him desiring John more than ever. He clenched his eyes shut as he lay in the bed, weak as kitten, hair sticking to his now sweaty forehead, breathing raggedly, and whimpering John's name over and over.
'–and after four months he's going to need some physical therapy.'
'Oh, I agree completely,' John nodded. 'I'm not even sure he's noticed that the muscles in his legs have atrophied. He's been a bit too preoccupied with his emotions, which is a first.'
'Well, from what you've told me about him, that can either be considered progress or a danger to society,' the doctor joked.
'Let's hope for everyone else's sakes it's progress on his part,' John laughed.
'Shall we go check on him?' the doctor asked, moving down the hall in the direction of Sherlock's room.
'Yeah. He's probably had enough time to work through some things. But, knock first just to be safe. He doesn't like it when people interrupt him when he's thinking.'
Sherlock was exhausted and was half tempted to fall asleep despite the fact the fear of sleeping still remained within him. It had all been a dream. Why was he still worrying about the same things?
Because even dreams have to have some element of truth.
His mind was still debating with his body about whether he should sleep or not when there was a short, sharp knock at the door. He sighed heavily. Well at least that was the argument settled for now. No sleeping, at least not yet.
'Come in,' he sighed, sounding tired and bored.
The doctor entered, a warm smile on her face.
'Hello Sherlock. I'm Doctor Morstan. It's good to see you awake. How are you feeling?'
Sherlock let his cool gaze flicker over the doctor. 'I could ask you the same thing, Doctor Morstan. After all, you're the one who found out your partner was cheating on you – this morning actually. Still, you've been expecting it for a while. Nevertheless, it's devastated you. You were planning on bringing up the subject of marriage and children, but I guess now that's a no go. Except–' The detective was smiling viciously now. He'd forgotten how good it felt to deduce the flaws of someone's life. It made an excellent and much needed distraction. 'You're going to give him another chance. I really wouldn't if I were you. He's currently with his receptionist taking part in far less innocent tasks than paperwork.'
Doctor Morstan's jaw dropped and John slapped a hand over his face.
'How–? How did you–?' the doctor stuttered. There was so much she wanted to know. His did he know all that? Was it really so obvious? She thought she had been hiding it particularly well. She wanted her patient to tell her how he'd known, but there was a more pressing matter at the moment.
'He's doing what?!' she screeched instead. 'That lying sack of shit! I'll kill him. I'll kill him! I don't care if it's against my Hippocratic oath. I. Will. Kill. That. Miserable. Bastard.'
Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear, not at all ashamed of the damage he had caused.
'Oh, you should,' he encouraged her. 'But I'm sure the police will take care of him. Your boyfriend has been a naughty man indeed. As well as being unfaithful I can tell you that he has been involved in several robberies too. If I were you I'd break up with him and turn him in.'
'Wha– Robberies?! How the hell can you tell that? He isn't even here!'
Sherlock sighed. Why did people have to be such utter idiots?
'I deduced it.'
'I know that!' the doctor snapped. 'Tell me what you see is what I'm saying. How could you tell he's been involved in robberies just by looking at me, when the arsehole in question isn't even in the room?'
'Dear me. Is it customary to yell at your patients, doctor?' Sherlock's eyebrow twitched up in amusement.
'It is quite obvious that your husband has been involved in robberies. I can tell from the small tattoo on your neck. There is a large group of thieves that use that particular symbol. They mark their partners with it.'
The doctor's hand snapped up to cover her tattoo. She thought she'd covered it well. Shit. Then the implications behind her patient's words hit her.
'You mean... You mean that I was branded? Like a piece of cattle?!'
Sherlock was even more amused now. 'Exactly like cattle. Let me guess. He told you that if you really loved him you'd get that specific tattoo?' He snorted. 'I bet he says that to all the women he conquers. That's how the group works you see. They steal and they conquer women on the side for fun. Does it have a number on it?' Sherlock squinted and laughed as he made out the number 20. 'You're his twentieth conquest then. Interesting.'
'Twentieth?!' the good doctor screeched. John just sighed and slumped down in a chair. He'd let Sherlock have his fun now. He'd scold him later.
'Twentieth?!' the doctor repeated. 'That son of a bitch! Where's that detective fellow you two are always with? I need his number! Now! I have a slew of crimes and names to give him.'
'I'm afraid he's rather occupied at the moment,' John said, rubbing circles into his temples. 'I can give you the number if his assistant though.'
