A/N: Thank you to all of you who posted reviews as guests and whom I may not thank via PM.
Reviewers are loved :)
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Nutrisco et extinguo:"I feed upon it and extinguish it"
Abusus non tollit usum: "abuse does not remove use", i.e. abuse does not preclude proper use.
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
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Chapter XLVIII : Abusus non tollit usum
Giving up, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
What if we stop having a ball?
What if the paint chips from the wall?
What if there's always cups in the sink?
What if I'm not what you think I am?
"Let me change the bed sheets for you."
Sherlock looks around the room. What am I doing here?
"It's fine," he says, thinking that answering John might be the right thing to do.
John.
Sherlock watches him glancing around, obviously worried that he forgot something crucial, something that will reveal everything he tried to hide as he "cleaned up a bit". The crib pushed into the corner only stands out more that way; the sheets and blanket in it are uneven and indicate that John probably hid something under. Sherlock's eyes shift to the bed. Sheet slightly rumpled near the pillow; pillowcase creased on the ride side. "John is still sleeping with one of your shirts, you know."
"They need to be changed anyway," John goes on. "Here, help me." "I wonder what he does with it at night... He must really be needy if he has recourse to such methods to get off."
Sherlock represses a snort. Just look at what methods you had recourse to in order to get off, he counters back to Seb, mentally. Well, of course mentally. Sebastian Moran is dead. Addressing him in his mind is bad enough, Sherlock certainly isn't going to say that out loud. What am I thinking? Just what am I doing here? He glances at John and knows.
"Are you all right?" he inquires, putting a hand on his arm. John's body shivers under his hand.
"Are you?"
Their eyes lock while their bodies stand, unmoving. Yes, of course. Such a stupid question. Does John's face mirror his own? Sherlock wonders. Does he too look that wrecked?
"You should rest," he murmurs. His responsibility in this is unquestionable. He remembers the doctor's face as he observed him and his wife and his son from across the street. He looked tired and wounded, but also content and sometimes even happy.
John laughs nervously. And isn't Sherlock responsible for that too? He didn't manage this well. He should never have let John see him. He's only making things worse for him.
Worse? How? How worse could he make it? Well. He could bring down to pieces everything John built in his absence. And then what? Could he make it better? There was no telling that.
John brings his right hand in his back again. His trembling right hand. Sherlock's face darkens.
No. Who is he to make John better, when he's the one who broke him in the first place?
That is not the right question, though, some still functioning part of his brain tells him. Find the right question.
But Sherlock is tired of questions. Problems. Riddles. He's had enough. John is not a mystery. He can still read him like an open book.
"You've still got clothes here," John says, but he could be saying anything, really, anything that would fill the conversation, allow him to remain longer in the room. "Enough for tomorrow, at any rate. And your pyjamas must be somewhere in there..."
Sherlock can see the panic rising in his every gesture, how the nape of his neck stiffens gradually, how feverishly his fingers rummage through the clothes. "Here. The blue one. Do you want me to try to find your blue gown too?" The blue gown? So he kept that as well?
John, John... Always forgot the most important thing. Never saw the obvious.
What's the point of hiding one shirt if you show that you've kept perfectly preserved all the rest of the wardrobe?
"It should be around here."
And even that you've remembered how it was arranged?
"You can stay," Sherlock says before he can think twice about it. The words actually surprise him. Stay? Why is he even staying?
John freezes. Sherlock cannot decide whether he looks ridiculous or pathetic, standing there petrified, hiding his trembling hand under the pyjamas. Sherlock's pyjamas.
An unexpected wave of warmth punches him right in the gut.
He realizes that there is so much to hide in this flat that John can only hide things under other things that he should be hiding too. Seeing somebody's flat is like opening the person up and seeing what is inside; it is a key to reading the individual more thoroughly. And watching said person in his flat? Even better.
The fact that John first took the Royal Medical Corps mug and not the one with the horrible distorted canary.
The way he automatically led Sherlock to what was his old room and "cleaned up" instead of making him sleep in the room upstairs, unused, or on the sofa.
Everything he did, everything he said.
John was not an open book. He was a book thrown in Sherlock's face. He just couldn't avoid noticing.
"What did you say?" John asks shakily.
Sherlock looks at him. He could answer "Nothing. What were you saying?" or "Nothing, never mind the gown, I'll just put that on and get into bed" or even "Nothing, in fact I have no idea why I'm still here, I have to go now".
Instead he says: "You can stay."
Again.
But can he? Can he stay?
John is wrong, this is no longer his room. It smells different. It looks different. There is still his old smell and John's and another that can only be a woman's and then even more disturbing what is probably the smell of the little pink thing. Sherlock has half a mind to suggest they sleep in the other room. They?
"Why are you saying this?" John's voice breaks in, uneasy.
"Because you haven't said what you wanted to say." Of course it's not very fair, because he hasn't either. "If you want something, you should just ask," he adds, to justify himself. Because he doesn't know what he wants. Does he?
"Look who's talking," John mumbles. His embarrassment is obvious. So is his confusion. He is torn between past and present and he doesn't dare look at the future but still he is doing it and it terrifies him. Idiot. As if he could deal with that now. "I'll go get the armchair, then."
This snaps Sherlock out of his thoughts. "The armchair?" Dear God, John's state is even more alarming than he thought. There he is, standing by the door, looking back at Sherlock with mortification. "Yes, the armchair... if you don't mind? I can sleep on the floor, but–"
"John, this is a double bed," Sherlock cuts in. John is trying to hide his trembling hand again and Sherlock tries not to frown. "I know you care a lot about what people say, but–"
"No, no, it's just–"
"–but your flat isn't bugged, and I was the only one watching you from across the street," Sherlock finishes. Then he stops listening and begins to undress because he knows that if the conversation goes on he will snap. Stupid John with his stupid trembling hand and his stupid open face and open heart and he doesn't even know why he's still here, why he's letting John sleep in this room, why he is even sleeping in this room, why he's sleeping at all when he could be on a plane to China...
"That's not what I–"
...or hiding peacefully across the street or in a hotel where he would make sure Mycroft would not bother him, or anywhere, really, because anywhere would be better than here, in this room where John must have slept alone and with his wife and with his wife and son and this is stupid because Sherlock has no right to feel possessive of a room and of this one in particular but he feels distinctly dispossessed and... "I'll get ready for bed, then," John says before fleeing the room.
Fleeing. Yes. That's an idea. Sherlock's eyes fall on the window. The Woman came in that way once. Or left that way at any rate. Both, probably. But he's already undressed and John will be back any second.
