A/N: Only two more chapters to go :) Reviewers are loved!
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Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"
Vincit qui se vincit: "he conquers, he who conquers himself"
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
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Chapter L: Vincit qui se vincit
Something more, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
My love, I've broken you
But you have broken me too
We've both got blood on our hands
And I won't claim innocence.
John looks around and Sherlock looks at John. His gaze follows him as he scans the room then walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Sherlock already knows what he is going to ask.
"What have you been eating?"
"Out."
Ha! You did not quite guess his question, did you, my dear? Shut up.
"Out?"
"Yes, I've been eating out," Sherlock answers curtly. You don't have to snap at him, you're the one who answered too fast.
"Oh."
Sherlock turns back sharply into the living-room and begins to collect his possessions. First, the wardrobe. Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?
"Did Seb ever cook for you?"
Sherlock freezes. He notices, with wonder, how John's face flushes as he stares at him. Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John.
"John, we weren't–"
"Sorry that was a stupid question. Do you need help with the suitcase?"
"John."
"And how much are you paying for this flat? Do you think you could give back the keys earlier than you said and avoid paying until the end of the month?"
"Seb and I weren't in any kind of relationship."
"Of course you were." Another stare. John fumbles. "I mean of course you weren't."
"John..."
"Look, I didn't mean anything by that question. I just remembered he told me once he was good at cooking, but I never got to taste anything he prepared. So I was just wondering..."
Sherlock stares. He told you that, did he? And are you regretting you never got to taste his food, perhaps?
"I'm sorry," John says quietly, walking up to Sherlock, who turns away and closes his suitcase, refusing to look at him. Scared to see what's there, Sexy?
"When was the last time you ate?"
Still scared of sex, aren't you?
"This morning."
I'm not scared.
"I mean before that."
Of course you're not. How could you? My little Virgin.
"Don't know. Can't remember. With the Woman, probably."
How are you going to touch John with those hands, Sherlock?
"Is she still in London?"
Oh right. Why would you want to touch him ever again?
"She's going back to Singapore today."
Why would you want to go home?
"Is she?"
You have no home. People like us, Sherlock, have none.
"Do you not want to say goodbye to her?"
You and I.
"Goodbye? Why would I want to say goodbye?" Sherlock inquires with genuine surprise.
"Well... You don't know when you are going to see her again, do you?"
Sherlock's gaze sharpens. There is unmissable uncertainty in John's voice. Insecurity.
"I don't. But I cannot give her false hope." Well, clearly you're not giving him any hope now, are you?
Just shut up!
"What do you mean?"
God, aren't you just so bored of him never following?
"She asked me to come with her."
He's just so ordinary.
"You don't want to go?"
Keeps asking stupid questions.
"John, what in the world would you want me to do in Singapore?" What indeed?
"I don't know. Just... be with her."
Sherlock snorts. "Please."
"Be with her"; can you hear how he means "just be with me, please" here?
"I'm serious, Sherlock! You liked her. Hell, I think you even loved her. It wasn't just attraction. You kept her texts. You were depressed when you thought she was dead. You were keen on impressing her. You insisted on keeping her phone. You saved her life. And she was a proper challenge, wasn't she? You weren't bored with her. Doesn't that count?"
Well, you're not bored with him either, apparently. Are you becoming ordinary, Sherlock?
"John."
Or not.
"You didn't intend to come back here, did you? So what did you intend to do?"
I'm wondering about that too.
"China."
Yeah, right. As if.
"What?"
"I wanted to go to China."
You think he'll believe you?
"But... why?"
"Black Lotus."
"Wait a minute, are you serious?"
Dear God, he actually does believe you!
"Quite."
I had forgotten he was so stupid.
"So... Do you still want to go there?"
Do you find it refreshing, perhaps?
"No." Shut up.
Sherlock locks the door of the flat behind him, feeling John's presence beside him without even seeing him. He wonders if that has to do with the warmth his body is exuding, or with his smell perhaps. He tries to see if he can smell him at all. You're not seriously doing this, are you? Have you become a sniffer dog?
Sherlock ignores the voice and turns to go down the stairs. He catches John's glance towards the suitcase. His lips twitch. His right hand slowly curls into a fist. Panic. Fear. Incredible, don't you think? You have such power over him. You could do anything you want really. Anything at all.
"John?"
"Yes. Sorry." See?
"What are you apologizing for?" You could make him beg so easily.
"What? I don't know. Never mind." Make him scream.
Just SHUT UP!
"I don't want to go to China now, because you've seen me anyway." Sherlock tries to go for the casual tone. But John must know there is too much at stake anyway. Nothing is casual about this. "You know that I'm alive. There is no reason for me not to be in London anymore."
Quickly, he goes down the stairs, brushing past John. He shivers. "And even if I speak Chinese, it would have been harder to investigate there. Disguises don't work so well."
"I bet." He can hear the smile in John's voice, and almost mirrors it. Are you trying to be soppy? But you can't be, Sherlock. Not really. You and I both know it, don't we?
Do we? Sherlock replies icily. He stops abruptly outside the building as his eyes land on a police car and, in front of the door, talking to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He stiffens. John bumps into him, sending a jolt of electricity up his back.
"Sherlock, what–"
Oh that's interesting. What are you going to say to the traitor king, Sir Boasts-a-lot?
Shut up, just shut the hell up.
You're repeating yourself, you know.
"Sherlock..."
He catches Mrs. Hudson's eye, too late to make her understand she should not look at him. Lestrade turns around. Sherlock is hit by his glower.
"Come on, Sherlock, let's go," John urges him gently, as if it were necessary. Sherlock follows him without a word.
"Hey, Greg," John greets shakily, looking up at the D.I. with a placating smile – and probably a plea in his eyes, Sherlock muses, although he does not look. His eyes are fixed on Lestrade's. "I tried to call you this morning but–"
The look Lestrade gives John is enough to make him fall quiet at once.
"You..." Lestrade begins, addressing Sherlock, his fists shaking.
"Let's go inside, shall we?" Mrs. Hudson cuts in, pulling the D.I. softly towards her own flat. "I'll make some tea."
Lestrade cannot possibly make short work of her – so he complies. John glances worriedly at Sherlock, who nods in what he thinks is a reassuring way. The door closes behind him, then the one to Mrs. Hudson's flat, and for the umpteenth time today he feels trapped. See? That's why you shouldn't have come back. You should have just jumped that day, Sherlock. It would have been less trouble. Much less trouble.