'Whatever works,' Doctor Morstan growled. 'Give it here.' She took the slip of paper from John's fingers and stormed out of the room, muttering profanities under her breath.
John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
'Are you happy, now?' he asked Sherlock. 'Got that out of your system?'
Sherlock frowned and huffed. He deserved that deduction escapade. He desperately needed something other than John in his mind.
'A bit not good?' he asked sarcastically.
'Just a bit,' John replied just as sarcastically. 'Sherlock, I know you needed that, but couldn't you have gone about that a little more, I don't know, politely?'
'There was no point in dancing around the facts.' Sherlock absently pulled one of his overgrown curls down in front of his eyes, observing it as though it was the most interesting thing in the world. 'And besides, I am not polite.'
You were when you were with me, John sighed. He didn't dare say it aloud. He didn't want Sherlock snapping at him about it all being an act again. But John had heard him cry his name in ecstasy barely five minutes ago. Sherlock still wanted him in some way, he just didn't want to admit it.
Instead he watched Sherlock observing his own long locks. His hair had grown so long it almost touched his shoulders. John didn't understand why they didn't let him trim it at all. It wasn't like he was going to kill Sherlock in his sleep with a pair of scissors. No. He wouldn't do it like that. Probably a pillow or he'd stuff his scarf down his throat. Less gruesome than a pair of scissors.
'I wanted to trim it,' John said aloud. 'But the staff here are idiots and they wouldn't let me touch you. Apparently I can't be trusted with a pair of scissors.'
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. 'I imagine that it would have been quite a sight. John Watson trimming my curls.'
'Doctor, soldier, blogger, and personal hairdresser to Sherlock Holmes,' John grinned.
A loud bout of laughter escaped Sherlock's lips. 'My personal hair dresser? I'd like to see you try to tame my curls. Many men have tried and many have failed. Up to the challenge, John?'
For a moment, things were good. Things were right. They were laughing like old times. That feeling didn't last long.
'When it comes to you I'm up for any challenge,' John let slip after his bout of laughter. He clamped his mouth shut, realising what he'd said, embarrassed and guilty. That wasn't them anymore.
Sherlock looked on at John sadly. 'Yes, I remember that fact clearly. You conquered me, did you not? And I think we can both agree I am the biggest challenge of them all.'
'Yes,' John nodded slowly. 'You were a great challenge. And I came out of it relatively unscathed.'
Sherlock sighed and looked away from John. 'I'll just shut up, shall I?' He couldn't bear to look at his flatmate in the eye.
'No, please,' John begged softly. He reached out for Sherlock before remembering how he'd wrenched his hand away the last few times. He frowned and settled for placing his hand on the bed, close to Sherlock's hand in case he wanted to be the one to initiate contact.
'Please, don't stop talking,' John said again. 'You have been silent for four months. It's so good to hear your voice again. Please, don't stop talking.'
Sherlock ghosted his fingers over John's knuckles almost out of instinct. 'You missed me then?' he asked softly. 'Missed me being around?'
'Of course I did,' John said softly. He moved his fingers so they were laying over Sherlock's, almost but not quite linking them together. 'You're my best friend, Sherlock. And you are – were – my lover. Of course I missed you.'
Sherlock nodded and swallowed. 'Best friend?' he questioned. 'I knew that we were friends. Lovers too. But I don't think you've described me as that before.'
'I'm pretty sure I've mentioned it before,' John said, searching his memory. 'But, if I haven't, I'll say it again.' He smiled softly before squeezing his fingers gently against Sherlock's.
'You're my best friend, Sherlock,' he repeated. 'You are the best friend I've ever had.'
Sherlock bit his lip, eyes sad and regretful. He removed his hand from where it lay touching John's and turned his head into his pillow.
'And you are mine,' he whispered.
John smiled softly, trying to hide his frown. His hand dropped from the bed and he placed it in his lap. He raked his gaze over Sherlock, taking in his long hair, haunted eyes, sunken cheeks, and everything else that had changed over those long four months.
'Would you like to get some sleep?' he asked quietly. 'You should have plenty of time now. I don't think Mary– Doctor Morstan will be coming back any time soon.'
Sherlock didn't miss that little slip up. His eyes were slightly startled and his lip wobbled, but only for a second. 'You're attracted to her,' he stated coldly. 'Was she an ex of yours?' He scrutinized John with his eyes. 'Or maybe you've moved on already?'
