Charm: Merry Christmas everyone. I know I promised to have this chapter out a week and a half ago, but I had finals and then the holidays. I hope it won't happen again; at the very least, I'll try to never go longer than three weeks without an update.
Enjoy!
Note: as this site won't let emails be posted in chapters as it effing ridiculous, I'm just going to tell you the ones I had planned to use for John and Sherlock. John's is john . watson (at) blogspot . co . uk (in the chapter it's johnwatson) and Sherlock's is sherlockholmes (at) thescienceofdeduction . co. uk (though in the chapter it's sh).
I also created fake forums for this chapter, but as this website's designers have no creativity, I can't format that part of the chapter correctly. If anyone wants to see my creative genius really shine, PM me and I can direct you to a website that'll display it correctly.
Scene One: The Best of Me
Baker Street, at last. It'd taken another day, but finally the doctors had released him into John's care.
John's care. At the moment, Sherlock doesn't think anything is less likely. John hadn't been there when Sherlock woke up; John hadn't been there when the hospital psychologists had grilled him about suicidal desires; John hadn't been there at all. He'd showed up with a bag of clothes and a stony expression right when Sherlock was discharged, and had hailed a cab and not even spoken at Sherlock to order him in.
There aren't words to describe how Sherlock feels—or, more accurately, he doesn't have words to describe any of it. He's done more in the last two days to further the notion that he is a sociopath than he has in the last year, and he's not proud of it. What was he thinking, planning to thrust chemical burns and bloody wounds on an ex-Royal Army Doctor? John has every right to be furious with him; Sherlock's disgusted at himself.
John doesn't even pause when he enters the door, just strips off his jacket, sweater, and t-shirt on his way to the shower and lets them fall to the floor behind him. Sherlock swallows. He's tired—incredibly tired—but he doesn't want to sleep now. It would only exacerbate John's anger. Instead, he perches on the couch because his armchair is still covered in blood and presses his hands together in front of his mouth.
Now that it's quiet, he can't ignore it any longer. He's terrified, terrified of what's he's done to John. He knows he crossed some sort of uncrossable line last night, and John's never been this angry before. For the first time in his life, Sherlock has no idea how to repair this, how to make it better, and he knows the consequences of him failing are higher than they ever have been before.
And all he'd wanted was for John to come back home to him, where he belonged. Sherlock leans forward and chokes down a cough that feels too much like a sob.
He has no idea how much time passes, but the next time he looks up is when John is thundering down the stairs, hair already dried from the shower, duffel bag in hand. He sets it by the wall and stalks around to stand right in front of Sherlock. He's stiff, angry. His fists are clenched and he tilts his head and his neck cracks. When he speaks it's clipped and short, carefully annunciated."Care to explain what exactly you were thinking, Sherlock?"
Sherlock doesn't look at him. He lowers his hands to his lap. The silence screams for voices to puncture it, but Sherlock takes his time. The longer he draws this out, the longer it'll take John to leave, and Sherlock's feeling horribly numb. "Explain what? You heard what I said. Miscalculation."
John shakes his head, laughs. It's not funny, and both of them wince at the sound. "You remember that, do you? Well then, you should remember that it wasn't a fucking accident, was it?"
"I failed to plan for all the variables. I daresay I will not fall for the same mistake again."
If the silence was screaming before, now it's noticeable in its absence. The air is death, and all Sherlock can hear is John's breath pounding in his ears. "That's what we're calling it then, an experiment? So the fact that I had to go this bloody flat in the middle of a date to find you practically dead on the floor doesn't matter a bit?"
Sherlock doesn't respond, because really, what can he say to that? He knows it's incorrect, that John has missed some vital piece of information, but right now he'll fight for whatever John will give him.
John turns and moves towards the kitchen before he remembers the blood and backtracks quickly towards the stairs to his bedroom. "Are you going to even answer me?" His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, and a little muffled from facing the wall. "What's it going to be next, Sherlock? On my wedding day are you going to overdose on some drug you're testing for a case and call me up, high as a kite with a temperature high enough to cook your brain? Will you start getting shot every time you want me back? I can't live like that, Sherlock."
And Sherlock wants to shake his head, tell him that's not how it is, he's got it all wrong, but at the same time he can't make himself move. Urges are bubbling inside him, yearnings, fears, and angers and all of the sudden he knows they're going to come crashing out and poison everything like an oil spill.
Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes carefully, evenly. It's as if the world is ending and he's recording every moment even though he knows it won't last. "Then don't."
John turns, eyebrows raised and newly furious. He pauses, checks himself, cocks his head. "What?"
