A/N: Thank you to Kain and LookAgain for the first reviews for this story. They said they wanted a second chapter so I posted, hope others will enjoy this as well. I really dug deep for this and want you to really tell me how you view my version of unstable John. It's always Sherlock or others who are crazy or unstable, it's John's turn and I did my best to incorporate his personality into his craziness.
I also tried to incorporate Gatiss's and Moffett's quick whip sense of humour. I have NEVER been good at humour, but I really hope it is true to the creators.
I own nothing.
WARNINGS: NIGHTMARE SCENARIOS, HINTS OF NON CON, ASSAULT, TRAUMA, DEMONIC AND WAR TIME IMAGERY (Lacking in extreme detail) SWEARING...LOTS OF SWEARING...BATTERY AND AGGRESSION.
The Lie Becomes You
He yanks his sister through the house, refracting light and fog obscuring his view as stumbling footsteps create cocophanies behind him.
"Come back here! Come back! Give her to me!" a monster shrieks out behind them, the stale smell of cigarettes and booze rushing past him as this demonic creature moves closer.
He turns a corner, sees the cupboard and quickly places her inside, "Bolt it. Do not open it for any reason. Get in, get in, NOW BOLT IT!" and he slams the door and starts running again.
The twisted never ending corridors confuse and scare him just as much as the monster that still rushes after from behind.
"Where is she! Where did you hide her! I won't ask you again!" he can feel the slimy maw of the thing nearly licking the back of his neck, all contorted and ugly, the smells intensifying and he jerks around a corner as he hears the jaws clamp shut, just barely missing him as he tries to run faster.
He sees the dead end up ahead, knows he has nowhere left to run, he is so scared he contemplates the option of just trying to run straight through the wall. Instead, his feet slow, and he looks down in fear as he realizes he no longer has control of them.
"Run! Please, run! Faster!" but they continue to disobey him and he lets out a terrified groan as he accepts it's over.
His feet stop him just short of the wall and as he goes to turn around the clawed hand of a demon shoves into his back and he is pinned to the wall. The air rushes from his lungs, he can't get it back, he tries to struggle but that large hand presses him harder and he winces at the strain on his back.
"Where. Is. She." comes an angry voice from just behind his right shoulder.
He mustn't say, he mustn't tell the monster where she is, he has to protect her, has to keep her from this all consuming evil.
"Nothing? Are you sure? It might just be easier to let me have her." the voice says gently, it's almost alluring, soothing in a way, but he knows it's just glamour, false promises of ease to hide the aches that will follow.
Still he doesn't say, rolls his lips together as his arms come up and he tries to push himself away from the wall.
A growl and another harsh shove crushes him more and he yells at the pain, "Well then, I suppose you will just have to take her place, won't you."
His world spins and the wall falls forward and suddenly he is laying on a bed, the room burning hot, and it smells so septic and unnatural he has to fight the urge to vomit.
He opens his eyes but claws suddenly press his face down into the bedding, start ripping at his clothes. "No!" he yells and he begins to fight in earnest.
"Just lay down and take it, you brought this upon yourself, little brat. You tell me where she is, or you shut the hell up!"
He feels tears in his eyes and looks to the wall on the far side of the room, a man is sitting there, with bright blue eyes and dark curly hair.
"H-help! Please help me!" He calls, his voice nothing but a whine.
The man just sits there staring, his clever eyes narrowing as he watches, waiting for something to happen, "Help me! Help me you great stupid thing!"
Finally, the man stands, his long coat swaying as he walks from his chair to the bed and looks down on him, "All lives end, all hearts are broken-" the man's deep voice says softly, and he feels his skin kiss air and knows it's nearly too late.
"Stop spitting poetry and get him off me!" John yells in anger but to his shock the man turns and walks away, leaving him to the molestations of this demon, "No! No! Don't….don't go...I am sorry! Just, please...come back!" and as pain shoots through his lower back he lets out a scream.
PAGEBREAK
John jerks awake to the fading sensations of a nightmare, his hands rushing to his face as he wipes at the sweat, "Ohmygod, ohmygod, no….just...stop….you won't do this to yourself again, stop it….just stop it. It's over."
His heart doesn't slow for several minutes, and he forces slow breaths in and out, refusing to let the panic from some exaggerated quasi true dream lead him towards a breakdown.
It isn't until the sweat has started to dry on his skin and he feels the adrenaline fading that he pushes the blanket away and makes to get up.
He jerks when his hand gives a twinge and he recalls the rather vicious attack on Wayne.
Giving a mildly satisfied smirk, he kisses the tender joints of his fingers with satisfaction, "Good on ya, boys." he murmurs only to stop and find himself stripped of his clothes, and an arm draped across his lap.
While the room is pitch black, the smell is all too telling of where he is.
Sherlock's room.
A shiver runs through his body as he remembers the final events of the night before. He remembers how numb and dead he felt as Sherlock lead him to his room, removed his clothes and essentially put him to bed. There is a vague memory of a cool rag on his face.
Memories of after that are the strongest, as John had woken up randomly when he felt a body next to his own, heat emanating into him, and he thought perhaps it was a dream. His mind pulling forth a longing phantom from his subconscious to create the shadow of Mary sleeping soundly nearby. He so often missed her, it was not an uncommon occurrence for his mind to play such cruel tricks.
Though, when he heard the soft deep voice of his friend he knew. He doesn't dare glance behind to see if his friend is there, he doesn't think he can handle seeing another man in his bed after a dream like that.
Though, in the darkness he hears words floating and faded in the back of his mind, words that at the time gave him comfort, though now, he has no idea how he feels about it.
"I will a-always love you, John. No one will ever hurt you, and I promise, I will keep you safe. Even if I can't… have you...I will always wants you. My friend, My John Watson."
Another shiver comes to him as he finally gets an answer to a question that has been plaguing him for years. Sherlock Holmes, straight or gay?
