John hardly left the bed for the rest of the weekend. Sherlock's words played over and over in his head, everything from their time together the last couple months, especially this last week. The sheets still smelled of him, of them, and John shamelessly burrowed face first into his pillow, inhaling deeply.
No matter how much Sherlock's words made sense, that they probably wouldn't be good together as a couple, John kept thinking of the good times. Cuddling. Slow kisses. Incredible sex. The low rumble of Sherlock's chuckle when John had his ear against his bare chest. The drag of his hand down John's back. The glow in Sherlock's beautiful eyes when a new idea struck him. His hand holding his as they walked into a dangerous situation.
Why had he been such a fool, so hesitant to be with Sherlock? His sharp gaze had caught John's turmoil when he suggested going out to Simpson's or even the quiet Chinese food restaurant down the block. Was that Sherlock testing him? Seeing if John accepted him, and would be proud to be seen with him publicly? A test he had initially failed each time. Had that shattered Sherlock's belief that they could be a viable couple?
For hours yesterday, John had wrestled with his own ethics, and finally agreed to dine with Sherlock. What had Sherlock been thinking all day? That John only wanted to be with him behind closed doors, or in disguise? Acting like a 'normal' person. Not valuing Sherlock for the incredible, beautiful, unique person he was. No wonder Sherlock saw it as a goodbye dinner.
John scoffed, throwing back the covers to finally crawl out of the bed. Did he really put such a high value at fitting in that he couldn't be with Sherlock? Did he really value his work and home so much that he couldn't deal with any disruption Sherlock could cause? Wouldn't the great things of having Sherlock in his life outweigh the drawbacks?
He made a simple PB&J sandwich, and then poured a big tumbler of whiskey. Sipping the amber spirit, he put on some Charles Mingus, turning up the volume way higher than normal. Letting the wall of sound surround him, the crash of wailing brass, piano, string bass. Chaotic and emotional.
So many times, his life had changed in major ways. His parents dying and his sister's addiction had basically left him an orphan at twenty, and he had adapted. Thrown himself into working hard at uni, and getting financial assistance from the army to complete his education. The army had become a second family to him, bonding with other people far from home, until his injury had yanked him back to England. Lost and alone again. But he adapted again, learning how to live in the country so changed from his youth, and had struggled to establish his career.
Was he truly as thrown by the end of this 'relationship', if it could even be called that? A couple months of casual sex and a week of intense cohabitation. Big fucking deal. It was hardly a blip of time when put against his whole life.
But as he tried to scoff at it, distance and numb himself from it, his eyes fell to a multicoloured wool sweater on the chair Sherlock used the most. They had bought it at the used clothing store, and the style was completely Frank. It was a cardigan with a zipper and a hood, covered in thin stripes of bright colours like red, teal and lime green. No wonder Sherlock had left it and all the other clothes of Frank's. It was ridiculous thinking of Sherlock wearing back in his own flat, his own life.
Sighing, John turned down the music and carried his empty glass to the sink. He got out a cardboard box, and folded up the sweater, putting it inside. The other clothes that they had bought soon followed. On the top of the pile were the cap and the glasses Sherlock had worn so much. He almost reached in to take them out, tuck them away somewhere safe, but resisted the urge. Closing the box, he set it by the door.
He cleaned the flat thoroughly next, starting with stripping the sheets from the bed. In a couple hours, he was soaping up in a hot shower, feeling tired but resolute. He would get through this. He had to.
...
The news about Dr. Park was a hot topic of conversation at the hospital for a week or so. John noticed that Sherlock's role in uncovering the truth had been downplayed in the media. He had been seen as a villain by most people for a long time, and they weren't about to go against popular opinion. John avoided talking about the case as much as he could.
Things settled back to normal quite quickly. He enjoyed working with his staff, seeing patients, performing surgeries. Working on the roof garden with his neighbours, going out with friends. People in the building accepted that Frank had gone back to Cambridge, and didn't ask about him again.
Only Francesca gave him a long, considering look, before coming over to work on the bed of lettuce with him. "Did Frank break up with you because of that other man?" Her dark eyes were caring, her voice soft.
John felt his throat tighten, and had to take a few calming breath to relax. "Um, yes, I guess so. Things weren't really meant to be with either of them."
She nodded, throwing some weeds into the pail. "Frank was attractive and nice, but he seemed a little bland to me. You need someone more exciting than that, I think, to be happy."
Her comment almost made John laugh. "I think you are right. Someone who is somewhere between the two." It was true that Frank was easy to get along with, to live with, but Sherlock was the one John felt challenged and excited by. He was all wrong for John, but it had been so, so good.
Francesca put her gloved hand over his, giving it a squeeze. "If you ever want to talk, just knock on my door. I'm here for you."
John was unexpectedly touched by the offer. He had been putting up a normal facade for weeks now, not showing anyone how much he still missed Sherlock. How often he still thought about him.
She shifted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and he gratefully leaned into her. She hugged him tight, rubbing her hands up and down his back. Just being the comforting presence he didn't realize that he needed.
Pulling back after a couple minutes, he gave her a grateful look, and picked up his things, escaping back to his own flat. It was a bad night, unable to get his mind on anything else but Sherlock.
Where was he now? Back in his flat, putting around and playing with his chemistry set? Peering into his microscope or stirring up some potion? Did he miss John at all? Regret getting involved? Or had he just shrugged and moved on, John easily out of his thoughts when he was out of his sight?
Knowing it was a bad idea, John pulled out his VR head set. He was soon entering PlayLand, and created a whole new profile, a new voice and avatar. Searching through the virtual space, he evaded the other players, knowing he would somehow recognize Sherlock no matter what avatar he used.
After an hour, he yanked off the headset and pulled on his Mac. It was drizzling, very cold, but he just turned up his collar and marched out into the weather. It was stupid, stupid, stupid.
He didn't stop until he was on Baker Street, standing across the empty road and looking up at the second floor windows. The lights were on. He was there, inside, so close. John could just knock on the door, and Sherlock would be there, in front of him. To see, to touch, to- -
Cursing to himself, John spun away, ducking into a nearby alley to huddle in a doorway out of the rain. He was wet and shivering, the reality of where he was and what he was doing hitting him like a slap in the face. He was better than this.
Shoulders slumping, he yanked his coat tighter around himself, and walked quickly to the nearest tube station. The wet and cold was really hitting him now, and he just wanted a hot shower, dry clothes and a big mug of tea.
As he walked away, he missed the curtain on the second floor being moved back into place.
...
-A/N: John trying to be strong...
-Sorry it's taken a while to update this story. I had to think through a few things. I think there will be 1-2 more chapters. Thanks for reading & your patience.
-Charles Mingus was an American jazz double bassist, pianist, composer and bandleader. As a performer, Mingus was a pioneer in double bass technique, widely recognized as one of the instrument's most proficient players. Because of his brilliant writing for midsize ensembles, and his catering to and emphasizing the strengths of the musicians in his groups, Mingus is often considered the heir of Duke Ellington, for whom he expressed great admiration. (Wikipedia)