"You should have told us."
Lestrade's voice snaps Sherlock out of his interior monologue. Hey, dear, it's not quite a monologue now, is it?
The D.I.'s eyes on him are burning. They are sending daggers, and yet Lestrade seems to be the one hurting.
"I know Mycroft told me it was for your own safety, but that's fucking bullshit."
Mycroft again. If he intends to meddle so much, why can't he ensure that the people he talks to don't feel murderous and betrayed after he has talked to them? You're right! The Inspector used to be your puppy, and now he's biting. Quite a turn, huh?
"Do you have any idea how hard it was for all of us? Did you even think about what we would go through? About what John would go through?"
"Greg..." John mutters. So he calls him Greg now. Did he, before Sherlock left? Sherlock cannot remember. Is your memory flagging, perhaps?
"Three years, Sherlock! Three fucking years! And I thought..."
Lestrade averts his gaze. Ooh pain. You seem to have been quite popular. Well, nowhere near as popular as me, but you get my point.
Why am I hearing your voice?
Because you're me, of course!
You do realize that doesn't make any sense.
The question is: does you answering make any sense?
"I can understand for me. After the arrest, I..." His voice breaks. Guilt. "But John? Mrs. Hudson?"
"I was not trying to hurt you," Sherlock says quietly, eyes riveted on his cup of tea. In the dark liquid his face is staring back at him, another face overlapping it. Do you miss me, Sherlock? You can't be a hero without me. You can't be the good guy. Not anymore.
"Really? What were you trying to do, then?" To run away? To have FUN!
"I–"
"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock. It's great you're alive. Hell, it's... But I–"
"Moriarty played with your mind, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupts. And now I'm playing with yours. Sherlock ignores the voice. He knows it is his own. "I was angry with you at the time. But it was ridiculous." Was it? "It is only natural that he would succeed in manipulating a mind like yours."
This earns Sherlock a stare. He does not understand until John inhales sharply and says:
"Sherlock..."
"Oh, you know what I mean!" Sherlock snaps. Do they? Ordinary people... You do realize the D.I. could arrest you. But Big Brother will cover it up, won't he? You should actually thank him. Isn't it funny? That you are still indebted to him.
"Mycroft could have told us," Lestrade continues. Yes, Mycroft could have done it. Mycroft could have just taken care of everything. That's what he does, isn't it? "He bloody kidnapped me just now to tell me you were alive, couldn't he have done it before?"
"He couldn't take the risk," Sherlock replies, still looking at his own reflection in the cup. This was his face, not anybody else's; and yet he couldn't quite recognize it.
"What risk? Nobody else would have known!" Nobody knows. Do they, Sherlock?
"Oh, so you wouldn't have told John?" That you are me.
"I..." What would they say if they knew?
"Of course you would have, eventually." Eva Jones. "And then what would John have done?" Maisie Clark. "He would have done something stupid to make Mycroft tell him where I was." Flora Davis. Nah, you don't have to count those three if you don't want to – they were the first victims. But the rest of them? You let the Evil Queen have her way with them.
John grumbles something next to Sherlock, but he pays it no heed. His eyes are fixed on Greg. You did not stop her. The blood of her victims are on your hands.
"And what would have been so wrong in that?!" Rosie Bell.
"He would have died." Lydia Young.
He would have died. Uttering the words makes Sherlock feel cold. Melanie Cooper. He averts his gaze from Lestrade, whose frustration is palpable. Rhiannon Patel. But it is to catch the pain on Mrs. Hudson's face, and so he averts his gaze again. Libby Martin. He refuses to look at John, but he still hears him gulp. Gwendolyn Wood.
The silence is so thick Sherlock cannot even hear the tick of the clock in Mrs. Hudson's living-room. His ears are buzzing. Iona Morris. He feels sick. Patricia Lee. He must fill this silence or he will go mad. Jessica Young.
"I'm sorry, Lestrade." Bryony Rukin.
"Thank you." Arabella Boulstridge.
Sherlock blinks, and looks at the D.I. Thank you? Somehow this makes him feel even more nauseous. Beatrice Thompson.
"Well, you still saved our lives, didn't you?" Jemima Hughes. "You jumped so we could live." Georgina Clayworth. "The three of us." Cressida Smith. Phoebe Applegarth. Linette Holter.
Another wave of nausea hits him and he tries very hard not to retch. He clasps his cup. Tries to focus on his reflection.
"Inspector Lestrade is right, you know," Mrs. Hudson says softly. Jackie Perrett.
John nods and clenches his hands on his knees. Dana Stidman.
Lestrade runs a hand in his hair. Vanessa Uselton. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was doing here. I didn't mean... I didn't mean to beat the crap out of you. Well I did, but..." Ida Fenton. "I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock."Ariel Bay.
John and Mrs. Hudson exchange a look. Zoe Walcott.
Lestrade is looking at his cup of tea. Nora Lockridge.
"Well, then, I'll be on my way. I'm sorry for barging in like this, Mrs. Hudson." Sabina Nickols.
"No, not at all!"
"I'm sorry I couldn't contact you before Mycroft did," John says. Ruth Padmore.
Lestrade shrugs. Moyra Ottley. They all stand up. Selma Ryan. Sherlock stands up as well, putting his cup back on the table. Olivia Leason. The porcelain clinks against the wood. Nellie Carman.
"Are you moving back here, then?" Lestrade asks. Helena Danson.
John looks at Sherlock. Iris Devall.
"Yes," Sherlock says. Neile Elsbury.
"Great. Well, erm... I'll see you around, then." Oriane Hambleton.
John gives Lestrade a tap on the shoulder. Alexia Sandell. Lestrade looks ill at ease. Rebecca Lister.
"Yes. Come back in a few days. When things have settled down a bit." Adriana Stark.
Lestrade nods, and with a last look at Sherlock, leaves. Berniece Tubb.
"Well, have a good evening, you two." Candi Basham.
"Good evening to you too, Mrs. Hudson." Karen Delaney.
The door follows John up the steps.
Courtney Presson.
Lara Rampley.
Crystal Andrews.
Laetitia Miles.
Judy Gartridge.
Monica Quince.
Susan Chalmers.
Madlyn Flock.