John has assumed the man was straight with a chosen desire for celibacy. His interactions with Irene Adler, Janine and Molly Hooper always giving vague indications he may lean towards the fairer sex. It didn't really matter to John, he had no issues with any of it. It was all fine to him.
But to receive such truths from the man he had become such close friends with, had become family with, when he had shouted to the world for so long that he in fact was anything but gay…
John knows Sherlock must have decided to finally say something due to situation John was now it. Trauma and stress were about to make his life a living hell, old memories, not forgotten but just ignored, were going to torture him for the next few months.
Apparently both men knew this and Sherlock had decided that now was the time to let John know that he cared, truly cared, in a way that would guarantee John a safe place to deal with the rough road ahead.
Sherlock had put himself out there, and no matter how John felt about it, he owed his friend a debt of gratitude.
So, last night, John had given Sherlock something in return, "You can hold me you stupid idiot, just don't get fresh."
The comment had been harsh but John's guard had been firmly in place, his only push to allow such a thing was his sincere gratitude and singular love for the socially clueless man next to him. Still, he had felt guilty at calling him names and had added in a rather soft yet indifferent voice, "I need it."
John knows Sherlock won't press further, he will leave it up to John to decide how far an actual relationship would go between them. He doesn't want to think about the fact that when Sherlock had held him he did feel safe, far less stressed and traumatized by the earlier events of the day. He didn't want to think about how he had slept better than he had in months.
John gently removes his friends hand and carefully swings his legs over the edge of the bed, leaning forward, he places his face in his hands, ignoring the protest of his fingers, his elbows digging viciously into his knees, "Just think about the war, think about Rosie, about Mary, a case...think about any case...just don't think about-" but he trails off and shakes his head angrily, glancing at the clock next to the bed, the red light screaming angrily that it is four a.m.
"Find your balance, you stupid...just...don't look back, it never happened." and he stands and exits the room, aiming to take a shower and get the residuales of the dream as far away from him as he can.
If he wasn't such a coward, he would face his nightmare, dissect it and try to work out what his subconscious was trying to tell him in the dream. Instead he turns the water on too hot, blasts himself in the face until he can't handle it anymore and then scrubs until his skin is raw.
He emerges twenty minutes later, a towel around his waist and red blotches covering his shoulders, stomach and either hip. He walks straight for the coffee, noticing his gun on the table, though he elects to leave it.
"Awfully early for stimulants." John jumps as soon as the sound of the 'A' graces his eardrums and is standing with the gun pulled, locked and ready to fire with in a second.
He stares at his roomate, sitting in his chair, robe on over his nightware, a favored gray shirt and dark blue pajama pants, clever eyes staring at him carefully.
Johns breathing heavy and it takes him a moment to lower his weapon, a brief survey of his surroundings is required to make sure such a thing is alright, before he clicks the safety on and then suddenly slams it down on the table.
"Might want to warn a bloke before you just….just…."
"Just what?" Sherlock asks.
"Before you just suddenly appear like the bloody mythical elf you are!" He nearly screams though he manages to catch himself, looks away and takes a deep breath, "I'm sorry, I...I just...didn't hear you get up...or notice you were up or...anything." John rubs at his eyes before he shakes his head and turns away, "Jesus." he whispers out.
He rests against the counter, tries to calm his fragile nerves so he doesn't openly abuse or take it out on Sherlock. He stares at the wall before him with worry, a knuckle coming to his mouth which he bites without realizing it.
"Yeah, this is bad. This is...Sherlock...I'm not….I'm not okay." and he brings a hand to his face, doesn't have the energy to cry but wants so badly to just get this built up tension out.
When he hears the fabric of his friends robe swish together he knows Sherlock is approaching, clenches his eyes and bites his knuckle again to keep from retracting as he instinctively wants to do.
Sherlock is standing before him, looking down with an open but strangely empty expression, "You need rest." he says, though it's not quite an order and not quite a suggestion.
Good idea Sherlock, remain neutral. John thinks and he thanks his friend for having the foresight to know he really doesn't want to be told what to do.
"I know...I know I do, yeah...I am ...exhausted but…"
"It was just a dream." Sherlock says, keeping his voice soft and even. This confirms John's suspicions that the man was awake when John was driven from sleep, he wonders if Sherlock had feigned sleep to give John an easy out from the obvious spooning that had been taking place.
"You've had bad dreams before, kept me up for a whole month when you first moved in, thought there was a war going on upstairs in your room."
John does give a small chuckle and smile at that, "Kept you up. Who played the violin at all hours, who blew up the oven with a tube of toothpaste?"
Sherlock allows a gentle smirk to grace his features and places his hand on John's shoulder and the man winces at the contact to his raw skin.
Sherlock seems to notices and raises his hand to gaze at the hot pink skin just inches below his palm, his sharp eyes darting up to look at John in question.
The man stares back and shakes his head subtly and Sherlock lets out a small sigh as his lips perse and eyes narrow, his hand coming to the man's arm instead, "They are just dreams. Just like every other bad dream you've had."
John gives a frustrated smiled, "Yeah, but I can handle those." and he glances up to his friend, eyes wide and filled with a genuine strain, "I don't know if I can handle this."
"Are they…memories?" Sherlock asks, once again taking a very careful route to get answers without causing John any unneeded stress.
Still, even though Sherlock is obviously playing a very good game of "leading the witness" John finds he can't answer, doesn't want to confirm anything about it.
He looks away and once again shakes his head, swallows to keep the emotions from welling up in his eyes, "There will always be memories, Sherlock. I will always have them in my head, I can't...I am not the type of person to forget something because I don't like it."
There is silence and Sherlock nods his understanding, John leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest as his friends hand slides away, "it's been nearly twenty years since I had a dream like that...twenty….years...I remember it all...everything, down to the last detail…."