He looks away and turns the light off. Something clenches in his chest. John's distress and evident terror that he should disappear again makes him feel ashamed of himself. You want to 'protect John's happiness' or something of the like, don't you? Not for what he did now nearly three years ago, but for his line of reasoning since then. Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson... You think they've grieved you enough. That now they've moved on and your role is only to ensure that they live their life safely and as happily as possible. It had been faulty. You believe what John wrote on his blog! It had been a way to protect himself and he had known it, but deep down he had truly believed that this was what was best for John. You believe it, don't you? That you're not safe. He had made himself believe it. That if you are with them, you will jeopardize their safety. And because there was some truth to it, it had been all the easier.
Feeling sick, Sherlock gets under the sheets and duvet just in time before John knocks on the door. In his own flat. He knocks on the door to his own bedroom. Sherlock rests his head on the pillow. It smells like John's shampoo. So he still uses the same.
"Come in."
But it's strange because he showers in the morning. Why would his pillow smell like his shampoo? Oh. Of course. Nightmares. Sweat. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. When John opens the door the light from the corridor comes in sharply – a yellow triangle cutting into the darkness. Then he turns the light off and closes the door behind him. And this sound... Sherlock blinks. John is chuckling.
"What?" he asks.
"I don't think I ever saw you in a bed."
"You put me in a bed when the woman drugged me," he points out.
"Right." As John gets into bed next to him, Sherlock notices that he deliberately avoids touching him in any way. It makes him feel self-conscious. What am I doing here? "But that's different."
"How?" How did this even happen? Admittedly, he had no choice. But...
The way John lies down and puts his head on the pillow carefully, as if it was made of glass, is, without exaggeration, heartbreaking. That is, when you have a heart, naturally. But we both know that's not quite–
"Well, I never saw you actually tired and needing to sleep." His tentativeness is painful to watch.
"I'm not tired." His attempts at doing what must be done when so much should be done for him instead, admirable and foolish. Or brave, to put it nicely.
"Then what are you doing in bed?" he asks. His tone makes Sherlock shiver. It is fond.
"Indulging you."
John's eyes turn into saucers. As if he wasn't obvious enough. "What?"
Sherlock clicks his tongue. They have to sleep. If they keep talking he'll get annoyed. Now that wouldn't do. "You won't sleep if I don't sleep. Now. Close you eyes."
John swallows but, not surprisingly, complies. Sherlock watches him and waits. Let's bet. Seven or eight?
One. (probably seven)
Two. (no, even less)
Three. (five or six)
Four. (yes, six)
Five.
Six.
John opens his eyes. Sherlock simply stares back, trying not to give him a look. Any kind of look. He remembers John never seemed to appreciate. The look.
The way John blushes and closes his eyes back at once like a child is of course not painful. Not endearing. Not making Sherlock want to do something for him without knowing what. No, not at all.
One. (he won't last that long this time)
Two. (probably four or five)
Three. (but he's proud – five)
Four.
Five.
John opens his eyes.
Sherlock sighs.
"I'm sorry, I'll–" John fumbles.
"Here," Sherlock cuts in, putting his hand between them, his palm open, waiting for John's. John, of course, finds nothing better to do than to stare at the hand instead of reaching for it. "Come on, take it."
OK, maybe that was a bit too harsh a tone. Sherlock considers repeating it more gently, but John is already putting his hand on his. It is awkward. Neither of them is good at this. But his hand is warm. Painfully warm against Sherlock's cold skin.
"Oh God," John murmurs, and then Sherlock knows he's finally realized. Not come to terms with it, no, not so soon. But the reality of this has just hit him. He squeezes Sherlock's hand in his fervently, and for a second Sherlock fears he'll do more. But he only curls up against their joined hands and presses his brow against them. His hand is no longer trembling. In a fleeting moment of madness Sherlock muses that if this is what makes the trembling stop, he wouldn't mind keeping John's hand there indefinitely.
"Thank you," John murmurs, a tremor in his voice. Sherlock wonders what he could do in order to stop that trembling. "Thank you."
He does not answer. He doesn't know what to say, what to do. Google isn't an option this time; he wouldn't even know what to type. Words fail him. He is so lost in this place where he never intended to return, touching a man he never thought he would touch again, that he almost switches on to automatic-answer mode. But even then he wouldn't know what to answer. My be because there is nothing to answer to that.
What about John? What do you think a good life would be for him?
John. Seb. Moriarty. Mycroft. Everything is terribly jumbled. It feels like he ended up here through some kind of accident. Like when you're driving and you know where you're going and suddenly a truck hits you and all you can do is hold on to the wheel for dear life.
Sherlock doesn't have any wheel to hold on to. But since John's hand is in his and he doesn't know what to do with it, tentatively, he squeezes back.
It takes John almost an hour to relax. Once in a while, he still opens his eyes and glances at Sherlock, who keeps his half-closed. Waiting. Until the hand in his relaxes. Until John's fingers uncurl and his grip slackens. And then only the warmth remains.
Sherlock shifts in the bed. The smell of the room is different and it bothers him. He can't keep his mind off it. Can't fall asleep. How could he?
The flat is changed. John is changed.
Is he?
His breathing becomes regular. His chest rises rhythmically, in accordance with the beats in his chest. It is so loud. Filling the room. Sherlock can't hear anything else. It bothers him. As if John's heart was hammering in his ears. It is a haunting beat. It reaches their joined hands; resonates in Sherlock's head. It feels so heavy. Almost unbearable.
Almost.
Sherlock, let's go home. Let's go back to 221B.
And he followed. Why?
That hadn't been part of the plan. Never. Or had it? What plan? Whose?
The Woman had been here, Sherlock could tell from the note Mrs. Watson left. She'd chased the wife away. And just for that, Sherlock wouldn't go and meet her at the airport. He wouldn't leave with her. He's had enough of people meddling with his life.
How do yo intend to live from now on, Sherlock?
He shifts in the bed uncomfortably, trying not to wake up John. He must have been exhausted. Still. Being able to sleep in such circumstances. A small smile graces Sherlock's lips. John. Ever the soldier.
From what I grasped, you didn't intend to come back. You didn't intend to tell me you weren't... dead. So what was it you wanted to do? What was your answer to the final problem?
If the Woman came here, then it means the wife knows. Will his being alive change something?
Do you want me out of the flat?
From what he observed from the window across the street, Mrs. Watson isn't a woman in search of a partner – even a more satisfying one than John.
Why did you run?
As if that was possible. Does she even realize how different John is with her, if you think about all the ex-girlfriends?
Do you want me out of the picture, Sherlock?
He actually cares. He cares about her.
What's your answer to the final problem?
Sherlock blinks. His eyelids are heavy. Soon he sees nothing. Nothing but a white page. A blank letter. He drowns into it.
What if I fall further than you?
What if you dream of somebody new?
What if I never let you win, chase you with a rolling pin?
Well what if I do?