'No! No, Sherlock. I swear,' John said quickly. 'She and I went to medical school together. She joined a clinic, I joined the Army. Yes, we dated for a couple weeks but it never went anywhere. And it's not going to pick up where it left off. I promise you, that's all there is. She's an old friend. That's it.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You were all over her like a little lost puppy. No point in lying to me, John. No point at all.'
'No. Sherlock, I swear to you that there is nothing there,' John assured him. 'You just dumped me ten minutes ago. You seriously expect that I would move on that quickly? This is you we're talking about. There's no getting over you.'
'You say that now,' Sherlock said in a small voice. 'But in a couple of month's time I can guarantee that you will have moved on from me. And don't use the word dumped. It makes you sound like trash and that is far from the truth.'
'You expect me to move on from you in just two months?' John let out a loud, mirthless laugh. 'Sherlock, after everything we went through, it would take me two years to move on from you, if I ever did that is. And I'll use the word dumped because that's exactly what you did. You dumped a load of crap on me and now I feel used and, yeah, like trash.'
'I didn't–' Sherlock was at loss for words. 'I didn't – I mean – you're not the only one who feels like a load of crap as been dumped on them.'
'Oh? So you feel like shit too?' John asked, his voice coming out a lot more venomous than he intended. 'And why is that, Sherlock? It's not like you actually cared for me, so why would you feel like shit?'
Sherlock flinched and recoiled as far away from John as he could. Those words hurt like hell. He cared. Couldn't John see that? That's why he was letting him go.
'I wish that– John, it's just–' His lips refused to cooperate and in the end he just sealed them shut.
'Just what, Sherlock?' John questioned sternly. 'What do you wish? That this had never happened? Because right now I almost do too. Would have saved myself the heartbreak.'
Sherlock could feel it coming. The scream. It was building in his chest, rising up through his body like a fire, coiling around his Adam's apple, and finally his lips opened. The scream was ear shattering, angered, pained. He fisted his bed sheets tightly. His heart monitor went through the roof. His breathing was rough and sharp. No he didn't wish that. He didn't wish that at all. He wished that the damn coma dream hadn't happened. He wished that he could rid himself of the image of himself hurting John. He wished that he was, god help him, normal. Because maybe if he was normal none of this would have happened.
John flinched and covered his ears, clenching his eyes shut. Sherlock's scream was bloodcurdling, gut wrenching, and heartbreaking. John instantly regretted his words, and knew for a fact that Sherlock still cared for him deeply. John felt like an idiot.
Sherlock's scream turned into loud sobs and John leapt into action. He didn't think, he just reacted. He sat down next to Sherlock and pulled him into a tender embrace.
'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' he whispered into Sherlock's hair. 'God, I'm so sorry. I'm an idiot, a major fucking idiot. I'm sorry.'
Sherlock lay limp in John's arms, sobbing, too weak to move or to say anything. God, John's arms were so warm and he was so close that he could hear his heartbeat. That only made him cry harder.
John just kept apologising. He held him close, squeezing him tightly, letting him know he was there. He would always be there. He placed a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock's head before he began to sob into his hair.
Soon Sherlock's sobs quieted. His throat felt red raw from screaming and he felt weak as a baby. He closed his eyes and sniffled against John's shoulder, barely conscious, sleep dragging his weary body under.
John sucked down deep breaths, trying to calm himself as Sherlock did. He could feel Sherlock's weight pressing against him, could tell he was slowly falling asleep. Quite frankly, John was exhausted too. He closed his eyes and adjusted their positions on the bed, making sure Sherlock was comfortable.
'Get some rest, love,' he whispered. 'I'll be here when you wake up.'
Sherlock was too tired to protest against the use of 'love.' So instead he let himself fall asleep. The only thing he was aware of was that he was pressed close to a warm body. Not just any warm body.
John's.
Ok, so from here until probably chapter 30 will be heavy angst and triggery, so just fair warning. If angst isn't really your thing, I'm sorry, but the description does say some dark themes and elements. Well, this is where the bad ones begin.
I move into my dorm next Thursday, so one last chapter before I move! Then I'll hopefully be able to start updating this three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, Friday. That's the plan at least. Otherwise maybe just twice a week will do. I don't really know. I haven't decided yet. But getting my grades up is my priority right now so I can study abroad next year.
So, we'll see you all next week. Happy Red Pants Monday!
TSA + IB