Upload Time: 10:30 AM, January 1 [Entry 50]
The return to my life, and my normal interests, and my normal routine, and my normal enjoyment… I didn't really realize what I had, until it came back, did I? I think that before this year turned me on my head, I wasn't really aware of the world around me, DESPITE the fact that I spent a great deal of my time observing the observable world, with a never ending narrative of my flatmate to fill me in on what I missed. Crazy, I think it all went over my head. Then, when I started to turn in on myself, and my dreams started to become too great, I became numb to even that.
Things aren't completely normal now… but I suppose that's how life is, right? Nothing is really ever normal. We change a lot. At least that's how I feel, and when I look to my twat of a flatmate, I actually smile because I can see how he's changed too. For one, sometimes he shuts up now.
But yes, things are okay. I'm a little different, but it's for the better, considering my honesty and openenss has been the key difference between me now, and me then. Crazy how a few months can shift your perspective, though I figure that that could be said of a lot of things - my most recent work at my second job provided a lot of examples of bad things, and… well, it wasn't easy, but I walked away from it a lot more appreciative. And a lot more renewed for the things in my life.
Anyway, I won't go into too much detail, I suppose you guys have heard enough of it, but yes, I'm still here, I'm still on the mend, and I'm still going to stay blogging. My flatmate says I spend more time online than I do with him, which is a ridiculous accusation since he's the one who spends much of his time in his hobbies and fascinations that he'll sometimes forget to come down stair or answer his mail. But, regardless, I'm here, and I can say that I'm well, and that you definitely will not be hearing the last from me, if I have anything to say about it.
Upload Time: 9:30 AM, February 13 [Entry 53]
I really did miss the mark, didn't I? The first time I posted on this blog, I had been honest and vulnerable and messy, and I felt relief that none of that was met with cruelty. I neglected to think that maybe, in my day to day life, I would have been met with the same kindness… if I had, and had talked about the thoughts and feelings in my hugely stubborn head, maybe I would have realized how I was cared for, and how so much of me was rooted in fear.
I am very cared for. I've even started caring for myself...
Upload Time: 9:35 AM, March 16 [Entry 54]
I've been clean for so long. I even forgot to count. And, even better, is that my head has been cleared - if you let go, then maybe then new things can enter your life.
Upload Time: 8:40 AM, May 6 [Entry 56]
I'm not ignoring this blog, and I have every intention of checking in every so often. But I've been speaking to a therapist, and to my dear friend, and I've even found myself traveling a bit. Seeing the world around me, not just my loving and enduring, but old, laptop. I even took an extra day for my weekend this week in order to write a bit more, and I learned how to make home made bread. My flatmate suggests that perhaps I learn a new hobby beside baking, but he smiled when he said it so I didn't feel too insulted. If I knew any better, I might have thought he was joking. But I'm sure he'll tell me later tonight once he reads this, so we will see.
John was sitting on a bench, outside, eyes casted gently over the greenery of the park in front of him. It was sunny out, and it was unusual, so the only option in his mind was to enjoy every ounce of warmth and color from it before it was swept away in the foggy London moods.
It wasn't especially cold, but it was certainly breezy enough that his jumper wasn't stuck to him in sweat, but instead a comforting embrace that somehow made this moment outside feel outlandishly comfortable, and cozy.
He could hear the footfall behind him, the crack of twig beneath foot was uncannily loud and noticeable. And despite the more-than-usual bustle of the walkers-by and children who have ventured outside to enjoy the rare display of non-hostile sky, it was clear to John that this particular sound was not that of an energetic young kid, but of an approaching force that had zoned in to the particular bench that John himself was seated at.
Huh, John huffed to himself, humble smile gracing his lips no matter how hard he tried to stop it, a sort of pleasant praise of his own immediate instincts about the approach of Sherlock. Though he likes to credit himself when it comes to his own skills and abilities, he doesn't feel as though it's a bad thing to admit that he grew, and that that growth came from a positive influence from a particular consulting detective.
In some ways, John also helped Sherlock grow. In his own indirect, but never the less caring, way.
Then a pause came, and it grew, and then John thought that maybe he was wrong, and that the sound of approaching feet was, actually, a passer by.
But then a set of hands, long and slender and deeply intimate, came to rest on either side of John's head.
John, despite anticipating the presence, jumped with unwarranted surprise.
The hands on his shoulders squeezed, and John felt his mind go a bit dumb.
Then, Sherlock chuckled. "My dear Watson, whatever will I do with you?"
"Perhaps you can start with not sneaking up on me," John started, a lilt in his voice and a bit of breathlessness behind the words spoken with practiced ease. There's a new feeling cresting beneath his heart, but at least this one didn't want to burst with violent, imploding action.
Though there's not a word spoken between them, there's an understanding, and a slowly progressing one, at that. One that felt on the edge of something sharper than a blade, yet the only danger here seems to be the possibility of blushing too much.
"Do you really think I could sneak up on you? I haven't been able to do that in years. It's a bit frustrating, but I got used to it years ago."
"Bollocks. You snuck up on me last week, it nearly scared the shit out of me."
"The fact that you're so dramatic warrants that I don't take your hyperbole too seriously."
"Sherlock! I was literally in the loo! Screaming about an experiment that I warned you would go wrong at the worst possible moment is proof enough that you can certainly still surprise me."
"Hm. And how about now, did I truly surprise you?"
Ah, dumb banter. John smiled, loving how naturally it came and, at the same time, acutely aware of the hands on him enough to feel grounded by it all. Then he shook his head in a slight movement, barely detectable unless otherwise observed with the intent of seeing movement. "No, I can't say you did. But you waited long enough, I was starting to think I was wrong."