"Leave a note when?"
The flat is dark. There is a note on the table.
"This is your flat. Mycroft said you bought it from Mrs. Hudson, left it to me on your will or something... I'm not paying any rent."
Mycroft is. Well. John doesn't need to know that.
"Don't weep, my dear, see where it leads. Oops! I forgot! You're not the one left weeping, you are DEAD! :D"
A smiley face. Spinning.
"Hello, my dear. Have you missed me?"
A grin in the darkness.
"Tut tut, that won't do at all! Have you forgotten already? I'M DEAD TOO!"
A torture room.
"He's not dead, you see. So we can have some fun."
John.
"NO!"
The skull. Weeping. Crying blood. Mouth open and screaming. Death throes. Skin glowing in the moonlight.
"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"
Yellow flowers. Nothing to do with it.
"He's smitten with you, y'know. He'll want more than just your regal presence in the room."
"I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to speak to me for all that I can do!"
A graveyard in the Czech Republic.
"Thought it'd be fun to play the 'Who's who?' game. That's not very hard, is it? The king who sold his own son to the giant, and the giant playing games with the little prince... The daughter is a harder one. Here's a hint: who cried and cried and cried saying 'Waken, waken, and speak to me!'? Uhm? Perhaps someone who could now say 'Nothing happened to me'.
Now tell me, Sherlock... will nothing come in the end?"
An opera in Barcelona.
"People want to know you're human."
A monument at dawn in Washington DC.
"Who are you?"
I don't know. No idea.
"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"
A swimming-pool. A newspaper clip from the 1980s.
"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."
So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than them three sillies at home. So the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me.
"It really hasn't, has it, Sexy? :) Since it won't happen. It's not for us. But don't worry: you'll find enough sillies out there to occupy yourself, and there'll probably be a nice little sillies' wedding at 'home', don't you think? Only without you. Cheers. :)"
A text. I'm delighted. By the way, have you heard of John's wedding?
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"
"Both."
But the master remembered on his journey that he had not locked his book, and therefore returned, and at the moment when the water was bubbling about the pupil's chin, rushed into the room and spoke the words which cast Beelzebub back into his fiery home.
The kitchen in 221B.
"I should really go."
"Where?"
Where, indeed?
A hotel room.
"China? What in the world would you want to do in China? And I don't speak Chinese, by the way."
"Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."
"We don't know a thing about each other."
"–John is still sleeping with one of your shirts."
"Shut up, just shut up, Seb."
"I haven't been to war, John."
"Yes you have. Sit down. Please."
All the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach them how to build nests. For the magpie is the cleverest bird of all at building nests.
"Let's go home, Sherlock."
Meanwhile Madge Magpie went on working and working without looking up till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."
"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world."
"Haven't pulled rank in ages."
"Enjoy it?"
"Oh yeah."
At last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across. So she said: "One's enough."
But the turtle-dove kept on saying: "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."
"I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."
"What's the point in being clever if you can't prove it?"
"You want me to tell you what you already know?"
Then the magpie got angry and said: "One's enough I tell you."
"No; I want you to prove that you know it."
"I know you're for real."
One's enough, I tell you!
"You didn't take anything because you don't need to."
"You'll never need to take anything ever again." Because you're going to die.
"Because nothing ... nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."
The key. What did you think it was? People, Sherlock. People.
"Consulting criminal."
"The police don't consult amateurs."
You made them hate you, when I made them love me.
"Brilliant, isn't it?"
"Fantastic!"
"Do you know you do that out loud?"
Nothing can protect you from them now.
"Sorry, I'll shut up."
Not even your soldier.
"No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."
"I did."
A satisfied smirk.
"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."
The thrill.
"Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"That was... amazing."
Eyes shedding light.
"Yes, you did."
"Yeah, OK, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock!"
"I'm not his date."
"They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."
"Not his date."
Semtex.
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
"Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play."
The game.
"You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."
"So take this as a friendly warning... my dear. Back off."
Excitement.
"Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."
Fear.
"Although I have loved this, this little game of ours."
"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."
A knowing smile.
"And I said 'dangerous' and here you are."
"Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"
"Are you wearing any pants?"
"No."
"OK. At Buckingham Palace, fine."
Laughter.
"People have died."
Pink.
"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."
"That's what people DO!"
The catch-me-if-you-can type.
"I will stop you."
"No, you won't."
Challenge.
"Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."
The other type of fan.
"Why are you doing all of this? What is it all for?"
"I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem. It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared."
Because I know you are. You're weak, now. You've got something to lose.
"Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."
I'll bring you hell on a platter.
"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."
Silence in a club on Pall Mall.
"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."
"I've disappointed you."
"That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah."
Shame. Anger.
"Are you all right?"
"You can talk, Johnny boy."
Resentment.
"Never liked riddles."
"Learn to."
A a curved apple.
"Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you."
Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o.
"I hope you'll be very happy together."
One's enough, I tell you!
"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."
"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
Rooftop. About to fly. Hand reaching.
"Goodbye, John."
Flying.
"SHERLOCK!"
"No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you!"
Joined hands.
"Oh God. Thank you. Thank you."
A brow pressed against them.
"If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
ONCE on a time and twice on a time, and all times together as ever I heard tell of, there was a tiny lassie who would weep all day to have the stars in the sky to play with; she wouldn't have this, and she wouldn't have that, but it was always the stars she would have. So one fine day off she went to find them.
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
So she clomb and she clomb and she clomb, but ne'er a step higher did she get: the light was before her and around her, and the water behind her, and the more she struggled the more she was forced down into the dark and the cold, and the more she clomb the deeper she fell.
But she clomb and she clomb, till she got dizzy in the light and shivered with the cold, and dazed with the fear; but still she clomb, till at last, quite amazed and silly-like, she let clean go, and sank down - down - down.
"Sorry, what?"
"There are LIVES at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives! Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"
"Will caring about them help save them?"
"Nope."
And bang she came on to the hard boards, and found herself sitting, weeping and wailing, by the bedside at home all alone.
"But don't you worry, my dear, you're not home. Or are you? :D"
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
"Bet you never saw this coming."
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."
"Please would you do this for me?"
"Do what?"
"This phone call it's, uh... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"No. Don't..."
"SHERLOCK!"
A fall.
Blackness.
Breathlessness.
A voice.
"What were we doing there?"
"Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point."
"What point?"
"You."
Sherlock's eyes snap open. He sees the ceiling of a room. Somebody is panting. Him.
"Sherlock?"
John's voice. Why can he hear John's voice? He's awake. He's quite sure he's awake.
"Are you all right?"
All right? Sherlock blinks. Just passing passing the time. And proving a point.
"Did you scream my name?" he asks. What point?
Silence.
You.