Suddenly a chill runs down his neck and his face turns, as if drawn to some unseen creature in the room and his eyes lock with the spot on the floor where his step-father had been crumpled and covered in blood just hours before.
What he was saying is driven from his mind as his mouth parts and he moves away from his friend to go stand just next to the spot where Wayne had been.
"Where….where….where is it?" John asks, looking up at Sherlock.
The detective moves carefully out of the kitchen to stand in the doorway between rooms and looks at the spot to which John is pointing.
"Mr. Harvey was taken to-"
"No, not Wayne, the blood!"
"What?" Sherlock asks in genuine confusion.
"The blood, from me beating that psychotic monsters face in, it's….it's gone." and his hand falls to his side, shock seemingly having set it.
"Mycroft's men cleaned the flat, removed Wayne and laundered your clothes." John looks to the coffee table to see the clothes he had been wearing the day before neatly folded and spotless.
Looking back at the pristine floor he shakes his head, "No, no it is supposed to be there. Right there, where I can see it! I want to see it!" He says and he drops to his knees, towel around his waist still holding as he looks at the edge of the desk, searches the wooden floor underneath, crawling to the coffee table he scans all around.
"John-"
"I want to see how much I hurt him!" John yells, this time his voice taking on a deadly tone of warning and Sherlock falls silent.
After a few more seconds he hangs his head in defeat and spins around to sit on his arse, nails running up to the red splotches on his skin and sinking in, digging at an itch that feels almost imagined.
"Bloody cleaning ladies. They should get an award, MI6, more effective than the maid you paid." he says sarcastically and he drags his nails across his stomach, teeth gritting.
"Itchy?" Sherlock asks.
John looks up at him and sighs, "I don't think I got it all off."
"All of what off?" Sherlock asks and he places his hands behind his back.
"I don't know...the sweat, his sweat...the soap, maybe both?"
"Whose sweat?" Sherlock chirps.
John looks up at him in confusion, "What the bloody hell you on about?"
"Nothing. How about some herbal soother?"
This time it's John's turn to look at him in curiosity, "Does Mrs. Hudson have any? I thought her dealer skipped town."
"So she says." Sherlock muses regrettably as he bounces once on the balls of his feet.
"So you said." John jokes quickly in response, a small smirk playing at his lips.
Sherlock cocks his head to the side and gives a pointed look, "No matter, I meant tea anyway, Chamomile?"
"Oh...uh...yeah, that too, of course." and they stare at each other a moment before they burst into laughter.
PAGEBREAK
Neither Sherlock nor John return to bed. John simply throws on a pair of pajama pants, sans a shirt, as his skin is still raw in places and grabs up a book, Sherlock gently playing his violin in a rather soothing and soft manner.
It's just about time for the sun to come up when John turns a page in his book and asks without looking up, "So, where did they send him?" His voice sounds casual, like he doesn't truly care, but Sherlock can hear the barest hint of stress in his voice.
"Oh, I don't know, where do most people send their demons?" Sherlock says playfully as he continues to stroke the bow across the strings gently.
John thinks on this a moment, glances to his friend to try and decipher what he means by that, "So, you don't know?"
"Does it matter?" Sherlock glances at him from over his violin, unblinking as he observes his companion with a raised brow.
"No, course not. Just...just curious is all." And his focus snaps back to the book. It isn't long before John's eyes wander back up to his friend, Sherlock's back to him and he feels something in his stomach twist with annoyance.
"Yeah know, I think, I am going to go for a walk, some brisk morning air may do good to clear my head." and he suddenly stands and grabs up the bag he had discarded last night in his shock.
"Do you want me to come?" Sherlock inquires as he stops playing and slowly lowers his instrument and bow.
"Ah….no, no I should be...should be fine...just need to...get out." he says heading towards the stairs.
He is halted by Sherlock's call, "John?" the blonde looks at him over his shoulder, right hand on the stair rail and he grabs it more tightly than he needs, "You will...call...if you need anything?" and Sherlock's eyes hold both a warning and plea for him to not do something rash.
John stares at him a moment longer before he says, "Yes. Yes, course I will." he looks away and hesitates before he glances back and says in a chipper manner, "Make a list will you? Groceries and the like...maybe I'll...stop in at the shops, yeah?"
"If you like." Sherlock concedes and John nods as he makes way up to his room, well aware of Sherlock's eyes following him.
PAGEBREAK
He walks in the brisk way he does through the chilly morning streets, an unknown quiet lingering as most of London is still in their flats or have yet to get off their night shifts.
A strange fog hangs heavy and he is careful as he crosses streets and moves past alleys, never knowing when an early morning drunk or homeless rotter will be lingering about. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, eyes stuck to the pavement as he simply walks for the sake of walking.
His fatigue, though less than one would expect, given the events of the previous day, hangs like a hazey rag over his mind.
You have Sherlock to thank for the decant few hours of rest you did get, comes a voice in the back of his head.
John chuckles bitterly and shakes his head, "Don't think about it."
You can't ignore it forever. This has been coming for a long time. You are more clever than anyone gives you credit, you knew long before the gay jokes, knew the moment he saved your life the very first time...things would inevitably change….the dynamic shift of the dynamic duo.
"Shut up." he hisses angrily and he kicks a rock that skirts off the bricks of the building next to him and disappears into the fog.
It's always been there….the tension….the…..compatibility….drawing off each other as you so do….feeding each others vices but never letting the other cross such lines that would ever separate you two for long. You need each other, even your wife could see that, and she fed your need for each other, cemented that codependent nature by encouraging each of you to seek out the other…..all the time.
"No." he snaps as he thinks of all the times Mary pushed them together, even those few times he and Sherlock had agreed to allow John time with his wife, she would give a reason for them to go off.