"Don't live here then!" Sherlock snaps, slamming his hands down on his knees and scowling up at John's face. "You don't think I've heard your feelings on the matter? About how hard it is, living with a 'moody, messy, arrogant, narcissistic, manipulative savant of a man who doesn't even care if a teenage girl kills herself in front of him'?" He snarls the self-deprecating insults from John's blog as if they're stabbing him and John winces accordingly.
John looks away and breathes in slowly. "You know that's not fair Sherlock."
The worst part is that Sherlock does know it's not fair and that it's upsetting John further, but he can't help but bring it up. There's a hole in his chest that all this is flowing from—this rush of emotions, this staggering, exhausting, overwhelming press of need and terror and guilt, and though that specific post had been made weeks ago after a particularly hard case, he can't stop the hurt from vomiting out of him like bile.
"Is it not fair, John?" Sherlock spits out, and its caustic edge is enough to make the hole where his heart should be just a little bit bigger. He adopts a mocking tone before quickly morphing it back into a spear of ascerbity. "Who were you talking about again? Oh yes, me! What, do you think I like to hear that? It's obvious how you feel about me! If you want to leave and never see me again so badly, just leave!"
John opens his mouth, obviously newly wounded and angry, but Sherlock plows on, heedless, not wanting to hear John's replies. "Oh, did you think you could hide it from me? Like you could ever hide something from me John—you could never hide anything from me. You get up early, leave early, get back late. Even when you're here, it's all about her, John! There's nothing left of you for me! Just because I want you—"
"No, Sherlock. You do not get to make this about you, get it?" John yells, bending forward slightly and balling his hands. "You almost died! Ten minutes and you would've been! You almost died because you didn't want me on a date, and what, you don't find any problem with that? That just sounds normal to you? Because I'll tell you what, that's not bloody normal! You don't get to control my every move and guilt me into doing whatever you want! I swear to God, Sherlock, I'd rather never see you again!"
And that's when everything in him freezes. The anger turns from a white-hot flame of injustice to a thin, red coating of defense. If he can anger others when he wants to, charm them into confessions and admissions when it suits him, what stops him from being able to treat John the same way? Why should John be perfectly fine with Sherlock interrupting his working day to go to a crime scene and yet get angry at an interrupted date? Comprehending his motivations and purposes should be enough to understand him, and yet it isn't, because there's something different about this time and it makes Sherlock's stomach clench in foreboding.
He knows that what he'd done wasn't entirely 'good', but Sherlock also knows that had never really bothered John before—John knowsthat Sherlock's conscious seems to habitually take a wrong turn between abstract thought and conscious ideas. So, what was different about two days ago?
Besides a nagging, lingering feeling of unease and John's obvious anger, Sherlock really doesn't know. God, if he did know what part of his mind was responsible for this hurt, he'd pluck it out of his own brain and leave it to rot in the gutters.
And then the world abruptly begins to move again. Sherlock's gaze falls down and to the side as his insides roil in discomfort and that maddening apprehension.
"Dammit, Sherlock, don't turn away from me," John growls, uncrossing his arms and striding towards him. Sherlock doesn't react until John slams his hands onto the couch on either side of him, his face pressing uncomfortably close. "Do you even understand why I'm upset?"
This is deteriorating fast, faster than Sherlock had anticipated. His outbreak earlier had been unplanned and ill-thought-out. "John, I'm tired, I don't think now's the best time—"
"Oh no, I think now's perfect."
Sherlock swallows, feeling a burning knot in his chest form. He doesn't like this, doesn't like the feelings John brings up in him, doesn't like things that upset his tenuous balance.
"Just tell me. Tell me why you did this. Can you at least do that, Sherlock?"
"You wouldn't understand, John. I don't expect you to."
And then John looks at him like so many others have before, and Sherlock feels something inside of himself shatter. "So, what, you're not even going to try? I'm not a dog, Sherlock! We're not equal in this partnership you think we have!"
Sherlock's chest tightens, floods with barely-concealed panic. "It wasn't about you, it was merely a—"
"That's bullshit!" John shouts finally, slamming his hand down next to Sherlock's pale neck.
Silence. Just his chest, rising and falling, rise and fall and rise and fall and fall and fall.
"Fine," Sherlock snaps, not able to stop his eyes from seeking John out, terrified at the realization that John has no idea of his own worth in Sherlock's eyes. "Why did it do it? I wanted to. What else am I supposed to say? I can't change my own self, John!"
Silence falls like lightning, and Sherlock knows that yet again he's taken it too far; the ominous feeling that had been floating in the air is now all but palpable, and it nearly makes him gag. Sometime during their fight John had leaned back and Sherlock had stood up, and now John abruptly pulls back, looks down and away from Sherlock. He stumbles back a few paces and then strides to the wall to pick up his bag.