Sherlock feels John's hand in his and remembers. He is awake. This isn't a dream.
"I... might have."
"What?"
John shifts uneasily. "Screamed your name."
"Oh."
Silence.
Sherlock wonders if what he's about to say will break the awkwardness or make it worse.
"Well. I could have dreamed it too."
He hears John's breath catch in his throat. Then he feels John's thumb rubbing the back of his hand and it's his turn to miss a beat. He shivers.
"John, I–"
"Shh. Fall back to sleep. Yeah?"
No, Sherlock thinks. This is far more... relaxing, somehow. He doesn't rest while sleeping. Quite the contrary. This... feels comfortable, yes... And yet...
Sleep takes its toll on him before he can finish that thought.
I am giving up on making passes and
I am giving up on half empty glasses and
I am giving up on greener grasses
I am giving up
Sherlock awakes to morning light and the sleeping form of John beside him.
Breathing peacefully. Regularly.
John probably hasn't slept so well in months, he muses. In years. Maybe Sherlock was wrong. This had nothing to do with John being a soldier. Such serenity on his features did not betray nerves of steel, but something more. Something...
John opens his eyes. Blinks. Sherlock blinks back, and feels stupid about it. What am I doing here?
Sherlock knows the exact moment he comes into focus for John because the doctor's face freezes. His eyes widen. He looks at their joined hands, then at Sherlock, at their joined hands, then at Sherlock again. And then, he stares.
For a moment Sherlock lies petrified by the intensity of this gaze on him. Then he fears whatever this might lead to – note to self, check on Google how to deal with a crying friend – and sits up abruptly, letting go of John's hand.
"You didn't clean up the broken mug on the kitchen floor last night," he says quickly.
OK. This probably sounded harsher than he meant it. Or a bit pathetic. How had he meant it? Had he meant anything?
John smiles and stretches before rubbing his eyes. So people really do that. Rub their eyes upon waking. Sherlock blinks, then looks away.
"Hum. I'll. Yes. I should take a shower."
John seems to consider this for a moment, then apparently remembers that there are no windows in the bathroom. He nods, still with some hesitation. Sherlock notices that something has changed on his face. He can't put his finger on it.
"I'll take care of the mug, then," he says.
"Have some breakfast," Sherlock replies, standing up and walking to the door. Then he stops. "Hum, John?"
"Yes?"
"I need a towel. And... clothes." He tries not to look at the crib as he says it.
The hot water pouring on his body makes him aware of how cold he was. Except his hand. His hand is still warm. What is it with John's face? Maybe he just looked relaxed in the morning. After a good rest. Or perhaps it was the light in the room. That's it, the light. John's face was luminous, something like elation woven in his features.
When he comes out of the shower, Sherlock finds, unsurprisingly, that John has prepared breakfast for two.
"You are eating," he declares before Sherlock can say anything.
"I'm not hun–"
Then he meets John's gaze and sits down with a groan.
"Fine. But I don't want the mug with the horrible canary."
"It's a chick."
"It's a cartoon."
"Yeah, but it's a cartoon chick."
"How can you tell it's a chick? Look at it!"
Their eyes lock inadvertently, and John breaks into laughter. Sherlock feels warmth rush to his cheeks and casts his gaze down. It feels so strange. Being here. It does not feel like reality.
A shiver runs down his spine.
"Sherlock?"
Worry. There's worry in his voice. Sherlock stands up nervously.
"I'll just make some coffee. Will you drink some?"
"I already made coffee. Hey. Calm down." John puts his hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock starts.
"I'm calm."
"Yes. Of course you are. Just sit down?"
Here it is again. The rubbing. Thumb against back of the hand. What is it with this silly gesture?
"Just sit back down. I'll serve you."
The taste of John's coffee brings so many memories back, no, an entire world, time past, like in that French book where the guy eats a piece of cake and just remembers his whole childhood, that Sherlock almost chokes on the first sip. John gives him an anxious look.
"Is it too hot?"
Sherlock shakes his head. His throat is tight.
They drink in silence for a while.
"John?"
"Mm?"
"Let's switch side next time."
John tilts his head to the side. "What?"
"In the bed. Let's switch side."
Again, John's eyes widen. Aren't they big enough as they are? No. that's because he looks tired. Because of the bags under his eyes. Shining.
...shining?
"No no no, don't do that!" Sherlock exclaims, starting to panic. John blinks and looks away, getting up to make more toast.
"Do what?"
"I haven't googled it yet."
John, still showing only his back to Sherlock, chuckles. He rests his hands on the counter. Sherlock stares at him anxiously, giving him some time, hoping he's not going to cry or do something sentimental. But this is John. He's not really sentimental, is he?
"We should tell Mrs. Hudson," John finally says, his voice even, with even a smile in it.
Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh.
"Mycroft probably called her already."
John frowns.
"You have to go down and see her, Sherlock. Say hello. Explain."
"I can't explain everything all over again!"
"You don't need to explain everything."
John turns and looks him in the eye. Sherlock swallows.
"John, I–"
The words die in his throat. He swallows again. His heart rate is accelerating.
John comes back to the table and sits across from him again. Looking at him. Waiting.
"What if I can never give you what you want?" Sherlock croaks. What is he saying? This isn't what he wanted to say. This has nothing to do with what he wanted to say. He glances around helplessly, feeling trapped.
"Are you sure you really know what I want, Sherlock?" John asks gently.
How can he be gentle about this?
"I killed people."
"Me too." Then, as an afterthought: "More than you."
"I tortured the cabbie to get Moriarty's name."
To this John doesn't answer immediately. "What are you trying to say?" he finally asks.
"I... Why... Why do you... Me..."
Damn this. Stupid words and stupid voice and stupid throat. Sherlock looks away in shame and frustration.
"Why do I what?" John presses on.
Sherlock shakes his head. He drinks some tea, until he finds his voice again. Gets a grip.
"I need to get back to the flat – I mean, the other one, the one across the street. Get my suitcase."
John takes a deep breath. "OK, we've got to talk about this. You've got to tell me, Sherlock."
"Tell you what?"
"Where do you want to go?"
Sherlock looks down at the mug in his hand.
"You kept the mug I used."
"Sherlock..." There is reproach in his voice. A plea, too. Sherlock sighs.
"What do you want me to tell you, John? I–"
"Do you want to live in London?"
"Where else would I live?"
"I don't know, anywhere you want."
Sherlock swallows.
"Do you want me out of London?"
"What? No! Don't be stupid. I..." Now it is John who looks like he's been caught in a trap. He clenches his teeth, casts his gaze down, clenches his fist. There is so much tension in his attitude that his body seems to radiate it. Tension. Determination. But also, fear. "I'm staying with you. I'm sorry. Kicking me out isn't an option."