I long for something more than me
I long for something more than you
In my head
"Well, that wasn't so bad," John says as he closes the door behind him. Sherlock feels the hysteric urge to laugh. Not so bad. He grabs a newspaper and drops into the couch, trying to occupy his mind with something. I love newspapers. Fairy tales. And pretty grim ones too. Sherlock unfolds the paper sharply. "Just take a shower, John, I'm not going to run away."
"I–"
"Or do you want me in the shower with you?"
Seeing how John gapes and turns crimson, he clearly did not catch on the banter.
"What..."
"I was joking, John."
John frowns, then looks away. "Right. I'll go then."
Sherlock resumes scanning the paper. There is a prickling sensation in his hands. John's repetitive glances towards them as they were sitting in Mrs. Hudson's living-room seem to have changed the texture of Sherlock's skin, making it burn and itch and yearn.
He folds the paper and his eyes scan another page. His lips, too. John's eyes linger on them too long. His gaze weighs down on Sherlock's mouth, caresses it as he looks from one corner to the other. Sherlock still feels a heaviness on his bottom lip.
He frowns and unfolds the paper. Scans another page. But John kept glancing away too. Averting his gaze. Self-conscious, but not only: rather, well aware of the weight he was putting down on Sherlock every time he looked at him. And so he tried not to look too much. He kept his hands firmly clenched on his own knees. Right. Trying not to burden you, is it? Well. John did seem to need him in the room. He couldn't stay away very long. He tried not to look, but eventually he had to glance, he couldn't stop himself. Your pet is feeling insecure, my dear. And letting him carry your suitcase is not going to be enough.
John walks back into the room from the staircase and heads to the bathroom. He keeps his eyes fixed on the clothes in his arms, and disappears down the corridor. The door to the bathroom closes. Sherlock puts the newspaper away.
John is upset. Why is he upset? Maybe because your joke wasn't funny. He probably does want you in the shower with him. Ordinary people like some physical contact. And by that I don't mean torture, but I'm sure he would take it for you. You'll have to do the job, though, this time. I won't be here to make him scream for you.
Sherlock stands up abruptly and starts pacing the room.
How are you going to touch him with those hands?
He'll want more than just your regal presence in the room.
He still sleeps with one of yours shirts, you know.
Oh by the way, did you have time to hide the shirt?
Let me change the bed sheets for you.
I don't think I ever saw you in a bed.
Oh God. Thank you. Thank you.
Oh God... Sherlock, please... please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock...God, let me live...
Sherlock turns round, walks straight to the bathroom and opens the door – without knocking, without stopping once in his tracks. The moment he steps in, he realizes he probably should have knocked.
"Can I come in?" he asks. Which is stupid, because he already is in. Well, sentiments make people do stupid things, don't they? Now you're one of those ordinary people, my dear... Shut up.
Behind the shower curtain, John inhales sharply. Sherlock tries to see if his hand is trembling. His eyes scrutinize the silhouette behind the white plastic.
"Yes of course," John says quickly.
Sherlock closes the door behind him. He stands still, not quite knowing what to do; he cannot remember what he came for in the first place. The buzz of the shower is ringing in his ears. Like a dog yapping. A dog barking. A glimmer on the dog's collar, reflecting the moon rays. A cellar shrouded in darkness a tag Sherlock Holmes consulting detective – the only one in the world a smell of patches and of cellophane a fire burning in the hearth on the rug the dog panting biting blood trickling down a white hand the dog kicked – a pule – the dog beaten to a pulp – wails and a howl the dog fleeing down the street then absolute silence on the pavement the headless carcass of the dog and suddenly in his hands a bloody head – John's.
Sherlock staggers and shuts his eyes, willing away the abhorrent vision. His back feels cold. Sweat is trickling down his spine. A huge white corpse thrashed with death throes in the moonlight, eyeless; a skull. Blood. So much blood. The shower keeps buzzing.
"Do you want me to speak?" he asks, trying to keep his voice in check. He watches the silhouette behind the curtain jolt at his words. It is incredible how much power a voice can have. Do you want me to make him scream for you?
"What do you mean?"
"So you know I am there," Sherlock replies quietly. So I know I'm here. Isn't that what you mean, Sherlock?
John's silhouette turns and grabs the shower gel bottle. You're not an angel. You're me. You've become me.
"You don't have to. I can feel your presence." Why do people do anything? Because they're bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock.
John's silhouette bends and rubs his hands to his legs energetically. Hurriedly, as if he were scrubbing mud. It's a game of chess. A bad bottle, a good bottle. You had to take your pick.
"I was thinking, maybe you should take a bath," John says. But you just couldn't, could you? You wanted both. You had to play hard to get. "A hot bath. When I'm done, of course." Playing. That's all this is about, isn't it?
"But I took a shower this morning." Playing me. What did I give you? Bad bottle, good bottle?
"I meant, just to warm you up. Your body is so cold." You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. You're not the only one who gets bored.
Shut up. Sherlock shifts from one foot to the other, looking down at his feet.
But are you clever enough to bet your life? That's the only way, isn't it? Put your life on the line. This is what you're addicted to, Sherlock. You were addicted and that's why I could have you – addicts are so easy to deal with, in the end. Just hold on to what they're addicted to, and they'll run to you like puppies!
"Sherlock, you don't have to stay here if you don't–" Begging for more.
"I'll need time." But I'm gone now Sherlock. You should have jumped, don't you think? Unless you find a way...
Behind the curtain, John freezes. Unless you really find another way.
"Time?" But sentiments?
"For what you want from me." If they don't lead to crime, sentiments are boring. And you'd do anything, anything at all...
"What do I want from you?" ...to stop being bored, wouldn't you? Still now.
Sherlock steps closer to the shower, slowly.
Even killing.
"Sherl–"
Even torturing.
He reaches towards John's silhouette, and his hand lands on his arm, just under the shoulder.
Great men are never good men.
Through the plastic of the curtain, he can feel how warm John's skin is.
You will never be good, Sherlock.
"This is not my area," he croaks. "But I will try."
And you failed to be great like me.
We burned our whole house down
Our bodies in disrepair
"This is not my area," Sherlock croaks. "But I will try."
You take his hand through the curtain and squeeze.
"You don't have to," you say firmly. "You don't have to, Sherlock."
But his hand stiffens in yours, and you let go at once.
"Don't," he says urgently, reaching out again.