Protecting your friendship? Protecting her secrets? Never letting Sherlock get too close to her but remaining his friend. Now, here you are, another day, another trauma and who is here for you but Sherlock Holmes. When more monsters come, when demons slide into view….when he cannot go on….you will be there for him….make it permanent.
"Shut up!" he says as he spins around to see nothing and noone there. The fog seemingly closing in tighter around him and his heart skips a beat as he realizes what he just did.
"You….you idiot… you are talking to yourself….again. Just….just let it go. Don't overthink things. Just….just walk." and he starts again, breathing deep, releasing it slowly, pressing his anger down as he has learned to do over many many years.
"Don't be angry. You don't need to be angry." he whispers and a twinge in his neck makes him crane his head about and his fists clench in his jacket.
"Don't be angry, don't be angry...don't...be…" and he stops, sighes and suddenly he just accepts it, "Okay, you're angry...so what are you going to do about it?"
"Why not go find a smack head?" and John looks over to see Mary leaning on the wall of a building, "Oh no, not you. You're supposed to be gone." he says with a disbelieving frown, "I made my peace with you, Mary. It's done."
"What's the fun in that, crazy is the new sexy, and you have plenty of sexy to go around."
John lets out an angry chuckle, his eyes scanning to the sky before closing and whispering out, "I don't believe this...I do not... believe this."
"Believe it or not Johnny boy, I am here, I am queer and this time I am not going away."
"Don't call me that." and his eyes narrow, that dangerous smirk he often wears when his anger is mounting crawls across his lips.
"Queer?" she asks in confusion.
"Johnny Boy." he snaps.
"Oh! So he's not denying it." She says with an excited smile.
"Oh, I did not miss this." and he instantly starts walking, the mist rushing past his face and depositing tiny droplets on his lashes.
"Run run as fast as you can, your subconscious is calling and says you love a man!" Mary sings as she follows him down the street.
"I have bigger problems right now than dealing with my sexuality." he says viciously low and he turns down an alley and purposely walks towards the bad part of London.
"Oh, he's angry again. Still pissed at daddy for not loving him...or maybe loving him a bit too much."
"He bloody enjoyed it. Always said he wanted Harry but never really tried to get to her. He always came after me, and when he did get his hands on Harry…"
"He let go of her way more than he should have if he wanted her so much." Mary seems to agree.
"He always offered me to take her place. Always baited me into agreeing to take her place."
"You know the truth, he wanted you….he always wanted more...Harry was just his meal ticket to you. He knew, he knew you would-"
"Knew I would take her place, try to protect her, even now, same M.O."
"What does your future lover always say?"
"He's not my lover….what does he say?"
"If you eliminated the impossible, whatever remains-"
"However improbable, must be the truth." John finishes as he hears Mary squeal happily behind him. But he isn't happy, his anger rushes through him like an avalanche as this new information hits him savagely hard. His hand has been aching since he started clenching it but now it burns as nails dig into his palm and skin breaks.
"So, where to now, love?" Mary asks rushing to his side.
John gives a dark look to the woman next to him, "Now? We are going to find a smack head."
"Yes!" Mary hisses with delight as she throws her arms up in the air, John gives a small smirk as he continues his walk downtown.
PAGEBREAK
It's early evening when he returns to the flat, shop bags in one arm, Rosie in the other, "Sherlock?" he calls as he glances through to the man's room.
"There love, huh, shhh….just...easy now. Let daddy put the bags down. Yes, how are you? Did you enjoy time at Aunt Molly's?" he bounces her, she smiles and gives a laugh as a small hand comes to grip at his nose, "Went to the shops! Can you put it away, Rosie needs a wash." he calls out.
"Good grab." he teases her, "Come on, time for a good scrub." and he is about to head down the hall when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He swings around, yanking Rosie to him protectively only to find Sherlock in his chair and Greg Lestrade standing next to him.
The two have eyes on him, sharp eyes and John feels warning bells go off in the back of his head, still, he doesn't give a tell and remains rooted as he speaks, "Lestrade? What are you doing here? Have a case?"
"Yeah. Something like that." and he crosses to John and drops a few photos on the table next to the shop bags, John leans over and sees several black and white CCTV images of two men from a long distance away. One is down on the ground, the other, standing up and presumably about to kick the other.
"A man was taken to hospital today." he starts as his eyes dart down to the picture and back to John, "Colton Blakey. A recovering smack head and current employee at the local fish market."
John continues to stare at the picture, he knows it's him but he also knows the images are too far away to make a positive identification.
"Play it subtle." he suddenly hears Mary's voice in the back of his head, and he chuckles, "Okay, what then? Who attacked him? Do you want us to try and fetch him for you? We your errand boys now?"
"Too cross, pull back the anger." Mary chides and John gives a teasing smirk to downplay his aggression, "Kidding, he alright?"
"You're a funny man, you know, Sherlock's wrong about you...your sense of humour is quite good." Greg says in a rather annoyed tone.
John stares at him, his eyes jumping to Sherlock who has crossed the room and stands next to him with arms crossed.
Pressure builds behind his eyes and his stomach turns in anger and suddenly, as if a beast lurches forth he opens his mouth and yells, "WHAT!"
Rosie explodes into tears at the outburst and John curls in on himself instantly, "Oh, sweetie! Sweetie, daddys sorry...he's just a little...little out of sorts...here...here calm down." and he gently strokes her face and then looks back to his friends, "I don't know what you are implying but I don't have the patients or the good nature to deal with it. Now, I am going to give my daughter a wash….do yourself a favor and just….just leave me alone."
He turns and walks towards the bathroom, a female voice calling after him sarcastically, "Oh, very subtle."
"Shut up, Mary!" He says plain as day, only to wince at his slip as he enters the bathroom, slamming the door with his foot and cursing as he looks in the mirror and admits to himself he is nowhere near as clever as he thought.
