Author's note: This chapter kind of happened. I wanted to write about something else when suddenly Sherlock and John started to talk about an issue I never even thought of before.
Thank you to GoSherlock for encouraging me to keep it that way and to Katzedecimal for the usual high-speed overnight beta-reading. Grizzi dear, hope you get better soon. Love!
Christmas comes at the most inconvenient time. No matter how much I try to play it down, the dreaded holiday comes with heavy implications of love and family and happiness. It hits John, who has always believed in the jolly season, with full force.
Too fragile is his willingness to love us again, too bitter the loss of siblings we are both struggling with. The fact that Christmas brings another wave of mourning to my parents does nothing to lighten the mood.
So we all spend the first half of December just hoping it will be over soon. Well, we all but Emmi who fortunately does not understand the meaning of Christmas yet.
Besides Christmas, there is something else nagging at my mind. John spent three months in Scotland, and no matter how much I try not to think about it, it slowly drives me crazy that I do not know anything about those three months besides the little bits I was able to deduce.
I know he was lonely. I know he tried to look after Emmi without caring too much. I know that he failed with that – he never brought himself to stop caring. I know he must have been desperate.
What I do not know is why he did not kill himself.
How do you approach a topic like that? I have no idea. So we spend much of our time avoiding the obvious topics. (Something we already learnt to do before the fall.)
Maybe my perception of Christmas time is too negative. After all, two weeks ago I never would have thought I got to spend much time with John at all. Now he does not only join the family for breakfast, he also dares to be alone with Emmi for a while, and joins me when I sneak out while she holds her evening nap.
It turns out that my assessment of the places John would like was right. I can see his body losing tension the very moment we enter the trail through the dunes. When someone at the bakery asks him (in broken English) if he has already visited the lighthouse he only snorts. And he forces me to stay at the freshwater lake in the dunes for more than two hours because he thinks it is the most peculiar thing to have a lake that close to the sea.
One of those afternoon walks inadvertently leads us to the Cemetery of the Homeless. The better part of the crosses is now equipped with signs that give you the names and origins of the no longer unknown sailors.
"I found it all out," I cannot help but boast a little. Too long has it been that John has looked at me with admiration. But today, there is only a little amount of (well-deserved) admiration in his glance.
"Any riddle would do to keep you busy here in the wasteland, right?" John answers.
That hurts.
On many levels. Not just because I mainly acted out of compassion for the sailors and their undeservedly sad fate of being buried far away from home, with the locals not even knowing their names. Also because (no matter how much I love London) Amrum is everything but a wasteland to me.
But mainly because John's careless comment shows how little he understands me (any longer).
I cannot bring myself to tell him, so I keep silent for the rest of of the day. He knows he did something that hurt me (I can tell that from his face and his unsteady stance) but he has no idea what it was.
The next day I expect to be forced to do the evening walk alone but to my surprise John is already dressed up for facing the rain when I start looking for my coat. Ten minutes into my angry march over the Kniepsand, John breaks the silence.
"Tell me about those sailors," he says as if he had not been the most ignorant jerk just yesterday. "You care about them, don't you?"
His eyes are searching my face with sympathy, his expression is open. How am I supposed to continue being hurt when he resembles my old John so much? I sigh, and to my surprise he grins a little. (Important. Need to ask him why later!)
"Amrum is no wasteland," I snap, sharper than I intended. John cocks his head in silent understanding, so I go on (softer than intended), "And yes, I do care for the sailors. Their relatives must feel like my parents would have."
Now he frowns, "How so?"
I sigh again. Pretend to be annoyed by the need to explain while in reality I am fighting with talking about feelings buried deep within my soul. (And John sees through my façade, understands what I am doing here. My heart gives a little jolt inside my chest.)
"When I ..." ( … left you behind, believing I was dead.) ( … never even considered you might move on without me.) ( … hurt you.) ( … carelessly made you allow Mary to enter our lives.) ( … never even considered you might love me as much as I already loved you.) (… was an arrogant fool.)
"When I hunted down the spider-web." Our eyes meet for a moment, and I can see that he heard all the unspoken thoughts that came along with my simple statement. Incredible how much it encourages me to go on.
"About one year into the hunt I was in Bangkok. One of the few times Mycroft had no idea where I was." It had seemed like a good idea back then. Stupid me. "Nearly got shot while standing on a bridge." Not a big thing, really. I nearly got shot five times during those two years. But that one occasion got stuck in my memory.
"I almost fell into the river. I would have drowned, the Chao Phraya River would have taken my body to the ocean, and if my corpse would have been washed up at some Asian shore I would have ended up just like ..." … just like the unknown sailors.
"And my parents ..."
"... would have never known what happened to you, and if someone buried you or not," John finishes my sentence and goes on, "And neither would Mycroft."
John would not have been affected of course. He would have continued to visit my empty grave in London.
My cheeks are burning now. Our eyes lock and all my regret is reflected in John's sad smile. For a while we continue standing there in front of the graves without saying another word. It is not necessary to talk about it any longer. Everything that needs to be said is told by our exposed souls.
The (little) space between us is filled with possibilities all of a sudden. If this were a romantic film we would surely kiss each other any second.
But we are not in a romantic film. We are two British men dressed in (screamingly) yellow rain coats. John clears his throat. I am intensely staring at a seagull. John looks around. I shuffle my feet. (Something I will surely neglect should John ever mention it again.)
"Oi," John exclaims suddenly. "There are still four names missing!"
He is right. I stopped working on the graves when he arrived. (Another thought John reads from my face. I forgot that he spoke Sherlock fluently once.)
"I should continue to work on those names soon," I admit. And I can, really, because John is more stable than he was when he came here. He could play with Emmi while I ...
"Can I help you?" he rouses me from my thoughts. My glance darts back to his face. My heart skips a beat. So does his (I can deduce). Because he is offering so much more than just his help.
"That would be … convenient," I answer (stiffly) (but with my heart swelling in my chest). John smiles and nods, and I see the smile reaching his eyes. Not kissing him now takes a lot of will-power.
And while I am busy not kissing him he closes the already small space between us and strokes my arm. Fondly. Then he blushes and smiles at me shyly.
There is nothing left to say, so I just beam at him and then we continue walking along the Kniepsand in (comfortable) silence.
"It is nice to see that besides all your care-taking you are still able to sulk properly," he says after a while, with a wry smile.
I cannot help but laugh out loud. He joins in and the world has become a tiny bit more perfect again.
Author's note: Let me take a moment to thank all of you for reading and commenting and giving kudos and stuff. You always make me feel extremely grateful.3