You extend your palm to him and press it against his. Above you, the shower is still spurting, cold on your body.
"John, erm... I think you should know that I–"
"It's all right."
"No, let me finish."
"It's fine, Sherlock."
"Will you listen to me?"
You start rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand, and keep quiet.
"The day I went to that brothel."
"Valentine's day?"
"Yes. But it's not about that. Well maybe it is. I don't know. Doesn't matter."
He sounds frustrated. You smile under the shower. You don't think you ever heard him say that. I don't know. You squeeze his hand tighter, forgetting to feel stupid about it.
"That day, I... dream..."
"You had a dream?"
On the other side of the curtain, Sherlock's silhouette nods stiffly. "Nightmare."
"You had a nightmare."
"More than a nightmare."
"More than a nightmare?"
Sherlock sighs with exasperation. "Yes!"
You keep rubbing your thumb on the back of his hand, trying to soothe him. His fingers start shaking. He remains silent.
"What was the nightmare about?" you finally ask. Behind the curtain, Sherlock shakes his head voicelessly. You give his hand another squeeze. "Look, I'm just going to get out of the shower. Wait for me by the door, and then we can talk about it, shall we?"
"No."
"...No?"
"I... Never mind."
"But Sherlock–"
"I said never mind!"
"Fine! Fine." You keep his hand in yours, refusing to let go. "Your fingers are so cold. I think you should really take a hot bath."
"I don't think a bath will help."
"Well why don't we try and see?"
Sherlock steps back and takes his hand away. The void you feel just then is like a punch in the stomach. You've got to get a grip.
"I'll wait for you by the door then," Sherlock says softly. He closes the door behind him. You let out a sigh and take deep, regular breaths before stopping the water and stepping out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a towel, drying yourself quickly, then putting on you bathrobe. You make sure the bathtub is clean before running the water to make a bath. And then, you open the door.
"There. Wait until the bathtub is filled to its 2/3 and then step in."
"I know how to take a bath, John."
"Right."
You just stay there awkwardly for a second before finally taking a step towards the door.
"Well then, I'll be in the kitchen, so if you need anything, just–"
"Stay."
You freeze in the doorway and look back at Sherlock, your whole body tensing. You swallow.
"What?"
"You heard me. Stay."
"Why?"
"I want you to stay."
The bathroom feels much too warm suddenly. You feel a droplet run from your hip to your foot, slowly, down your leg, and wonder idly whether it is sweat or water.
"All right," you say at last, eyes fixed on Sherlock's, "just call me when you're in the bath."
"No. Stay." He closes the door, and locks it. Your eyes widen.
"Sherlock, what the–"
"I want you to watch me."
You step back, your chest tightening. The warmth in the bathroom is stifling. Deliberately, Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt.
"Now wait a minute–"
"I want you to see."
"To see what?"
Panic is bubbling in your chest again. You begin to wonder if he was wounded, perhaps. If he got a scar during those three years of absence, or several. Sherlock does not answer, and keeps unbuttoning his shirt until he can take it off and drop it to the floor. His chest is so white it glistens in the vapour of the bathroom. You avert your gaze, clenching your fists.
"Look at me."
"Sherlock–"
"Just look at me! Please."
Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please. Will you do this for me?
"Please don't say that," you murmur, your voice trembling. He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, then slowly takes them off. You swallow again, and try to keep your eyes on his. But he is staring right back at you, and the intensity in his gaze is unbearable. He takes off his socks. Your eyes are fixed on a lock of hair sticking to his brow, but when he drops his boxer to the floor, you turn away, defeated.
"John. Look at me."
The beating of your heart hammers in your ears, deafening. The warmth in the room is making you dizzy.
"Sherlock, I can't–"
"LOOK AT ME!"
There is so much anger and despair in his voice that you turn, immediately. Your eyes lock with his. His bottom lip is trembling like a child's.
"Look at me," he repeats, his voice shaking as well. You breathe in. Your fists clench and unclench. Slowly, your eyes move down. To his lips. His chin. His neck. His collarbone. His chest. His stomach. His hipbone. His hands. His thighs. His knees. His shins. His ankles. His toes. I love you, is all you can think, with striking clarity. Every inch of his skin feels like a punch in the face.
There is no trace of a scar, though, and you feel a bit lost. You look up into Sherlock's eyes.
"I'm a man," he says.
You blink. "Yes, I know."
He glares, then softens into a jaded expression. "You haven't seen me in years, John. You believed I was dead. You hadn't expected me to die. It was a shock. A trauma. You did not want me gone. It is only natural that you would... perhaps yearn for me in some unnatural way although–"
"Wait a minute–"
"–although you are not attracted to men."
You fall silent. So this is what it's all about. Your face becomes grave. This is serious. You look Sherlock in the eye, then down at his chest, then his groin; and then to his eyes again. Pointedly.
"Does it repulse you?" you ask. "Me, looking." He frowns, then shakes his head as if it were a very stupid question.
"It should repulse you," he retorts.
"What if it doesn't?"
"John, I think you're not quite getting the point."
"Oh I think I am perfectly getting the point. What if it doesn't?"
Sherlock swallows. You watch his jaw clench and the saliva being gulped down his throat. He breathes in and his chest heaves.
"Then we shall work on it," he answers.
"Work on it?"
"Yes. As I said. I can... I'm willing to..."
"Sherlock–"
"...try."
You stare at him. You really want to ask whether he is talking about sex or a relationship in general, but you do not dare. In fact, it isn't the most important.
Deliberately, you walk up to him, and embrace him. He stiffens at first, but just for a second, in surprise, then slackens. Very slightly, he starts trembling. But you do not let go.
"Shall we get you into the bath, then?"
"I'm not a child."
"Of course not."
He does not stiffen in your arms, but you can feel him shift a bit. "This is awkward."
You laugh and rest your brow against his shoulder. "Yes, it is. Just get into the water."
This earns you a glare as he steps back, but he complies without protest.
"Is there enough water?"
"Yes."
"How is the temperature?"
"Fine."
You furrow your brow a little. "Don't be a twat about this. I'm just trying to help."
He arches a regal eyebrow. "With the cold?"
"Yes, with the cold."
He shrugs and sinks into the bath, water up to his chin. He really looks like a child. You want to sit by his side but do not want to leave the room to get a chair, so you end up sitting on the floor next to the bathtub, leaning against it. You cannot see Sherlock, but you can still feel him. His scent. His presence in your back. You close your eyes.