Sherlock frowns. "You said it was, yesterday." He instantly regrets his words, seeing how ashamed they seem to make John. "Listen, John, I... You don't have to go anywhere."
They look at each other for a while, wordless. Then John sighs.
"Fine. Well. That's a start. We'll go get your stuff then. But before that I want you to go down and talk to Mrs. Hudson."
"You're not coming down with me?" Sherlock asks, and his tone must not have been the right one, for John looks wounded. Sherlock clicks his tongue with as much despair as annoyance. Then he notices that the trembling is back in John's hand and the annoyance vanishes. Guilt hits him so hard he acts without thinking and grabs John's hand instantly. "I didn't mean it like that."
John seems stupefied by the gesture, and just stands there gaping for a second before fumbling: "I know. It's fine."
He still walks Sherlock to the door.
When Mrs. Hudson opens it, her face is pale. Red, puffed eyes. Stupid Mycroft. Couldn't he have waited for the morning before telling her, instead of causing her a sleepless night? A small part of Sherlock's mind knows Mycroft couldn't have known whether they'd meet the landlady upon coming back, and that would have been a terrible shock for her. But still.
"Oh, Sherlock..."
The next moment she is hugging him, sobbing on his shoulder, and he is so lost he even forgets to stiffen.
"Mycroft called me. Said you might need some time to re-adapt. Didn't want to disturb you. Oh, thank goodness, you're alive..."
And more sobs. Sherlock hears the steps creak behind him and knows John has gone back up. To let them have some privacy. Or to have some himself.
"Won't you come in for a minute, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. Sherlock glances up the stairs nervously.
"I really shouldn't be too long, John–"
"It's about him."
Sherlock follows her in without further protest.
"Mycroft had something delivered for you," she says, still wiping the tears off her face with a handkerchief. Sherlock frowns as she hands a bag to him. DVDs?
"There's a TV in the room. And headphones. He said you should watch them alone. In private."
"I really don't have time for this," he replies curtly, putting the bag down and turning to leave. She puts a hand on his arm.
"Take it."
Her voice, more than her gesture, stops Sherlock dead in his tracks, and compel, him to comply. He swallows.
"But John..."
"I'll go up and have a little chat with him."
"He'll think I'll leave."
"Then I'll bring him back down and have a chat with him here. And leave the door to the bedroom half-open."
Sherlock cannot repress a small smile.
"You haven't changed, Mrs. Hudson."
"You neither."
Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, but she's already turned away to go get John. "Just put on the headphones and don't close the door!"
What if our baby comes home after nine?
What it your eyes close before mine?
What if you lose yourself sometimes?
Three DVDs. Three bullets; three gunmen. Three scenes. Three victims. The first without image. Just a dialogue on a black screen.
"Sherlock wasn't easy to live with."
"Have you come to tell me that? You must be joking."
"It must have been difficult sometimes. Hellish even. You probably found him quite insufferable."
"What?"
"Especially when he tried to completely stop smoking and refrained from using patches."
"Mycroft. What are you trying to say?"
"Would you have cared for him even if he had been broken?"
"Broken? What do you mean broken?"
"I don't know. Like you had been after the war. Or perhaps like he would have been had he still been a drug addict."
"I don't understand."
Oh, but Sherlock understands. And John must understand now, too. He curses Mycroft under his breath.
"Would you have stayed by his side if he had been too much of a mess to provide you with the excitement you craved?"
"Don't tell me you cannot deduce that. Have your skills become rusty?"
"I want to hear you say it."
"Why does it matter? He's dead."
Sherlock swallows with some difficulty, feeling something clench inside him.
"Yes. But had he been alive when you met Mary Morstan, had he been alive and only a burden, would you have stayed with him?"
"Mycroft."
There is warning in John's voice. Anger.
"If he had been charged with the murder of Jim Moriarty and every other deed the consulting criminal managed to blame on him, would you have stood up for him and remained on his side until the end?"
"What do you think, Mycroft?"
"Say it."
"Of course I would have! You know I would have."
Sherlock's hand clenches on the bed. He hears Mrs . Hudson come back into her flat with John.
"And what if he had been the murderer once?"
"He would never have."
"But what if he had?"
"He would never have."
Oh, John...
"You think he couldn't have killed someone?"
Damn you, Mycroft.
"That's not what I said."
"Oh?"
"He wouldn't have been a murderer. Perhaps he could have killed. No, he probably could have. Self-defence. Something like that."
Kind, faithful John... Making him into a hero again.
"He could have sacrificed lives."
"No, he would have considered it to be a failure. He liked to win."
"What if winning made some sacrifices necessary? Such as killing or letting people die?"
Sherlock feels a shiver run down his spine. If Mycroft was so clear, why didn't John ask him about that? He probably didn't think of it.
"Mycroft, what are you trying to tell me? Is there something you want to tell me?"
"No, there is something I want you to tell me. You've seen him at his worst. You've seen a side of him that greatly disappointed you. And there are some things you might have guessed. Such as the way he obtained Moriarty's name from the old cabbie."
"Boredom can make him inhuman, if that's what you're hinting at, I know. He isn't a high functioning sociopath, but he does have issues. Did."
Does, Sherlock corrects gloomily. And issues? That's... a bit insulting. But it doesn't even start to cover it.
"Well, if we're done, I'll just–"
"If Sherlock had been bored, terribly bored, or if for any reason he'd been inhuman – if you had met Mary Morstan then, would you have still cared for him?"
Oh, shut up, Mycroft. Why don't you just ask him he would have married me, while you're at it?
"I met Mary in a pub, you know. A pub where Sherlock caught a murderer by hitting on him a few years ago. Does that answer your question?"
Sherlock's eyes widen.
"Only partly."
"Look, Mycroft. I saw Sherlock when he played with Moriarty for the first time. He was excited. He was genuinely happy. He didn't give a damn about the victims. He didn't consider himself responsible in any way. He got upset because he lost even though technically he had solved everything. I knew him, as much as someone could. So what are you testing me for now?"
Sherlock swallows, but his throat only tightens more. There is a weight on his chest.
"Do you miss him?"
"God, Mycroft, that's enough."
Yes, it is. That's enough.
"Please. Just answer me."
Sherlock stares at the screen, intensely. His eyes are burning, like lasers.
"... I miss him," John finally lets out, his face calm; accepting. "Every day of my life, I miss him. Every hour, every second. But it won't bring him back. Nor will this awful questioning you're imposing on me. I'm out of here. Goodbye, Mycroft."
Oh, he is going to kill him, Sherlock seethes. He is going to kill Mycroft.
He continues with the next DVD. Another scene. This one, a video, but without dialogue. Without any voice.