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"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? It's obviously him, can't make a face but the height, weight...the bloody coat and pants...he matches the witnesses description to a tee...he was sloppy….like he didn't even care. Now, I know John, and I know he could have gotten away with this...but he didn't even try...it's like-"
"He wanted to be caught." Sherlock says, his eyes still locked onto the door of the bathroom.
"I know he has been dealing with a lot of issues since….since Mary...but I thought he was doing okay. He seemed to be doing okay."
"He was." Sherlock confirms, his eyes still glued to the door.
"Did something happen? Is there something going on I don't know about?"
Sherlock finally pulls his eyes away from the hall and looks at Lestrade, he calculates the risk and decides for John's sake it's worth it, "Yes."
"Well? What is it?" Greg asks, bringing his hands to his hips as he looks at Sherlock expectantly.
"I can't tell you."
"What?"
"I can't, I am sorry but I promised John I would keep it between us." is his automatic response.
"Sherlock….I know...I know you and John are friends….good friends-"
"The best." Sherlock says, a tone of warning creeping into his voice as he gives a sidelong glance to Lestrade.
The man sighs heavily and continues, "I can't...I don't know if I can protect him from this...this is battery...assault at the bare minimum….I know it's him and I have the evidence right here."
Sherlock sighs in frustration and hangs his head a moment before he grits his teeth and looks up, "The possibilities for you to choose from are endless, Greg, plenty of other muggers, smack heads and gang members in the area to pin it on. Or, just chock it all up to coincidence. Whatever makes you sleep better at night. But I promise you, I will get him under control. Will you give me time to do so? Can you make this go away?" he asks grabbing up the pictures and planting them firmly in Lestrade's line of sight.
The man's eyes slowly move from Sherlock's hard stare to the pictures, then they jump to the bathroom door at the sound of a laughing Rosie and a cooing John.
He licks his lips and then brings fingers to rub at his eyes as he grits his teeth and sucks in air, "Fuck, yeah, alright. But this is it Sherlock. He runs aground again and I have to take him in for questioning. He is your responsibility, so get him under control. And for god's sake, keep an eye on him. Don't let him wander off, his affinity for beating up junkies is getting out of hand."
"In the seven years I've known him he's done this only twice, I'd hardly call that an affinity." Sherlock quips haughtily.
Greg looks at him and says with his own sarcastic wit, "Four."
"What? What'd you mean? Who else?"
"Well, he's kicked your sorry arse twice." and Greg plucks the photos from his hand and turns to leave, giving Sherlock a glare of warning as he descends the stairs.
Sherlock watches him go and as soon as the front door shuts he instantly lets out the breath he has been holding since Greg had arrived. He places his hands on the table, hanging his head for several seconds to ease the tension in his shoulders before looking up at the bathroom door.
"Bloody idiot." he whispers, though he doesn't know if he is talking about himself or about John.
You can't trust him right now Sherlock, you can't assume he has the same checks and balances in place as he did prior to Wayne showing up. You must assume that right now, you do not know him, you do not understand what he is going through. Do not think, for one second, that this is the same John Watson you've come to know over the years. He is angry, dangerous and unpredictable. Remember what happened that day in the morgue, the way he went off on you, beat you senseless, realize the link between his aggression and anger is pain...it is always pain. Make him focus on the pain and not the anger. Solve the puzzle. Treat him….treat him….like a case...like a possible suspect. Expect the unexpected and save John Watson… at any cost.
Sherlock instantly stands, his resolve growing firm as he sorts out just how he should solve this new problem. He approaches the door to the bathroom and knocks, his ears listening for anything of importance, his heart beating rapidly as he realizes this is going to be a very difficult conversation.
PAGEBREAK
John hears the soft knock at the door, knows it's Sherlock for Greg would know better than to bother him right now, "Yes, come in Sherlock." he calls as he pulls Rosie from the water and wraps her in a towel, she squirms and wiggles but John prevails in getting her wrapped up and toasty warm.
The door opens and Sherlock pops his head in, "John, we need to talk." Sherlock says with an air of authority that John finds he doesn't like, not one bit.
"In a minute, I am almost done."
"Now would be better."
John looks over at him and sees the man's face, his notices his anger which has been slowly refueling the last half hour cools considerably when he sees Sherlock's concerned face, though given it's Sherlock the concern is well hidden, covered up with annoyance.
"I have to finish drying off this beautiful little girl." He says as he kisses her nose playfully and she finally decides to talk, "Da da, no!" she laughs.
"Oh, finally! Been trying to get you to say it for hours now, haven't I? Stubborn, stubborn as your mother."
"You'll put her to bed then?" Sherlock asks.
"Yes, and be right down. Relax, yeah? Everything is going to be alright, Greg will let it go-" and John freezes as soon as he says it, his smile fading and he stares at his daughter's happy face.
Once again, he finds himself curling in, wanting to be close to her, wanting to just take her up and hold her for hours, cuddle his daughter and feeling the love he has for her instead of the anger and hatred that has ruled his world for so many years.
"Oh my god." he whispers and a hand comes to his face, Rosie giving a squeal at the sudden movement and he jerks to look at her, a small bead of irritation growing in the back of his mind at the sudden loud shriek, "Sherlock, Sherlock take her a moment would you? I'm...I have a headache." and Sherlock moves into the room instantly, scooping the child up from John's waiting hands and grabbing her clean clothes and diaper off the tabletop, "I will put her to bed and return shortly, do not under any circumstances leave this flat."
John nods and remains in his spot on his knees before the tub deutifully as he listens to the faint sounds of Sherlock taking care of his daughter.
That should be you up there, should be you not your flatmate dressing her, putting her to bed...changing her diaper. You are a terrible father, a horrible friend and a damn right disgraceful doctor. What was it you said, I shall do no harm? Followed that pretty well.
"I was an army Doctor, the Hippocratic Oath was required to pass, the gun was a necessity to survive. Only one of those was negotiable."