"You did not call Mycroft," Sherlock says quietly. "About Sebastian Moran's funeral."
You shake your head. "You're right, I have to."
"You don't have to."
"I want to." Silence. You turn your head just a little to glance at him. "Don't sulk."
"I'm not sulking!"
"You called him Seb."
"What?"
"Last night, when you talked to him... You called him Seb."
"That's his name."
"His name is Sebastian. And you could have called him Moran."
"Moriarty called him Seb."
"...So?"
Sherlock does not answer. You turn to him again. "So?"
"So nothing. I took his place for three years. I became him. Moran was his John Watson. I needed him as an ally."
"...Right."
He gives you a dark look. You smile, and try not to look at his pouting mouth.
"So... What was your relationship with him in the end?"
"In the end? He tried to kill you. That is not exactly what I call an ally."
"That's not what I meant. Was he... how was he with you? He was a great guy with me. With... God, I have to tell Chris. And Harry. How am I going to tell them that?"
"How about 'Sebastian Moran was an assassin and tried to kill me but eventually shot himself'?"
"Yes, very roundabout way to put it."
"Why would you need to be roundabout?"
"He was our friend, Sherlock!"
Instantly you regret saying this. You did not exactly snap, but still Sherlock flinched at the words. "I'm sorry, I–"
"Don't."
"I'm just curious, you must understand," you continue hurriedly, desperate to get the message across. "He was a good friend to me. He truly was."
"Yes, great friend, making you choose between a bullet and poison."
"Well. I suppose there were more important things for him."
"More important things?"
"Yes," you say pensively. "Such as his bond with Moriarty. What he had been told to do, what he had decided to do."
"Still, that doesn't–"
"It does," you cut in. "It does, Sherlock. Seb was my friend. But if I had been in your stead, and you in mine... I would have shot him just the same."
Sherlock remains silent. You can hear him play with the water and imagine a rather grumpy expression on his face.
"Irritating," he suddenly says. "He was irritating. And way too tactile."
You smile. "He sure was touchy-feely." The moment you've said it, you can feel Sherlock's glare on the nape of your neck and shudder. You turn to him to meet his eyes. He averts his gaze and looks at the bath water.
"He liked to mimic Moriarty," he goes on, "and he enjoyed being aggravating."
You knew it. Funny, now that you think about it: you did muse that surely if Sherlock had known Seb, he would have found him insufferable. As it turned out, you were spot on.
"Are you warming up?"
He blinks, and extends his hand to you. You take it, warm and wet, and smile.
"Won't you tell me more about those memories you deleted?"
"Which ones?"
You hear the uneasiness in his voice, and you know that he sees exactly what you are referring to. But you play along.
"The ones that made you cold, once deleted. You said they came back to you all at once. Won't you tell me a bit more about it?"
"I wasn't aware you were trained to be a therapist, John."
His tone is not more cutting than it used to be, but so different from what he sounded like just a moment ago that you cannot help but wince. You weren't trying to be his therapist. You just wanted to–
"I'm sorry," he says precipitately, holding on to the hand you were, unwittingly, starting to take away. "I didn't mean... I..." He falls silent. But after a while, his thumb starts rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Your eyes widen and you lock them with Sherlock's again. He doesn't look away. You smile weakly, and give his hand a little squeeze.
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
"It's fine."
"No, not for that. I mean, for that, too. But I was thinking..."
This time he looks away, and you can see his embarrassment. He hesitates to speak further.
"Yes?" you say encouragingly.
"Before I... jumped, you would have been out by now. Getting some air."
The meaning of his words slowly dawns on you. He's right. Three years ago, you wouldn't have taken all his snappy remarks so well. You wouldn't have been so forgiving. But...
"Why are you apologizing?" you inquire, just to be sure you got this right.
Sherlock glances about uneasily. Right. So you did understand this correctly. You smile.
"Sherlock. Before you jumped, you would never have apologized to me."
He blinks, realization hitting him too. Then he blushes, hard. You watch with fascination as his cheekbones turn pink, then crimson.
"It's too hot in here," he grumbles, sinking once more into the water, trying to take his hand away – but you do not let him.
"Well that's good. It was rather the point."
"John?"
"Mm?"
"I haven't taken any clothes. My pyjamas are in the room."
"Is that a 'go get them for me'?"
His glare under his wet curls and above his blushing cheeks is almost too adorable to bear.
"Unless you absolutely want me to walk there naked, yes."
"It wasn't a problem for you before."
"I had a sheet!"
"Should I get you one?"
Your eyes lock. He frowns. You smirk.
"Fine," he says, letting go of your hand and standing up abruptly. This time you are the one to blush. "I'll get them myself, then."
"Wait a minute–"
"No no," he retorts, stepping out of the bathtub and putting water everywhere, "I'll get them." He grabs his towel and starts drying himself.
"Sherlock–"
"You're too slow anyway."
You shut your mouth. He freezes, towel in hand, hair still wet and dripping. A second later his worried eyes are on you, trying to see whether you were hurt or offended at his words. It is refreshing to see him so self-conscious and attentive. You take his other towel and walk up to him, bringing it to his head and drying his hair gently.
"Don't try too hard. You're doing fine," you tell him quietly. Then you tiptoe, lean in, and press your lips to his lightly, the touch chaste and unalloyed. It lasts but a second. "I'll get your pyjamas."
You step out and close the door behind you before marching to the bedroom.
And now we must rebuild
From ashes and silverware
"Don't try too hard," John says. "You're doing fine." Then he tiptoes, leans in, and presses his lips to Sherlock's lightly. "I'll get your pyjamas."
The door opens, then closes on him. Sherlock stands, frozen, the towel still on his head. Images from a long forgotten dream flash before his eyes. "You've been wondering how it would feel, haven't you? I can tell when you're curious about something. You should have just asked."
Sherlock looks at the door, then at his reflection in the steamy mirror. "I miss him. Every day of my life, I miss him. Every hour, every second. But it won't bring him back."
Dear me, are you being sentimental? Sherlock glares daggers at his reflection just as John re-enters the bathroom.
"Here," he says, handing him the pyjamas. Don't you feel just a little bit patronized there, Sherlock? Then again maybe that's what you like.
Shut up.