At first all Sherlock sees is an unknown, empty room, small and austere, with a table on top of which are two bottles of red wine and one glass. Then a door is opened and closed in the background, and John appears on the screen. He puts his keys on the table and takes off his jacket. Sherlock easily deduces this is the room in which he lived when he moved out of Baker Street.
John leaves the image and for a while all Sherlock can hear in the buzz of a shower. What is this video? He starts to become impatient. There is something unnerving and disturbing about staring at this gloomy room that could be any stranger's for almost fifteen minutes while John showers and puts on his pyjamas and whatnot. Sherlock is surprised when John comes back in the picture wearing jeans and a jumper. His most acceptable one, Sherlock notices. A bluish grey one that goes with his eyes and doesn't make him look like a teddy bear.
John grabs a notepad and a pen on the dresser and sits down at the table. He scribbles something and serves himself a glass of wine. He scribbles, then rips the page and crumples it, before scribbling again. Then ripping and crumpling once more. And again. He repeats the gesture, getting more and more frustrated as he goes on, groaning, and finally throwing the crumpled notes. Then he stares at the notepad for a while. Slowly, methodically, he rips a page and puts it in the middle of the table. Sherlock wonders if he has gone mad, or if he has already drunk a lot before opening that wine bottle. What is he doing?
John stands up and picks all the crumbled balls on the floor, then disappears from the image. Sherlock can hear him do something on the right, but cannot pinpoint what. He comes back into the image and sits down once more, filling himself another glass of wine. He takes his time drinking it. Did John like wine? Sherlock can't remember. Not that it really matters. Does he intend to drink those two bottles all by himself?
It is when John puts down his glass and disappears from the image again that the ominous feeling Sherlock got the moment he saw the room and the two bottles of wine with just one glass waiting on top of the table is confirmed and leaves him with no doubt. When John comes back with boxes of pills, Sherlock is not surprised. But he feels sick nonetheless.
He watches John take the pills one by one, the wine sip by sip, one glass after the other. He watches him refill his glass. Watches him open the second bottle. Watches as his movements slow down. Watches as he struggles to open the third box of pills. Watches as he passes out, a smile on his face.
Sherlock retches.
In the living-room, John and Mrs. Hudson are talking but Sherlock can't make out what they're saying. There is a beat in his ears. Probably that of his own heart. He feels nauseous and his hand tightens on the sheets of the bed he's sitting on. He takes out the DVD and puts in the third and last one.
It begins with an empty room as well, but this one Sherlock recognizes. It's his. In 221B. John bursts in and freezes. Then he wreaks havoc. At first Sherlock thinks he is looking for something and is perhaps in a hurry, what with the way he is turning the room upside down, but gradually he realizes that John is just having a fit of fury and despair and is wreaking havoc for the sake of wreaking havoc. And suddenly he stops. He looks around at the mess, and laughs. Sherlock shivers at the bitterness in it. Slowly, John starts looking around. As he goes through Sherlock's possessions, he stumbles upon a little bag of white power.
Sherlock frowns. That is not his. Definitely not his. His brow clouds, and his hand clenches into a fist on the bed sheet. He really will kill Mycroft for this.
Of course, John doesn't just look at the white powder. He inhales some and ends up sprawled on Sherlock's bed – the very same one they just slept in together last night, and the thought sends another wave of nausea up Sherlock's throat.
As he watches the symptoms, Sherlock soon understands that this is not even cocaine. Probably heroin. John looks very dizzy. The camera must have been hidden on a shelf because Sherlock can actually see John's face as he lies on the bed. He sees him frown before saying:
"You're the one hiding it in your room."
Sherlock swallows. If this is what he thinks it is...
John starts laughing. Sherlock feels like he's been hit by a bucket of cold water. The John is quiet for a while, staring at the wall, looking increasingly relaxed and drowsy. He clenches his fists on the mattress.
"Of course, why didn't I think of that?"
Sherlock shivers, chilled to the bone.
"Oh that, I am," John murmurs. He closes his eyes and seems to give up, relaxing on the mattress. He looks simply groggy for a moment, then quite upset.
" 't's not like you're gonna be needing it any time soon."
Silence.
"Mm."
Silence.
"Hey... won't you keep talking?"
Silence.
"... please..?"
He starts and opens his eyes abruptly. He blinks and brings a hand to his mouth as if he was about to throw up, then looks around. Searching for something. Not finding it. He seems ill.
"You're dead."
Silence. Sherlock feels sick. John takes a deep breath and starts shaking. Closing his eyes, he falls back onto the bed and shivers. Then chokes.
"It's impossible."
Silence.
"Heroin doesn't..."
Silence.
"Oh really? What are you, then, a proper ghost perhaps?"
Silence.
At this point Sherlock seriously considers just stopping the video.
He doesn't.
"Warm," John groans, pressing himself closer to an invisible figure.
Silence. Sherlock is trying very hard not to fill in the blanks. He knows he could. With good reason.
"I certainly don't need you to be so damned perceptive. Won't you be a nice fantasy and shut up now?"
You're the one who just asked me to talk, Sherlock muses, before slapping himself mentally.
"Right, and now I'm telling you to shut up."
He shivers as if John on the screen had just answered him. He should stop this DVD. Take it out, before he sees too much. He knows John is going to keep hearing the voice.
But he can't bring himself to move.
"And why is that? Because even as a bloody delusion you must be insufferable?"
No, Sherlock thinks darkly. Because you want to hear my voice.
The John on the screen growls while the one in the living-room is chatting with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is feeling more and more nauseous by the second.
He pales when he sees how content John looks. How blissfully he slackens on the mattress. He does not speak for a long while. Then, out of the blue:
"Got no money though..."
He sounds rather comatose, but shifts a little restlessly on the bed. Yes. Definitely heroin.
"Don't read my thoughts."
I'm not, Sherlock replies mentally to the image on the screen. You're just being obvious.
"Hmpf."
Well that's eloquent.
"My pulse is so slow. D'you think it's gonna stop?"
No. As far as I know, you're not dead. You're actually speaking in the next room.
John chuckles and then looks about to throw up again.
"Sorry, bit drowsy. Mouth's dry, too."
Well that's not surprising. You just sniffed heroin.
"How very romantic of you."
How could you expect me to say anything romantic?
"Because I want you to?"
...Oh.
"I didn't even have the orgasm."
Sherlock's eyes widen. His hand twitches, moving hesitantly towards the remote control. He should stop this.
"Y'know. The rush."
Well, you didn't inject.
"Why did you have powder? It's stupid if it takes away the initial pleasure."
I never put it there! Mycroft probably did.
God, Sherlock would kill him. What got into his brother?
"The pleasure?"
You were talking about the powder, not the pleasure.
"Why would it be in your room if it wasn't yours?"