Beating a recovering junkie was not a necessity. You are harming others because you have been harmed and you won't admit to yourself what he really did to you, how badly he really hurt you. Keeping it to yourself is killing you.
"Telling someone would be worse." he whispers.
Tell Sherlock, he will understand, he is literally the only one who could understand. Given his penchant for bad people and situations….a messed up family...fucked up past….the story is different but the trauma is the same. You have a bond….use it...he would want you to.
"It's not his burden." John says as he feels tears creeping up his throat and into the cavity behind his eyes and he stands quickly, refusing to let the tears come, shoving the pain of it all violently aside and growing angry as he realizes the food still hasn't been put away.
He is taking care of your daughter, covering your ass against Lestrade...do not say a bloody word about the bloody goods on the table.
John nods to himself, takes a breath, starts putting things away, thinks he might be coming down from his rage when he suddenly hears Rosie scream bloody murder and he jerks away from the fridge and is up the stairs faster than he has ever been in his life. His gun is drawn as he kicks the door to his room open.
"Get the bloody hell away from….her." and he stops himself as Sherlock looks at him from the floor, his hand partway withdrawn from under the wardrobe to show Rosie's favorite stuffed toy, the girl giving another scream as she reaches for it and laughs.
The anxiety that escapes him makes his legs weak and he drops to his knees, gun thunking to the floor and he shakes his head, "Jesus Christ, I am loosing it. I am bloody losing it."
Sherlock slowly stands, his eyes looking from John to the gun and back. The doctor sees him and he grits his teeth and keeps his anger at bay, he can't blame the man for wanting to do the most logical thing, "Here, just take it...I am not responsible anymore...I am not...my judgment is impaired." and he clicks the safety on, and then slides it across the floor to Sherlock who takes it and puts it in the waist of his pants behind his back.
"Go down stairs, John." and Sherlock's voice bars all argument, and it should, because John knows Rosie is just as safe with Sherlock as she is with him, right now, probably more so.
John nods, doesn't say anything as he stands and uses the doorframe and than the wall to steady himself.
It takes him awhile to make it down the stairs and into the main room, he sits on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped before his mouth and he stares at that spot on the floor.
The spot where all of Wayne's useless blood should be, so he can see it, see it and remember how badly he hurt the man.
"Hope I knocked his teeth out." he says in a dry murmur and then he finally heaves a sigh and leans back, now staring at the ceiling and waiting for Sherlock to arrive, swearing over and over that no matter what happens, he will not hurt or take his anger out on Sherlock Holmes.
PAGEBREAK
John cracks his eyes when Sherlock enters the room, his movements slow and carefully planned. He does not sit next to John, a very wise decision given the current mood in the air. Instead, he pulls a chair from the kitchen, places it across from him and sits down, his hands falling to grab his knees, "Alright, let's talk." he says slowly.
John's eyes are still only cracked and he feels his insides give a nasty recoil at the very idea, but he knew this was coming, that this was the point of the conversation that Sherlock had pressed for.
"What do you want to know?" John asks with equal calm, though underneath is a storm that is building slowly.
"Start with your walk this morning and go on from there. We will get to the bit about the smack head when you feel less likely to crush my skull." Sherlock bites out sarcastically.
"Oh, so you're being snooty now. Not a good way to get someone to talk to you." John snips as he suddenly sits up, face alert and he runs a thumb under his nose and sniffs irritably.
"I was under the impression you weren't the type to need a good coddling. If I am wrong-"
"Don't." John snaps, "I said I will talk to you and I will, but if you are going to play the whole good cop bad cop routine I will walk away." he says, holding up a finger in warning as he tries to make his point.
"Very well. Talk, John, before this becomes dull and I get bored."
John grinds his teeth as he looks at the man before him, scans his body up and down. Sherlock is tense, very tense, his posture rigid, his hands gripping his knees violently hard and John realizes that while he has been having his breakdown Sherlock has been only ever trying to help.
But Sherlock is very knew to the social structure of having friends, of being open about how much you care about them, of expressing his worries and his fears. He is reverting to his own defense mechanisms and John realizes that no matter how angry he is he doesn't want that.
He takes a deep calming breath, pushes the anger down again, feels the tension leave his shoulders just a little and then says softly, "Sherlock, Sherlock I am sorry. I...I went for a walk with the soul intention of clearing my head...things went a little sideways and…"
He doesn't want to tell anyone, doesn't want to let anyone know he might very well be losing his mind but he knows that if anyone will understand it is only this one man before him.
So, he sits up, clears his throat and says reluctantly, "I….saw…." he hesitates and then finally propels himself forward, "Mary. Yeah, there it is… I saw Mary again. Just like before, after...after she died. I saw her standing there and she was mocking me...she was...feeding my anger. Just telling me to….she told me to find a Junkie, she is the one who-"
"Mary is a construct of your mind, to deal with your own inner conflict and to be able to reason with yourself in a way that allows you room to justify actions you would not take in any other given scenario. She is nothing more than a figment of your imaginings, a representation of yourself, usually negative because Mary left this world while you still held reservations about her intentions towards you. But it is you John, only you and you alone who controls her. She is a pure manifestation of things you want, and an outlet for your anger, which has gone suppressed and unchecked for years."
John stares at him, doesn't know what to say to that, because Sherlock is right and contrary to what everyone thinks of him, John has followed every word of that and realizes Sherlock is once again right. And this entire mess as always, is entirely his fault.
"Oh my god." and he puts his face in his hands, curses and kicks the leg of the coffee table violently, the often abused table shifting harshly from the blow.
"My fault, it's my fault again. I'm a bloody doctor, a good doctor, and I went out there for no other reason than to hurt someone. Because I hurt and I hate him and I want him dead." he says it all so fast he doesn't even realize what he has said until he replays it and thinks on it for a moment.