The moment Sherlock looks at John he thinks of the kiss again. How did it feel? He didn't expect it. He didn't kiss back. Was he supposed to kiss back? ...What did kiss back mean exactly? Pressing back? Opening his mouth?
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"Your pyjamas."
"Oh. Yes. Thank you."
He takes them absently and starts putting them on.
"Sherlock, you're still wet."
"Just the hair. And you left that towel up there, so it will dry eventually."
For some reason, this makes John chuckle, and he removes the towel from Sherlock's head. Funny how you keep needing a mother – big brother first, then the flatmate. Are you really that dependent?
You're dead. Just shut up.
I'm not dead, though, you are. Check the grave stone, Sherlock, that's not my name.
Shut. Up.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Is your body still cold?"
"I suppose it will turn cold soon."
John frowns.
"Is it all of your body? Even..."
His eyes fall to Sherlock's groin, then to the floor awkwardly.
"Yes," Sherlock replies quickly. "That, too. Especially that, maybe."
John arches an eyebrow. "That's very strange. Usually this area stays warm."
Not when you want it to stay cold, though, isn't it, doctor?
Be quiet.
I wasn't talking to you.
Oh so now you're talking to John in my head. Yes. Very clever.
I think it is, actually.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes." You should probably tell him what the dream was all about.
"What do you want to do tonight?" Or maybe not. You can omit the part where torturing him gives you a boner, I suppose. But you should tell him about the cold shower.
"I don't know. I've got nothing to do."
As he says it, he realizes how true it is. Nothing. He's got nothing to do at all.
"John, you do have a job right now, don't you?"
"Yes, but I'm taking a paternity leave starting Monday, so you don't have to worry about that."
"So your son will be here on Monday."
"Actually, Mary said she would keep him a bit."
Sherlock finishes to button up his pyjamas shirt and glances at John.
"Because of me." Yes, dear, you are causing trouble in paradise!
"What?"
"She's keeping him because of me." Obviously.
Apparently, the tone he uses does not please John, for he furrows his brow.
"She's just being nice, Sherlock."
"I'm sure she is," he replies rather coldly. Treating you like a child, that's all.
John gives him a look but does not continue the conversation.
"Right. Do you want something for dinner?"
"I'm not hungry, but you can have something."
John smiles. "Glad I have your authorisation."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."
"Yes, I do."
They look at each other for a while until the atmosphere begins to get awkward again. He wants a little more from you than cutting remarks and touches through the shower curtain, methinks.
I don't care about what you think.
And about what he thinks?
Eventually, Sherlock follows John out of the bathroom and into the living-room, where he drops into the couch again and grabs the newspaper. Restless. Three years ago, he would have checked his website. But his website has not been updated ever since, and people think him dead. No one would contact him for a case. His hands twitch and yearn to do some experiments, but all his material is gone. There is nothing for him to do here. Nothing at all. And you only realize this now? Who's slow?
"Anything interesting?"
"What?"
"In the paper."
"Oh. No."
John gives him a strange look, and Sherlock shifts a little on the couch.
"We'll go out and buy some material for your experimenting on Monday," John says as he sits down into his armchair. Sherlock's eyes widen. "Do you have a new laptop?"
Sherlock nods, his eyes fixed on John.
"You could update your website. Or I can post something about you being alive on my blog. I just thought it was a bit too early for that, and..." And clearly he wanted to keep you for himself for a few days at least. "Well, anyway. I can do it if you want."
"It's fine."
"You sure?"
"I said it's fine, John."
So Sherlock just keeps reading the paper, gradually paying more attention to the articles his eyes are scanning, and John just flips through weird notebook, scanning the pages, sometimes stopping to read a few. Sherlock wonders idly if that's his journal, and why he would ever want to start a journal. Then he remembers. His notebook is here too.
"John?"
"Mm?"
"Why did you keep my notebook?"
John pauses and looks up, not answering straight away. "It was one of the few things I had from you."
"But it wasn't meant for you."
"I know, and I'm sorry if you feel that I've invaded your privacy–"
"No, John, it just wasn't meant to be read."
"That's not true. You knew Mycroft would find it. You guessed, anyway."
Ooh. Did Big Brother tell him that? Or did he found out alone?
"How...?"
"The ciphers. Mycroft told me what they meant."
"So he deciphered them."
"Not all of them. Not the last one."
Sherlock smiles a little. Sibling rivalry, indeed... But don't worry my dear, the Iceman wasn't nearly as fun to play with as you.
"Mary and Mrs. Hudson did, though."
Sherlock's face falls. "What?"
"They used some tool on the internet."
"But..."
"I think they guessed the password."
Ha ha! Beaten by another woman! And John's woman, to boot...
Shut up. That's not beating.
Isn't it?
There was a message, it was meant to be deciphered.
Not by her.
But the message could well be meant for her.
"You're an idiot." "Why?" "Caring."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"You keep switching off. Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"Tired?"
"No."
"OK."
Sherlock eyes John warily. Then he glances at the clock. Maybe Johnny boy is tired but doesn't dare say it, don't you think?
I knew that.
Ha! Ready to make him scream?
Sherlock ignores the voice and stands up.
"Actually, I think I am tired. I'll go to bed."
John's eyes fill with panic.
"Oh. Yeah. Right. You... Yes."
Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "You don't have to come to bed now if you don't want to. Just don't turn on the light when you come."
John's face lights up noticeably, relaxing with unmistakable relief and something close to gratefulness. Is he so stupid he'd already forgotten that you talked about a next time this morning? Or is the insecurity just making him even more foolish? Oh well. Either way, this is your chance. You could probably do anything you want to him in that room, and he wouldn't leave.
Sherlock turns around sharply and walks to the bedroom.
"Just come to bed when you feel like it," he says before disappearing down the corridor. It only takes John three minutes to join him in the bed, just the time to put on his nightclothes; Sherlock counted. And what does that mean, you counting the seconds before he comes?
John slips under the sheets and puts his head on the pillow. He's not dead. So we can have some fun with him. I'm sure you're going to enjoy this. You enjoyed it once. In a nightmare.
Sherlock's hand shakes a little as he takes it out, and he makes sure it no longer does when he puts it again between him and John, palm open, waiting for John to put his hand there. That's not what you want though, is it? You want his voice. His screams.
I don't.