"Ah, then I must wait longer next time."
"And then do what?" John quirked his eyebrow, looking forward all of a sudden in an attempt to fix his gaze on anything but the space around them.
Sherlock's laugh was bright and sharp and way too short - music to John's ears in a way that was as familiar as it was comforting. His hands squeezed again, palms rolling slightly against the blue of the jumper beneath them.
And then, like a breeze, intent on its destination, his right hand swept up against John's neck, to the back of his head, and ran his fingers all too knowingly down his nape before making the quick circuit again. "Who knows. Maybe we will find out next time."
"Some days, I still think about it," John confessed, words taking shape as they took to the air above his hot cuppa. His hands need to be on something not to appear nervous, though, if anyone were to look, his eyes did enough evading to render the act pointless. But, Sherlock was Sherlock, and when John did raise his eyes to the genuis in front of him, he wouldn't be made to feel dumb about the words exiting his brain.
They were at a diner. They'd had a good end to a case about theives who were a bit too clumsy with their tracks. And, truth be told, their track record of cases had been so incredibly satisfying and persistent that John felt it deserved a good night out.
John's treat.
Not to say that he didn't also want to talk, and that the fact that if they were out of their flat, their talk might also feel as normal to their life now, as opposed to the arguments and stifled memories they were back when John was unwell and non-vocal.
Sherlock kept his gaze, hands drifting back from their mission to fork another steamed carrot. "And what have you been doing about it?"
Normally, a question like that would have set John's nerves into an angered burn. Not this time, not when John knew the innerworkings that drove such a question into existence.
John shrugged a bit. "Not much. Blogging is good and proper and all that and therapy has truly been less dreadful than I imagined it could be, but like I said, it's just a thought."
"Just a thought?" Sherlock punctuated the sentences with a slight tilt of the head, a rare non-understanding crossing his features.
John smiled. "Yeah. Not an urge. Not a crippling fear. Not an imminent feeling… just a memory."
Sherlock smiled and John had to cast his eyes away - up, down, across the back of the warmly lit cafe, across the windows and the reflections of the patrons within their establishment as they reflected on the glass that lead to a rainy London night - cast his eyes anywhere but the face that made his heart skip a beat.
The nerves kick in sometimes, and John rushes through his next words so he doesn't have to think about why there are nerves to begin with. "And I don't mean that like every single thing is perfect and that the world is perfect and that I'm perfect, or that there's not a possibility of it being more than a thought but… but when I think about it now, I don't have that same shame. So I don't have that same reflex to hide, or run, or stowaway or, I don't know, do something reckless and sort of dumb. I have a voice," he ended, then took a labored, heavy breath.
Might as well risk it , he thought, then turned his eyes back to the blue-eyed stare that never stopped looking at him. "I didn't really think I'd have that. And now I do."
Sherlock dug a bit deeper when his eyes softened - so much, so fast, so much more than many would believe possible - and then he smiled and John felt his pulse spike.
"John, believe me when I say that, I've watched you pull yourself up from a place tha….that scared me," and this time it was Sherlock's turn to avert gaze, too searing, it would appear, for the both of them. "I usually have a lot to say, which I'm sure you are used to, but this time I think that all I need to say is that…"
John, for all the blood pumping to his heart, couldn't help the pleasure he got from watching a normally perfectly-composed Sherlock flounder. "Hmm, and what is that has finally stopped you from running your mouth, huh?"
"You. And the… admiration I have for the strength you possess. Truly, it's a strength and will worth being proud of."
John, for all his ability to handle Sherlock and his infinite closet of moods that he puts on and shrugs off at will, is suddenly at a loss.
This is one he'd never had the pleasure of meeting, though, between the two, the unfamiliar ground was not one they did not wish to traverse.
"Thank you." And then, because those two words seem too little, too tiny, too insufficient , he has to add, "I mean it. Thank you for believing in me."
"I've never not believed in you."
It's been another three months - cases, travels, and John and Sherlock's increasing ability to put up with one another in public. Most of the time, it's movies, though occasionally Sherlock will suggest they venture to a part of town they don't know well just so they can observe something new.
Another thing they've taken to is to the night - 2, 3, sometimes 4am strolls, across parts unknown, sometimes safe and sometimes questionable, and it's become an entertaining activity.
John thinks that sometimes it's more for each other's company, but he doesn't have to think , when he already knows. What started out as a mindful therapy for the two insomniacs - one dealing with a brain that never ceases firing, and another brain that sometimes liked to idle at night in self destructive ways - turned into an activity that, sometimes, didn't require any insomnia or self destruction or sadness to happen.
Like tonight, for instant. Not super early, but 1AM was definitely not the latest time they'd taken to the streets. This time the familiar London streets wrapped around them in a blanket of familiarity and understanding that their legs moved them almost independently of thought. Up and down major, well lit streets that were obscured in the light mist in the air, to the back alleys that turned into shortcuts to and from their flat. A little break of routine, a pleasant detour through parts ever changing.
As usual, their strides matched, a medium pace set between the two with an also equally typical close proximity.
Sherlock could have held his hand if he budged ever so slightly out and to his right. Not that John wanted that, or hoped for it, or whatever.
"I guess we could have seen this coming," Sherlock said.
"Seen what coming?"
"The inevitable."
And John wasn't sure which he meant - the way in which things worked out and that they were, after all this time and hurt, okay , or the fact that maybe Sherlock could, actually, read his mind, and laced their fingers together.
John didn't think he needed to ask. He just hummed in a warm acknowledgement, and kept on walking.