"Shite." he whispers, "I don't want to be in his shadow anymore, I don't want to think….think about what he did to me...to Harry….and I am angry….so bloody nasty angry and...I want...I want to make him hurt as badly as he hurt me. I want to make him suffer." his voice has given out by the end of his little rant, it's nothing more than a wheeze and he hates himself for sounding weak but that is how he feels.
"I feel small, weak, vulnerable and my god I hate myself for it, almost more than I hate him and I just….don't want to be this way anymore." he stands and walks over to the door, needing to move, to push the pain back and as it always does anger trickles in and suddenly he lashes out, "I don't want to be angry!" and he punches the wall and it caves beneath his already aching hand.
Plaster dust swirls through the air, chunks falling to the ground like rain and he just stands there with his fist in the wall, breathing heavy and staring at the staircase, the thing he wants to run down to escape all of this mess he has created.
He feels a presence behind him and he shakes his head in warning, "No, don't...I wouldn't." he murmurs out but after a moment of hesitation he feels slender fingers gently take his forearm and his fist is removed, his arm pulled back and down to his side, the fingers remaining firmly there. Another hand comes to his shoulder and for several seconds nothing happens, the air is tense, the mood dark and John feels the need to warn his friend to back off.
"Step back, Sherlock. I can't...I can't promise that I won't...I will take this out on you if you get too close to me." he says desperately. "I always take it out on those who are too close, Harry started drinking from it after awhile, I don't want to drive you back to-" and he stops because he really doesn't want to think about how Sherlock might respond to the abuses John can and has inflicted on others.
"I was...I was doing so well...so bloody well." he nearly cries staring at the ground, shame starting to seep in as he glances up to the hole in the wall.
"I had it under control, I had Mary and Rosie...I had you."
"You still have Rosie...and you will always have me. There is nothing to be ashamed off, people fall off the wagon all the time. I do it intentionally on occasion, can't tell you how good it can feel to fail when I know it will spice things up a bit."
John glances at him from under a brow with annoyance and Sherlock swallows, "Right, not good. All I am saying is...you are torturing yourself, accept the fact that you have fallen off and then do what must be done to get back on. Anger management is just another form of therapy. Besides, it would be boring if we were both junkies, a rageaholic might be just what we need to keep things interesting."
John feels the anger melting off his face and a warmth bloom in his belly at the notion that Sherlock somehow knew just the right thing to say. He sighs, studies his friends neutral expression, but sees within those eyes a hidden longing and his stomach fills with a queasy feeling.
"Go on, kiss him." and John's head jerks over to see Mary sitting in his chair, knees pulled to her chest and ankles crossed as she smiles up at him and scrunches her nose playfully.
John swallows, "Sherlock, she's back...in my chair...Mary's back." he says nodding his head in that direction.
Sherlock looks to the chair, "Hello, Mary." he says casually and with that clever tilt to his voice.
"No, don't speak to her, don't acknowledge her. She goes away if you just pretend-"
"Come on Johnny boy...kiss him...kiss him good...for me? He looks at you so….god, the way he looks at you...whoahoo! You never looked at me that way, do you think he tops or bottoms?"
"Jesus." John whispers as he shakes his head and pulls away from Sherlock, just noticing the man had still been touching him gently and he rubs a hand down his face.
"What is she saying, John?" Sherlock asks, having moved to stand next to John's chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
John looks at Mary and she winks at him before she leans over near Sherlock's groin and takes a pretend bite, "Oooh! Bet it's yummy!"
"Oh, bloody hell, shut up, they all taste the same!" and he stops and drops his hands to his sides in a rather thunderstruck manner, biting his bottom lip and wincing.
He looks to Sherlock and the man is cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brow in such a confused yet intriguing way John no longer feels anything but utter discomfort and humiliation.
"No, nope, no, not dealing with this tonight. I am going to bed. Night all, and you-" he says shaking a finger angrily at Mary who is still smiling up at him with such a mischievous smile, "I don't want you anywhere near me, or him...go the bloody hell away!"
"I'm your subconscious." She says with confusion just as Sherlock says the same thing, "She's your subconscious."
John's jaw drops at this, staring at the two in horror before he turns and leaves the room without a word, though this time when Sherlock calls to him and he turns to look he doesn't feel anger, he feels dread and Sherlock says gently, "I...just want you to know...my room is open...if you need-"
"Cuddles!" Mary calls from out of sight.
"Anything. I can give Rosie her breakfast if you need." John still doesn't speak but he does nod and then continues up to his room.
PAGEBREAK
He stands on a precipice, his eyes scanning the farthest reaches of the foggy dark that stretches before him, the smell of cigarettes and booze coating his skin as he searches for that voice, the one he knows so well.
"JOHN!" it echoes up faintly from below the fog, and he doesn't wait, knows the position. He picks up his gun and slings it over his shoulders, adjusts his helmet and starts to run.
He moves as quiet as possible, jumping over rocks and trees that have fallen in the path. At one point he comes across a side of the mountain which has cracked off and slid down to create a long smooth surface and he jumps on and slides down, his unit making great time, though he sees no one else around.
"JOHN!" He hears again and it is closer, he makes the signal to his troops, the invisible soldiers he brought with him, to move in.
He drops to the ground and crawls on his bells, making it under barbed wire and avoiding a mine until finally he comes to a clearing surrounded by fire. He ignores his fear, grabs at his anger for the courage he needs and takes a running start, diving up and over the fire to tumble to the ground on the older side.
His unit isn't so lucky, the invisible soldiers unable to make the leap like he can. He hears them hiss and move off, and he signals them to set up a perimeter.
His eyes then land on something in the distance, this massive clearing filled with burning light the most dangerous place to be if snipers are aloft. Still, he sees it, a bed, massive in size and a figure on it, yelling for help. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't wait, he engages instantly.
He runs, gun now drawn and drops to his belly only yards away, scooting across the sandy ground and when he reaches the edge of the bed, he checks his weapon and then counts to three, his determination to win fueling his bravery.