Really? Maybe you don't. You're a monster, Sherlock. Like me. Monsters break their toys. Break their pets.
John takes Sherlock's hand and Sherlock jolts at the contact.
"Hey. Are you all right?" he murmurs, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock shivers.
"Yes," he croaks.
"Why is your hand so cold? I thought the bath–"
"It was warm. It just isn't anymore."
John says nothing, but snuggles up closer to their joined hands.
"Sherlock, erm... I don't know how you're going to feel about it, but if you come closer, you can take some of my body heat."
You don't really need to come closer though, do you Sherlock? The good doctor is already in heat. Poor Johnny. Must be hard for him to have you so close and dare do nothing.
Not quite sure what to answer, Sherlock simply follows the advice. Their legs touch, and his thigh collides with John's knee. He blinks.
"You really are small," he blurts out.
Even in the dark, he can see John flushing and opening his mouth to protest.
"I–"
Sherlock kisses him. He doesn't know why he does it, isn't even sure that's really kissing – but he mimics John's earlier gesture and presses, very lightly, his lips to his to shut him up, before retreating prudently. In the dark, he watches out for John's reaction. He can feel the heat radiating from his face, and from his body. Tentatively, John leans in again, and gives him another kiss, just as light, lingering slightly longer. Then he lies back, and murmurs, squeezing his hand:
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock already knows it will not be, but he squeezes back.
Chains clicking. A squalid room. John's voice. "Please... Please stop..." He screams. The whip cracks again. "SHERLOCK!"
Hands striking a match. A flame lighting a cigarette. "Who goes around kissing people in their sleep?" "Jim did. Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul."
John writhes under the whip. Sherlock retches. Sebastian keeps smoking, aloof. Moriarty grins.
"Oh, being enthusiastic, aren't you?"
"In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed."
"No... please... stop this... please... AAAAAAAAAAAH!"
"What... would you like me to make him say... next?"
"Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear."
"Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock?"
"No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
"Stop it."
"Sherlock... Sherlock! Aaah! Please, Sherlock... Sherlock!"
"Ooh, you changed the setting! I liked the room and the chains, but nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart. Would you like that, now, Sherlock?"
"Sherlock, run! AAAAAAAH!"
"Be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."
"Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the Horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid."
Steps down the alley of a cemetery. A marble headstone with a Czech name on it.
"I don't understand why you needed to see the grave. You of all people should know how delusive the name on a gravestone can be."
"I told you to keep an eye on her, not to kill her."
"What, are you being sentimental?"
"Sentiments. Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock."
"Do you know she tried to off Mary Morstan? Y'know, John's wife! …Or perhaps I should've let her?"
"I've come to like John, I don't want some psycho to–"
"Don't. You. Dare."
"Ooh, touchy. Come on, mate, I saved the ass of the love of your life. Isn't it worth something?"
"You'd better take your responsibilities. 'Cause we all do, here."
"You're still a kid, Sherlock, still a kid. Wanting to stand up to Big Brother. Wanting to run away from home. See the world. The big bad world. So what did you learn?"
"You make it sound like some coming-of-age novel."
"Isn't that what it is?"
"How do you like John's screams, Sherlock? Would you like them to be a bit louder? Enough to wake up the dead, perhaps?"
"Sherlock!"
"That's why we're kinda similar, you and I. We both get off on murders."
"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives! Just so I know,do you care about that at all?"
"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."
"Will caring about them help save them?"
"Nope."
"You need me, or you're nothing."
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."
"We're just alike, you and I."
"You... you machine!"
"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"
"Sherlock... please... AAAAAAH!"
"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?"
"Sherlock! Please... AAAAAAAAAAH! Sherlock!"
"I don't have to die… if I've got you."
Rosie Bell. Lydia Young. Melanie Cooper. Rhiannon Patel. Libby Martin. Gwendolyn Wood. Iona Morris. Patricia Lee. Jessica Young. Bryony Rukin. Arabella Boulstridge. Beatrice Thompson. Jemima Hughes. Georgina Clayworth. Cressida Smith. Phoebe Applegarth. Linette Holter.
"I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do."
Jackie Perrett. Dana Stidman. Vanessa Uselton. Ida Fenton. Ariel Bay. Zoe Walcott. Nora Lockridge. Sabina Nickols. Ruth Padmore. Moyra Ottley. Selma Ryan. Olivia Leason. Nellie Carman. Helena Danson. Iris Devall.
"You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."
Neile Elsbury. Oriane Hambleton. Alexia Sandell. Rebecca Lister. Adriana Stark. Berniece Tubb. Candi Basham. Karen Delaney. Courtney Presson. Lara Rampley. Crystal Andrews. Laetitia Miles. Judy Gartridge. Monica Quince. Susan Chalmers. Madlyn Flock.
"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
"I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me."
"Oh God... Sherlock, please..."
"You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes."
"Please, Sherlock..."
"Thank you. Bless you."
"Sherlock, Sherlock..."
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased with what you see?"
"God, let me live..."
"D'you know what lies under the Lotus tree, Sherlock?"
"It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll."
"The Behemoth, Sherlock."
"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock SHERLOCK!"
John's scream dies as he falls into the abyss.
"I am the master of my fate..."
"If you ever see someone falling in a chasm, don't jump after them. It is rather unlikely you'll have a chance to catch them."
"...I am the captain of my soul."
"SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock screams as he jumps out of bed, shaking uncontrollably. John jumps and sits up right away.
You're in my head
You're always in my head
You cannot remember what you were dreaming about, but it was a nice dream that shatters when suddenly Sherlock breaks away from your embrace and gets out of bed with a hurry betraying terror and intense disgust. Not to mention his scream.
"Sherlock?! What's wrong?"
You hear him panting in the dark, his breath shaky, but he does not answer. Then he throws himself on the door, and starts running.
"Sherlock!"
You jump to your feet with panic and dash after him.
"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?!" you ask as you see with horror that he is putting on his shoes and grabbing his coat. "Sherlock, wait!" But he pushes you back feverishly, opens the door and runs down the stairs.
"Sherlock!"
It takes you mere seconds to slip into your shoes and grab your jacket, but these seconds are precious and when you get out on the street Sherlock is already running down the street towards Marylebone Road. You run after him.
"Sherlock, wait!"
