Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

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I want to add the following about the WW2 topic: I am German and since I was a child I was interested in the history of WW2. I think I watched almost every WW2 documentary BBC and The History Channel ever made. I also saw several really interesting ones about London during the war and the homefront effort. Since I was in my early teens I visited memorials and museums whenever I got the chance, and two concentration camps, it's heavy stuff.

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Re-enacting WW2 sounds strange to me. I know people in other countries do it, and for me it's quite okay that they celebrate or re-live getting rid of a tyrant.

I know the accessories can be bought abroad but it's really strange for me to see there is actually third reich uniforms and patches for sale on internet pages, because in Germany you'd get in trouble with the law for wearing or showing a swastika.

Loads of people do re-enactment/role-play here as a hobby, too, but it's about more mystical stuff or things that were way longer in the past.

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Chapter 28

Sunday night

They arrived at the flat past midnight. Sherlock had not spoken during the ride and when he went to his room to change into more comfortable clothes John decided to be insolent and just follow him. He really needed to take a look at Sherlock's back.

The detective undressed as if John wasn't there, with his back to him, until he started to unbutton his shirt.

"What do you want?" his tone was not exactly friendly.

"See the stitches."

Sherlock continued until he was only in his boxers and socks, then put on his pyjama pants. As soon as he had them on he stood rooted to the spot, unmoving.

John wasn't getting it.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Oh, I… Can we sit in the kitchen?"

"No."

The nest of blankets was still on the ground, Sherlock had not moved any of it.

"I want us to sit or you lying down."

Sherlock reached for the t-shirt he often wore under his dressing gown, clutched it to his chest and moved over to the pile of blankets. John's medical bag was still there, too.

To John's surprise Sherlock shoved the blankets a bit this way and then that way and finally he lay down on top of them.

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

He checked if the bag contained everything he'd need and then started peeling the large plasters from Sherlock's back. He had last seen the wounds Friday morning, before they went to Scotland Yard.

The other man's back had improved a lot. The infection was almost gone and most of the stitches had healed nicely. John decided he'd remove them in two days.

He once more applied ointment on the still red areas of Sherlock's back and then redressed the sites.

"Okay. Looks a lot better."

Sherlock stayed silent and when the doctor patted his shoulder as a sign that he was finished he sat up and pulled the inside out shirt over his head.

Making some tea would probably be a good idea, so John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Five minutes later he returned with a steaming mug and the detective's meds.

Sherlock had put on a sweatshirt, it looked odd, since the man never wore this kind of clothing.

"You are cold?"

The question was ignored, probably because it was stupid.

Sherlock was in a supine position now, pillows piled up so that his torso was elevated, his hands were in his typical thinking position though his posture was a bit off.

John held the cup against the back of Sherlock's right hand and the other man automatically took it.

"Here," John held out the meds.

Sherlock looked unnerved but took them with some water from a bottle that had been still lying on the ground next to the blankets, then returned to holding the warm cup in his hands.

John assumed the other man was extremely frustrated with the case and with his own problems.

Sherlock's eyes were now closed and John wondered if that meant he was dismissed.

The doctor carefully tucked at the dressing gown's sleeve before talking.

"It was not your fault she is dead… Even if we had observed her flat we wouldn't have prevented her death. She was not home for days. Do not tor…" he stopped himself before saying 'torture yourself' and hastily continued, "… put that weight on your shoulders. There was nothing you could have done."

Sherlock didn't react but John knew he had heard him because he had slightly stiffened when John had started to speak.

It was totally useless to tell Sherlock he should get some rest or eat or whatever sane people would do, so he didn't.

"Good night," John stood up and went out of the room, taking his bag with him. Sherlock's mood was far to dark to leave the stuff in there.

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For a change Sherlock was glad John left him alone. The difference from no-John-present to John present 24/7 was quite intense.

He wanted him around in general, but right now he felt like he needed some quiet and no one-present.

Cold…

Today had totally messed up the fine sorted out image he had about the case. Every fact had been tossed around and it was back-to-square-one in a way.

How had he missed it? What had been so wrong in his deductions?

The only good thing was that she obviously had not been murdered by their killer. The thought that she might have been killed because he had had a nervous breakdown and therefore not continued the surveillance had driven him mad, at least before he had learned the facts.

His body had reacted to that, his stomach had felt as if he drank several litres of ice cold water.

Not good.

His transport was really getting on his nerves these days.

It felt heavy and the stitches itched.

Lying on his back put pressure on them and turned the itching into pain.

That was good. Felt better…

Physical pain was so much easier to handle than mental distress.

Where was the flaw in his theories?