He springs forth and aims his gun, only to grow wide eyed at the sight of a man, with terrified eyes, dark hair matted to his scalp and skin that is burned and cut up.
He is dangling from the clawed fingers of a massive demon, the thing extending it's slimy tongue to lick across the man's bare chest, it's free hand tugging at the pants that are ripped and torn.
"Bloody hell, SHERLOCK!" He screams above the sounds of chaos around him, "John! John shoot it! Kill it John! Shoot it now!" and John raises the gun, takes his aim and puts his finger to the trigger, "Shoot him, come on you bloody fool, shoot him! Pull the trigger! PULL THE BLOODY TRIGGER JOHN!" He screams at himself and then he hears a loud bang.
This time when he jerks awake his eyes instantly land on Rosie's crib and he winces as he bites his tongue to keep quiet. Do to his desire to not wake his daughter it takes him several more minutes than normal to calm his breathing, the shaky breaths he takes through his nose are a much more difficult task to accomplish given his nose is stuffed with snot.
He feels dirty again, even though in the dream it wasn't him being molested but his friend. Still, he feels absolutly horrid and he stands, shucking his soaking wet clothes and grabbing a clean pair of boxers.
The last thing he picks up his Rosie's baby monitor and then he goes down to the shower. He realizes Baker street is dark, Sherlock apparently having gone to bed, a very strange occurrence given the events of the last few days.
Once in the bathroom he turns on the water, knowing that when Sherlock does choose to pass out it is usually pretty heavy, and steps in under the gushing torrent.
It's burning hot again, and he scrubs himself clean, feeling his already irritated skin from early that morning protesting at such brutal treatment. Once he has soaped himself he takes a long rinse, his eyes seeing brown water though he knows it's all in his head.
"Just get the sweat off you, get his sweat of you." he says softly as he thinks of the demon in his dream, all red and disfigured, slopping sweat and saliva about as if it was rain.
When he turns off the water he misses the burn but forces himself to step out and dry off. He slips into fresh boxers and then plans to head back to his room but once he is in the hall he stops, his eyes slowly raising to look at Sherlock's door.
"You will always have me, John." and Sherlock's promise echoes hauntingly in his mind, his eyes closing tightly as he grits his teeth. He feels like he is caught between a need for companionship and a desire for intimacy and the fact that it is with another man makes his brain feel like it is overheating.
When he finally opens his eyes he looks down at the baby monitor and realizes he has already made up his mind, though he wants to punch something when he comes to the reality that he has wanted to be in that room the whole time. Since he went up to bed, he had wanted to come back and Sherlock to guide him down into sleep.
"I hate my life." he says softly, though he knows what he means to say is that he hates himself and his stubborn pride more than anything else.
Slowly, as if he is still in debate, he approaches Sherlock's door and places his hand on the knob, his eyes narrowing gently as he realizes what type of cycle he is starting right now on his own.
He gives another soft sigh and then resigns himself to his fate, "To hell with it." and he gently turns the handle and opens the door.
The room is dark, he says not a word, doesn't announce himself or call out for permission to enter. He simply approaches the side of the bed, places Rosie's monitor on the bedside table and sits on the edge carefully.
His mind still isn't ready to wrap around what his body wants to do, what his body is currently needing to actually get some sleep.
His mind starts to speak, starts to talk in that way that drives him crazy and he shakes his head and groans, "God you need sleep. Just do it, stop fighting it and lay the bloody hell down." he whispers softly.
The pressure in his brain from the controversy of what he actually wants out of this verse what he actually needs starts to create a chaotic buzz and he is about to stand up and walk out when he hand comes to lay gently on his spin, right in the middle of his back and he sits up straight as a rod, his mind tumbling softly into silence.
"Just lay down John, I won't touch you unless you ask me to." comes Sherlock's soft voice, it holds the barest edge of sleep and he doesn't want to think about whether or not Sherlock heard or could deduce any of what has just occured.
Slowly, over several seconds, he relaxes into the warm touch of Sherlock's hand, nods his head as he savours the blessed silence his mind has found and very stiffly moves to get under the blankets and lay down.
"Sherlock-" John starts softly, his head just inches from the pillow, his elbow barely keeping him propped up, "I know John. It is what it is, now please, just lay down and try to rest. I will be here to wake you if the dreams come back."
John nods, doesn't feel the need to say anything and finally allows his body to lay down, pulling the covers up to his chin and letting out a relieved sigh. He stares out into the dark, the silence of the house so soothingly sweet he finds his heart slow and his body releasing the last shred of tension.
Still, as he stares at the wall across from him he hears the faintest complaint come from the depths of him and he knows what he wants.
He feels Sherlock shift away, roll over onto his other side, whether for his own comfort or for John's the man doesn't know but what he does next he is sure is something he wants to do.
He very slowly rolls over, keeping his eyes on the still form of his friend and scoots up just a little bit higher. He moves closer, takes a breath and then reluctantly wraps an arm around Sherlock's side, the man accommodating him only by raising his arm enough to allow John access.
He places his face near the back of Sherlock's neck, the smell of him being so familiar he finds comfort in it despite himself and he nuzzles his face just that little bit closer.
"Alright?" he asks tentatively.
"Mmm? Fine." Sherlock says with a yawn, something of which John has never heard before and he furrows his brow at the sound of it. Something new to log away in his mind, because while Sherlock always notices things, John always remembers and he has a feeling he will want to remember the sound of a Sherlockian yawn for a long time to come.
A/N: Can you believe this is twenty-four pages long? Really need some love on this, because now I have the itis, I love this story, which is weird because I don't usually openly admit to liking my own work. But I am drawn in, please read and review, helpful constructive criticism is always welcome, as is feedback and ideas. Hit me with your best shot, and let me know how the character development suits you. I already started chapter 3.