Sherlock glances towards the living-room and catches a glimpse of John.
"Right. Whatever."
He should stop this video.
"Ah. Don't feel much."
Oh, but you will.
Sherlock grabs the remote control. But just then the John on the screen shuts his eyes tighter and nuzzles up against thin air.
"Then never make it stop," he murmurs.
Sherlock swallows. The hand holding the remote control feels weak and he puts it back on the bed.
"You're not answering..."
He should press the button.
"What?"
Put an end to it.
John is shivering on the bed, squirming a little.
"And what would you say?"
In the living-room, he's laughing with Mrs. Hudson. A rather broken laugh, Sherlock grasps fleetingly.
"No. Don't. Please don't."
Something like panic flutters in Sherlock's stomach. No... please... stop this... please... He feels sick. No... please... Sherlock... He doesn't want to watch any more of this. Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAAAAH! But he can't press the button, and drowns into the scene taking place under his eyes.
Breathless, John catches something in the air, his fists clenching on emptiness.
"No, no, no... You said pleasure. Grant me pleasure. Don't give me your smartass reasoning now. I want you, yes, I want you as yourself – but I want you, here, now. Don't you dare leave me."
He gasps, then blinks in surprise. Sherlock observes him more closely, then sees, too. The bulge in his trousers.
"Stop."
That isn't caused by heroin.
"Stop it."
John must have desired... before he even inhaled the powder...
"Shut up!"
Sherlock flinches. When John turns and kisses the void in front of him, Sherlock drops the remote control.
"Quod erat demonstrandum. Thanks, genius."
...Did he just speak Latin?
"Mmh. Think I did."
So John speaks Latin when he's on drugs?
"Oh, shut up and kiss me."
Sherlock tries to look away. Fails.
"More... throat feels dry... lips, too.. chapped... please... water me..."
He wants to shut his eyes but he is just stunned, sitting there, unable to stop the video, unable to look away. John moans and Sherlock doesn't know how to block the sound. John arches his back and tilts his head to the side.
Sherlock tries not to see how he rubs himself against the mattress or where his hands roam. He tries not to hear the sounds he is making. Faster. Louder.
"Sherlock... Sherlock..."
Sherlock's hand clenches on the bed.
"I... I need you... need you..."
Clenches more.
"No! I... Wait, you're... ah!"
More.
"You're... teasing?"
Another wave of nausea. Another scene, overlapping. No... please... stop this... please... AAAAAAAAAAAH!
John sighs and groans and starts panting. Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock?
"I... need you..."
No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAH!
"Need you... inside of me. Now."
Sherlock... Sherlock! Aaah! Please, Sherlock... Sherlock!
"No!"
On the screen, John clenches his fists and thrusts his hips with elation.
"Don't... say anything... Just... I need you. Now. Please. Please please please please..."
Oh God... Sherlock, please... please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock... God, let me live...
A scream. John's entire body goes into spasm. His scream keeps echoing in Sherlock's head. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock SHERLOCK!
Unbearably slowly, John relaxes on the mattress and starts crying. Silently. Softly.
Sherlock retches and takes off the headphones violently before rushing out of the room. He gets to the toilet just in time to empty his stomach in the basin.
Then I'll be the one to find you
Safe in my heart
"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right? What did you do?"
Sherlock doesn't answer. He feels dizzy.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson murmurs, bringing a hand to her mouth. John seems furious.
"What did Mycroft give you?"
"I don't know, just DVDs! I didn't watch them. He said only Sherlock should. I couldn't have known..."
"I'm going to kill him," John states, and Sherlock realizes he's serious. "But first I'll see what this is ab–" He grabs his arm before John can turn and go to the bedroom.
"Don't," he croaks, trying to catch his breath. John squats down and puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey. You all right? Would you like some water?"
"I'll get you some," Mrs. Hudson says.
Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightens.
"Don't go," he orders.
"I'm not going anywhere," John replies soothingly, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock shivers. He meant don't go to the room. But that works. That works too.
"Here, drink some water." Mrs. Hudson hands him a glass. Sherlock drinks, but spits it in the toilet basin a few times before swallowing any water. John's thumb on him is making him dizzy, but he doesn't dare take his hand away.
"Why are you so cold?" John asks quietly, touching his other hand.
"I'm fine."
"Did you take a hot shower this morning?"
"Yes."
Sherlock catches Mrs. Hudson's smile and glares. Yes, John sounds like a mother hen, so what? Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to get the message. Sherlock gives her a look, and glances pointedly towards the bedroom. The good woman smiles, then turns away.
"Should I make some tea?" she asks, going into the bedroom and not the kitchen.
"I think we'll just go home, but thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John says. He checks Sherlock's face for confirmation. Sherlock nods.
He can still hear John's voice echoing in his head. His screams.
They go back to the flat and Sherlock paces the living-room restlessly. He regrets having thrown his phone out the window. He can't possibly borrow John's to text Mycroft, considering the contents of the message he intends to send.
"Are you still feeling nauseous?" John asks, opening the window. Sherlock shakes his head and falls into the couch. It isn't quite true. But he's got nothing to throw up anymore anyway. John comes to sit next to him. "What did you watch?" he asks softly.
Sherlock remains silent. John's phone vibrates in his pocket.
"Sorry, just a minute. Hello? Oh, Mary. Hey. Yes. Yeah, well..."
Sherlock stands up and walks to the window, unnerved. There is such softness in John's voice.
"No... Look, I... OK. I'll be right there." He glances at Sherlock. "What? You want to come?" Another glance. "Hum, well... Ah, wait!"
John looks at his phone, then groans. "Sorry about that. She probably thought I didn't want to come to her flat."
"Obvious."
John comes to stand next to Sherlock by the window. "I have to tell her about Seb."
"Tell her he was a sniper?"
"No, Sherlock. Tell her he's dead."
They exchange a look.
"Listen, Sherlock, about the body... I want a proper funeral."
Sherlock stares.
"John, that man tried to kill you."
"Yes. But he was my friend, too."
Sherlock snorts and turns away.
"I'm serious, Sherlock."
"Well you call Mycroft about it. I don't have a phone anyway."
"You don't have a phone?"
"Threw it out the window yesterday."
John goggles. A door is slammed downstairs and the steps creak. Sherlock glances at John nervously.
"Should I go to the bedroom?"
"Hum... Kitchen?"
Sherlock complies. A second later the door opens.
"Hey! Slept well?"
"Hey, Mary. Yeah. You?"
Sherlock hears her kiss him. On the cheek, probably. He stands very still, not making a sound.
"Yep. Where's Sherlock?"
At this, John's jaw drops.
"What?"
"Oh, there you are! Hi, I'm Mary. I heard a lot about you. But you already know that."
