I was sitting by the fire, enjoying the warmth it had to offer to me, while cradling a glass of Jack Daniels single barrel, a gift from Mycroft. Really, I don't understand how he knew it. Maybe those spy cameras that are (not so) cleverly hidden in the book case, the skull and various other places. God, I suddenly think about all those times I had brought a girl home, and seduced them on the couch, before Sherlock scared them away with a series of screeches from his violin, or a violent announcement of his presence in the room, mostly with an explosion, or with a flourish of his coat, and the baritone voice rattling on about a new case, completely ignoring the fact that I had a date with me. The poor girl would usually stutter, stare in shocked silence, or something of the sort, until his greatness turned his attention to her. Usually, all hell would break loose then, and I would be a silent witness to the woman's humiliation at the hands of my best friend, while the said best friend would smirk with a triumphant look on his face, as the woman would walk away. If Mycroft had his cameras always, he would have been witness to it countless times. And maybe, he would have also seen the few times my seduction was... Successful, ending with passionate love-making on the couch, usually. Ah, those were the rare times when Sherlock would be away, usually solving an art case, or something that did not need my help and expertise, thus leaving me to do what I wanted. Good times, really, for whatever the scenario was, it did end good for me, always.
Smiling to myself, I barely realized when Sherlock had come to join me by the fire holding a glass of scotch of his own.
"That's not mine." I observe, seeing how the color was a bit darker. Also, it seemed richer...
"A gift. Mycroft's favorite. Sullivan's Cove, French oak cask. He believes I should refine my tastes in alcohol. Of course, he would want me to end up like him." Sherlock tells me, snorting at the last line, before taking a sip of his drink.
I chuckle too, imagining how Sherlock would look were he to be like Mycroft. It's funny, really, imagining him. Not much to add, actually, save a belly in the front, a waistcoat, pocket watch attached with a chain at one of the button holes. He looks rather... Bored, in my mind, wearing stiff outfits that did little else than be cumbersome during cases.. No. He looks good, as it is.
"I know I do." Sherlock says out of the blue, almost like as if he read my thoughts.
"I did not read your mind, John." Wait, how did you-
"I merely observed. Your eyes were unconsciously moving through my form, contemplating me in Mycroft's clothes, and at the end, you shook your head a little, almost as if dismissing that thought, with a slight upward turn of the left side of your lip. And your response to my comment only strengthened my suspicions." He explains, voice a little softer than before, his speech slightly slow.
"That's.. Brilliant, as usual. Really.." I say, smiling as I turn to look at the flames, just staring into the fireplace as the clock ticked on, the dust continued to settle, and the traffic slowed down. One could almost hear it, the ending of another day near, as it began to wrap up for the night, the number of happy chatters becoming lesser as time passed, the sounds of echoing footsteps of the lonely night strollers eerie in the otherwise comfortable silence. And while the outside world prepared to sleep, the two of us, Sherlock and I, sat by the fireplace, in companionable silence, Mrs. Hudson's telly chattering away in the background downstairs, the cracking of the fire as it consumed the wood, the warmth of the whiskey as it rolled down my throat, the graceful way Sherlock lounged on the couch, staring at the fire too. The flat was mostly dark, because none of us bothered to ever turn on too many lights, so for now, the only light that came was from the stairway, to give me some light to lead me to bed.
I sigh as I reach the end of my first drink, turning to look at Sherlock's glass, still half full. Shrugging a bit, I turn to pour myself another one, this time having it neat.
"You don't have much, do you?" I ask him, settling back comfortably in my armchair, adjusting the pillow for better lumbar support.
"No. I prefer to remain out of intoxication, as much as is possible." He replies, softly, eyes never moving away from the fire. I nod as a manner of acknowledging his answer, and turn to the fire too, looking into it, just hoping the warmth would be enough.
"I am terrified, John."
"Hmm? Of what?" I ask, turning to look at him, wondering what prompted this topic. Sherlock did not usually admit to being terrified. Did he have a low tolerance to alcohol, by any chance? I should probably keep an eye out.
"Of losing this." He says, taking a rather large gulp from the glass this time.
"This?" I echo, wanting to hear it from the horse's mouth.
"This." He vaguely gestures at our surroundings with his free hand, the other one holding the glass a bit more tightly than usual. I only look at him with what he calls my ' Anderson' look.