What had made him so sure she'd be the next victim?

Think!

It was all to slow!

His mind was slow, police was slow, even his transport was slow. It was disgusting. He needed to think clearly!

Where was he…?

Yes, flaw… His flaws… The flat, it was the outer circumstances of her living environment that had made him make the final decision to observe her building.

He hoped the Yarders were surveiling the other woman right now. The thought that they might have been right to observe her flat was a bit unsettling.

Had he lost his ability to think properly in the past two years?

He indeed knew he was slower than before, if he was honest with himself.

The time away had left him with deep exhaustion and in a constant dark mood… He had thought one of the reasons was… because… the information was trying to hide from his sight, he went after it.

Oh, John's absence had slowed him down, he needed that conductor.

He had known that before, but had tried to deny it.

Why had he?

Was he to conceited and selfish to admit he was better with / because of someone else?

The fear of John-not-being-there and leave - like everybody else he had known had left in the past - was certainly a factor…

Also, during the time when he was away John was simply not available and it was only making things worse missing him.

How had he again got sidetracked? He needed to think about the case and how he had messed up!

The victim, he should check if there was maybe an online thing about the group and their activities, he doubted they communicated via landline or mobile alone. Maybe a blog…

Blog?

He had heard John move around until a few moments ago. And now the monitor-John-routine kicked in and began to hum in alarm.

Sherlock held his breath and felt his heartbeat speed up.

But then… he heard John's bed squeak and he swore silently about the stress the program caused. He needed to configure the sensitivity of that routine and bring it down a bit.

When he tried to see the configuration file it slipped away from him.

He tried to open it again and realised he was suddenly in his mind palace.

How had this happened?

He needed to think about the case!

He threw a virtual vase - that happened to stand in the hallway - against a door in frustration.

And since when was there decoration like vases for god's sake!

He shoved himself back to his physical room in the flat and when he opened his eyes his head was turned towards the bed.

He spotted the violin case under it. John had put it back.

He crawled the three steps to the bed and dragged it out.

When he opened the case something very deep inside him started to hurt.

He waited a moment and tried to identify the feeling, but he couldn't.

He had not held her for two years, not opened the case, not felt her, not smelled her… not played at all for two years.

Sure, he'd had the opportunity to use other instruments if he wanted to, but he hadn't. It would have been betrayal.

This was sentimentality towards a wooden dead object, ridiculous!

He took her out of her cage.

She was as light and warm as he remembered.

He lied back down on his back and held her to his chest, the position she was usually in when he attuned her.

Staring at the ceiling he realised the hurt in his chest felt like caused by her and soothed by her at once.

Unsettling feeling.

But it was familiar, he had felt like this while he spoke to John from the top of Bart's.

He was tired. So tired, his body was and his mind was… tired of the whole thing, of the world in general.

Without planning to, Sherlock slipped into sleep.

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Monday late morning

John was woken by his text alert.

Lestrade informed them that the veterinary student's body would be autopsied in three hours and that two new cases of missing persons had come in. John texted him back to inform Sherlock in one hour.

He dressed and went downstairs. The living room was empty and an unsettling silence inhibited the flat.

These rooms had been empty for two years and the melancholy John felt had an aftertaste of hurting loneliness.

Was this what made Sherlock feel even worse after his return?

Did he feel like John did after the fall, when he was alone in the flat and knew Sherlock would never live here with him again?

John sighed and headed for Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was on his back, still on the ground and - John held his breath - he held the violin to his chest.

Was he asleep?

John waited to see him breathe with his own breath held. When he saw it, he briefly relaxed. This was such a vulnerable sight… kind of intimate.

Sherlock had obviously not played. The bow was still neatly stored in the case, as was all the other accessories.

He knew Sherlock could sleep for long hours without even moving an inch but this was awesome. He looked like a sleeping statue, those ones on top of king's coffins with their swords in hand.

The temper-pin was hanging over Sherlock's left shoulder and the instrument moved slowly up and down with Sherlock's shallow breaths. John stood there for some long moments, wondering if he should wake Sherlock.

"What time is it?"

John flinched, "Oh, I didn't realise you were awake."

"I wasn't."

"Hm, I was so careful not to step on any creaking floorboards."

"You didn't. Your keen look woke me."

"Sorry," John giggled.

"News?"

This must mean Sherlock had already figured out that Lestrade was texting John before informing him, was he angry about that? Was it worth a try to hide that? Would probably do more damage to Sherlock's trust, so better not.

"Call Lestrade."

Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time and gently lifted the violin from his chest. He neatly stored her back into her case and stood up slowly.

"I'll make tea," John disappeared into the kitchen.