Sherlock shakes her hand stiffly. John, speechless, looks from her to him, then back.
"What the–"
"Here, can you keep an eye on Blake for a second? I need to talk to John. In private, if you don't mind."
She winks at him as shoves the little pink thing in his arms. Sherlock looks up at John in panic. He doesn't seem very reassured either.
"Hum, Mary, I don't think–"
"Oh, he'll be fine! Just come here."
She takes him by the arm and drags him to the bedroom. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but then shuts it and looks at the baby in his arms. He blinks. The baby blinks back, then gives him a wide grin.
"Gaaaaaa!"
He laughs. Sherlock just stands, frozen, staring at the little living thing. That's what's so terrifying about it. It's alive.
"Aga?"
"I don't speak baby-talk, sorry."
"Agaaa!"
Sherlock glances at the closed door nervously. How long are they going to take? They're the parents! How irresponsible to leave a child in the hands of a stranger. Well, when he says stranger...
Mrs. Watson wasn't exactly how he expected her to be. But she sure is lively. Too lively. There's a sadness in her eyes which makes Sherlock awkward.
"Why are they taking so long?" he asks out loud. The baby makes some noise in answer. Sherlock swallows.
There is something strange and uncomfortable about holding John's son like this. John's son. Sherlock shifts uneasily from one foot to the other.
"Ga?"
"You don't really look like John. Except the ears, perhaps. Or the nose. But you mother's got a strange nose too." The baby blinks stupidly and Sherlock groans. What is he doing, talking to a baby? That thing is barely human. It's deprived of speech.
"AGAAA!"
"Oh for goodness' sake..."
Thankfully the bedroom door soon opens on Mary and John.
"By the way, did you think of hiding the shirt?" she is saying as she opens the door. John looks appalled. She laughs, but Sherlock can tell that she's been crying. She walks up to him and takes her baby back.
"Hey Blake! Did uncle Sherlock take good care of you?"
"I'm not his uncle."
"She's kidding," John says.
"He looks happy enough," she goes on, grinning at the baby. "Say bye to uncle Sherlock!"
"Not his uncle."
"Sherlock, she's teasing you."
Mary turns to Sherlock and locks eyes with him.
"You'd better take your responsibilities," she tells him gravely. "'Cause we all do, here."
"Mary," John says, frowning slightly. She smiles brightly.
"Well I guess you deserve a few days to adjust. Welcome back!"
She walks back to the door, then stops and turns. "You know, you're exactly like in my dreams. I hope we can talk some more once you've settled in."
And with a wink, she's gone.
Sherlock can tell she'll cry again. Perhaps she already is as she walks down the staircase. He turns to John.
"Is this all right?"
John shakes his head helplessly.
"She was very close to Seb."
"That's not what I meant."
"What do you mean, then?"
John looks genuinely surprised. Sherlock stares. Poor woman.
"Are you sure you want to divorce her?" he asks bluntly.
"What the... Where did that come from?"
"What did she want to talk to you about?"
John glances at Sherlock sideways.
"I'll tell you if you tell me what Mycroft's DVDs were all about."
"Forget it," Sherlock grumbles.
John looks pained, but does not insist.
"Are you feeling better?" he asks.
"I'm fine," Sherlock replies a little curtly, averting his gaze.
That's when his eyes fall on it.
It could not have been there before – definitely not yesterday. Sherlock would have noticed. John must have taken it out when he was at Mrs. Hudson's. And then when they got back he was still nauseous and Mrs. Watson just burst in on them and shoved her baby in his arms and he was distracted. But now he isn't, and his eyes widen as he sees it.
The notebook.
I am giving up on making passes and
I am giving up on half empty glasses and
I am giving up on greener grasses
I am giving up for you
"Why... Why do you have this?"
"Have what?"
"That notebook."
John freezes, and doesn't seem to know what to say. Obviously he didn't leave it there for Sherlock to see, and didn't plan on explaining to him why in the world he had it.
"I... I thought you were dead," John fumbles.
Sherlock blinks.
"I fail to see how that's linked."
"I mean, I'm sorry I read your diary or whatever you considered it to be, but I–"
"That's not a diary, John, and that's not what I meant. How did it come to be in your possession?"
"Oh. Mycroft gave it to me. Well. Sort of. He gave it to Mrs. Hudson who gave it to Mary who gave it to me."
Sherlock stares. "Just how many people–"
"Oh don't worry, they didn't read it. I mean it's not the most... Nevermind. Look. I thought you were dead. I was trying to hold on to–"
"But Mycroft didn't," Sherlock interrupts darkly.
"What?"
"Mycroft didn't think I was dead. He knew I wasn't."
"Yes, well... I suppose he just... I don't know. You can ask him. I was going to call him anyway."
"Why?"
"Seb's funeral, remember?"
"Oh for God's sake!"
"He was my friend, Sherlock!"
"And wasn't I?!"
"Of course you were! But you're not dead!"
"Oh so would that have been better?"
The words seem to hit John like a punch in the face. He does not answer. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. How did they end up screaming at each other? He takes a step towards John, then steps back. He doesn't know what to do. He feels too much anger to apologize. But he probably should.
"John, I–"
"Do you wish you were dead, Sherlock?"
The question just stuns Sherlock, but John sounds serious. His face is grave. Pained, but serious.
"What? No!" Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, overly irritated with John and with himself. "Of course I don't, John. I'm not mad." Are you not, my dear? Shut up! You're insane. You're just getting that now?
"You don't have to be mad."
Just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort.
The scene on the second DVD comes back full force and replays in Sherlock's mind. He closes his eyes.
"That's not what I..." Should I make him scream again for you, Sherlock? "Shut up!"
Did he just say that out loud? He groans.
"Sherlock..."
"Spare me your pity."
No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing... One more miracle, Sherlock, for me.
"Pity? Sherlock what's–"
Don't ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.
"I don't think I can do this," he cuts in.
John's face falls. "Do what?"
"This!" Sherlock gestures vaguely. "You... I can't... I don't know what I am doing here."
What were we doing there?
"You have a wife. You have a child. You have a proper job at a clinic."
Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point.
"You can't live with me anymore. It doesn't make sense. You don't need to live with me anymore."
What point?
"There's no point in me staying."
You.
Sherlock swallows. John simply stares at him for a while.
"You don't believe a word of that," he says calmly, turning to the door. " Now. Shall we go get your suitcase?"
He turns back and Sherlock looks him in the eyes. They are so clear it almost dazzles him. Here it is again. The elation. The confidence. The traces of fear too, sometimes; the panic when it has been more than five seconds since Sherlock was last in his field of vision.
Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But oops!
"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go."
You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.
Sherlock does not manage to return John's smile, but follows him out of the flat.
I am giving up
.
.
.
tbc