"Us. Our lives." He clarifies, finally. Oh. OH.
"Don't be." I tell him, softly. Of course he is terrified about losing it all. Even I am. And god knows he will be suffering more than me.
"It's not like if you're scared of it, it's not going to happen." I tell him, gently. And noticing how he shifts his face, to look at me, properly, I know now that I command his complete attention. Well, there goes my stiff upper lip.
"You see, Sherlock, there are things that will happen. Things that you cannot stop from occurring, no matter what. Obviously, they do hurt us, but.. You must cope with it. So either you can mope around, and waste your life away, or you get up, and do something." I tell him, turning back to the fire, taking a sip of the whiskey.
"Also, I'm scared too. It's frightening for me because god knows what's going to happen after this. And the future certainly does not seem very bright. For me, at least." I add, not looking at him anymore.
"I know that. But the knowledge of the facts does not soothe the terror." Sherlock tells me, looking back to the fire again, his frame more tense than relaxed, face tight, just like his grip on the glass.
"Usually, only way I get rid of my fear is by talking. Maybe you should try that too." I suggest, looking at him for affirmation. He nods, not meeting my eye, and then starts talking.
"I am scared of being alone again, John. I lost you almost twice before, and I did not want to lose you again.. Maybe Mycroft might-"
"No." I raise my glass, and he stops mid-flow, turning to watch me.
"I do not want to know about what you think others will do. Just tell me about yourself. You. Trust me." I say, my throat closing up a little at this little statement. Why, I wonder idly. It's not like I'm asking anything extraordinary of him. He always trusts me. No matter what, he looks to me for advice and guidance in the end. And that is his way of trusting. So why am I getting emotional over this now?
The phrase seems to shake Sherlock too, and he curls into his chair, folding up into a nearly impossible size and fitting into that space, without spilling a drop of liquid. But what was strange was that he usually did so when he was unconsciously trying to cut off from someone, his body being a physical barrier. So why now?
"It hurts me, John. Deep inside. And I do not know what to do." He mumbles from his curled position, wiggling his toes a little. I look in fascination at the pale, white things, then look at the mans face. Oh. So that's why he curled in.
There are glints of moisture down his cheekbones, tears that no matter what, I did not want to see. Ever. Just no.. This is so wrong. But then again, I have to be careful. If Sherlock was being open without wanting to, I could not bring attention to certain parts. Doing so would only be a betrayal of the trust, the trust that he is giving me, tentatively, waiting for me to crush it. Oh god, this man.
"It hurts me too, Sherlock. A lot. Almost a physical pain, if you were sentimental enough to imagine that. Death is not something I enjoy very much. And knowing that everyone around you is going to experience the pain of loss? Your own pain increases manifold. You only want to curl into yourself, and disappear from the world, save it from that agony, if possible. But we can't do that, Sherlock. Because the people around us need our support. They need our strength. Look at me.." I ask, getting off my chair, kneeling in front of his folded self, facing him.
" But that's the point. You have to fight this pain, turn it into something positive. Promise me, Sherlock, that we'll be strong. Just for each other. It's the least we can do. And if anything hurts, tell me. I'll give you the same benefit. But.. Don't. Just stop hiding it inside yourself. Because whenever you do, it only grows worse. It kills you from the inside, slowly, and believe me when I say that sharing is easier. I'm a doctor, I know." I say, giving a humorless smile at the end, while Sherlock looked at me from his perch, resembling a scared, nay, terrified cat.
"And, also.. Thank you. For sharing this with me. You have no idea how much it means to me that you're telling me things you wouldn't tell yourself. Really." I add, reaching out once to run my hand through his hair. It always calmed him down, sorted his mind out, and he did appreciate a good hair massage.
"Now, kill the fire once you're done, will you? I'm going to bed now." I say as I stand up, wincing when my knees painfully crack into place. I drain the last of my drink, put the glass down nearby, and then turn to Sherlock.
"Think about it. But just do remember.. I'll be there for you, if not always." I say, sincerely, before turning to the stairs, leaving the man to decode, contemplate, understand, decrypt everything that I said. Must be the alcohol talking in me, but I did mean it, even if it came out in a garbled mess. I reach the top of the stairs, towards my room, turning the light off as I pass the switch.
"Good night, Sherlock."