This is bad. Night terrors. John has of course heard about them, and even had some patients – children, usually, but an adult too, once – with such issues. John isn't a specialist of parasomnia disorder, but he can tell this wasn't just a normal nightmare. Sherlock could not hear him. John keeps calling, but he remains unresponsive. He screamed when he jumped out of bed. John could not reach him. Confused and inconsolable were the words used to describe some of the symptoms, John remembers. He tries to run faster.
"Sherlock, please!"
It starts raining. You curse under your breath. Your heart stops when you see Sherlock stop in front of a nightclub and get into one of the cabs waiting in line.
"Oh God."
You get to the second cab in the line just as the first drives off.
"Follow this car, please!"
"What?"
"Just follow the damn cab! I'll double your fee."
This seems to be a good enough incentive, and the cabbie complies at once. Your breath is short, and you're trembling slightly. Good thing he did not notice you were wearing pyjamas bottoms. You feel for your wallet in your inside pocket and sigh with relief as you find it there. Good. You only pray Sherlock won't go too far.
"Love affair?" the cabbie asks.
"Not exactly," you reply darkly, trying to understand where you're going. The cabbie looks disappointed.
Your eyes never leave the cab in which Sherlock is sitting. You grab the seat and stop breathing every time you think you might lose it – fortunately the cabbie must have got the message, for you do not need to urge him to go through a red light when needed. Finally, the cab in front of you stops on the side of the road, near a cemetery.
"Here you are. Newport cemetery," the cab announces. "That will be–"
You just put a twenty pound note where you're suppose to leave the money and run out of the car almost as Sherlock does.
"Hey! You didn't pay!" the cabbie in front shouts at him, getting out of the car. You curse, take out another note, shoves it in his hand, and turn to run after Sherlock.
"Sherlock! Wait!"
But he doesn't. He keeps running, fleeing God knows what, not responding to your calling his name. You know where he is going. It terrifies you to think why he wants to go there, in what set of mind he must be to have run out into the night, got on a cab, and come here. To his own grave.
The rain keeps pouring on you, and you can hardly make out his silhouette at all. But you remember where his grave is. You should have told the cabbie to wait for you, you realize. You have no idea how you will get home. You did not take your phone with you.
"Sherlock!" you call. Thunder rolls in the distance. Great. Not just rain. A storm. "Sherlock!"
You get to his grave. Finally. There he is, on his knees, digging the earth. You see yourself, almost three years ago, right where he is now, digging the earth like he is now. "Oh Sherlock..."
Slowly, you walk up to him, trying to catch your breath. Sherlock keeps digging, frantically, and as you come closer you realize he is saying something, repeatedly, like a mantra or a curse.
"Get out of me, get out of me, get out of me, GET OUT OF ME!"
"SHERLOCK!"
He jolts at the sound of your voice, and freezes. You walk up to him. He is trembling, violently, and hitting the earth with his fists. As you kneel down next to him, you realize he is sobbing.
Somewhere in your mind a voice reminds you that people who suffer from night terrors usually lash out at the person they see once they regain their senses. You ignore it and put your hand on his shoulder.
"Sherlock, it's me. It's John. Can you hear me?"
Only sobs answer you. He keeps punching the earth. Slowly, very gently, you put your hand on one of his fists.
"Sherlock. It's all right. Everything's all right. You're here. Just you. Nobody else is in you. Moriarty is dead. And you're alive, Sherlock. You're alive."
A sob, louder than all others, rips the night and you shudder. Sherlock isn't crying. He is hurting. Just hurting, so much he must let it out, any way he can. Perhaps he hasn't fully regained his senses yet. You take his hands in yours and start rubbing your thumbs on their backs.
"I'm here, Sherlock. You're here. It's all fine. Everything is going to be fine."
Progressively, you come closer and closer to him, until you are hugging tight, a hand on the nape of his neck. Holding him like a child; trying to protect him from himself.
I long for something more than me
I long for something more than you
I long for something more
You are in a car and John is holding you. He has been holding you for a long time. Under the rain, in front of the gravestone. Your gravestone. Under the rain, through the cemetery, among graves and corpses below. His hand never leaving yours. His thumb never stopping its circular strokes. The car was waiting outside the cemetery and John exchanged a few words with the man sitting in front. It is silent inside the car, but outside the rain keeps falling, beating on the bodywork.
"Thank you," John says as he gets you out of the car. You are still shaking. There are no more voices in your head. Just John's, who keeps murmuring in your ear, as you cross the cemetery, during the car ride, and as you walk up the stairs, "It's all right, Sherlock. Everything is fine. Moriarty is dead. You are alive. You are alive, Sherlock. And you're back home. In London. In Baker Street. We're going back home, Sherlock. You're home."
And now you are.
Outside the thunder keeps rolling, and the rain, falling. You look at the skull grinning on the mantelpiece. Yellow flowers next to it.
"Here. Let's go to the bathroom. We're drenched."
You follow him, without a word, as he leads you down the corridor. The fog in your mind begins to clear up. Your eyes widen. The cemetery. The cab. The grave. John. That car that brought you back. Mycroft. A wave of nausea hits you. The gravestone must have been bugged.
"Take your clothes off," John says softly, undressing himself. He lets go of your hand, but remains close enough for you to touch. Still, the loss of the soothing circles of his thumb on your skin makes terror rise in your chest again. You unbutton your shirt, trying to get a grip, and realize your hands are no longer shaking. But you feel cold. So very cold. "Here. Take a towel, and dry your body," John says. "I think Mary left a hair dryer somewhere around here. I'll take care of your hair."
The cemetery. The grave. You really did go there. Mycroft. The grave must have been bugged. Yes. Bugged. The cemetery. Your grave. But with Moriarty's body in it. The earth. You look down at your hands, muddy like your shoes. Like your trousers.
You shiver. John sees it.
"Do you want to take a shower, Sherlock? A hot one."
He is still drenched and dripping, but plugs in the hair dryer for you and waits for your answer, his eyes fixed on yours. He is still drenched, just a towel wrapped around his waist, for the sake of decency, for your sake, ready to dry your hair, ready to help you in the shower, ready to hold a towel for you and help you dry yourself while he is still dripping. All day you have been trying to find what it was that made you apologize for what these three years had done to him. Now you have the word. Selfless. Those three years have made him selfless.
Without a word you unplug the hair dryer, pin John against the wall, and press your lips against his.
I long for more
.
.
.
tbc