"Where are you going?" And now the panic's coming, far too late, bringing with it a realization that should have come months before: if John leaves now, Sherlock will lose him forever.
"Just don't..." John doesn't look back, just hoists the duffel bag on his shoulder. "Out. I'm going out. Don't wait up."
The heart that Sherlock nearly lost not even forty-eight hours ago is stuttering, clenching, aching. He thinks he's frozen, he must be, because this would never happen in real life. This must be a dream, a hallucination. John can't leave. John is everything. "But...I'm hurt," he hears himself whisper as the world expands around him.
It's a phrase that has always sent John running to him in the past, and he's never questioned that—just used it to his advantage, along with everything else in their relationship. However, today...today Sherlock suddenly realizes how much more those words mean, and they hang between them like a miasma. I'm hurt, I'm always hurt, and you're the only one who cares enough to take care of it. I'll be lost without you, and you know that, I know you do. Am I really nothing to you now, John?
John pauses, looks down, shakes his head. "I can't do this anymore. Take care of yourself." And with a last burst of willpower he leaves their—Sherlock's—flat, letting his own subtext permeate the air behind him, and Sherlock's not quite sure if it's directed to his words or his thoughts, not quite sure how to figure it out now. I'm not going to be there for you, Sherlock. I don't want to be, not now.
So sudden. Sherlock feels more alone than he's ever felt in his entire life, and the shock makes him contract like his lungs are paralyzed in his chest. Without the bridge of John connecting him to the rest of the world, he suddenly realizes just how small his island is. He sinks down, curls on the floor like a child. He wonders if he'll cry like a child as well—it would fit with how he feels about himself—but everything is too stark.
If only he'd paid attention! So many things he'd missed, staring at the John he saw in his mind's eye and ignoring the one right in front of him. Why does today have to be his epiphany? He's too late now, just like he's always been too late with John, and with everything that really matters, actually. The work will always be there. John won't.
And he was wrong about something else as well, wasn't he? He looks up at the ceiling, so far above him. The world isn't expanding around him. He's shrinking.
Interlude (Email)
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 17, 3:14 pm
John,
I understand your anxiety, (but i clearly don't, not how it counts, and that's what's always mattered to you, isn't it?) but you are clearly overreacting. It was a simple miscalculation; it is unlikely that I will make a similar misjudg [DELETE]
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 17, 4:47 pm
John,
I appreciate your concern over my supposed "manipulative suicide", but there's really nothing you should concern yourself over. As I have told you many times, it was merely a miscalculation (was it really?) and [DELETE]
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 19, 2:19 am
John,
Stop this at once. You should thank me for disrupting your date with that [DELETE]
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 23, 4:53 am
John,
You know you'll be happier here with me. She doesn't know you like I do. No one knows you like I do. No one will ever know you like I know you. No one will ever be able to excite you like I do. No one needs you like
Saved as draft, March 23, 4:59 am
Scene Two: Sherlock's website
The Science of Deduction
Case Files
The Irishman's Daughter
Case Closed
A Martin O'Shaughnessy was referred to me yesterday. His wife was shot and killed two weeks ago while visiting London. He's worried that his daughters may be next. Daughters live in America, so the MET is useless. I love professional assassins, so I'm taking this on.
Background: The O'Shaughnessys live in Ireland, where Martin was involved in the IRA about twenty years ago. He's received sporadic threats from the IRA since then, warning him to keep his mouth shut about what he knows. Martin's been ignoring the warnings because he doesn't want his daughters finding out about his old life. He thinks his old friend Seamas Doyle is retaliating.
Two weeks ago: Martin and his wife, Mary, are visiting London when Mary's shot twice in the chest. I've examined the body, and the bullets obviously came from a sniper rifle. Seems like Martin's right about murder. He thinks his two daughters are next. I think he's next.
Looks like I get to catch an assassin.
Update: Have been checking various IRA connections around London. Martin's obviously on the Irish side of things. Looks like I'll need to go to Ireland for this.
Update: In Dublin. Found Barney Donahue and Dermot Fitzgerald, old colleagues of Martin's. Dermot still keeps up with IRA business. Got them to tell me everything possible about Martin, his old days in the IRA, and his family. Seems like he was a bit wild twenty years ago. Bit of a pyromaniac. Never would think it, looking at the dull family man he is now. But according to Barney and Dermot, he was never very high up in the hierarchy. He never knew enough to seriously impact the IRA.
So why's he being targeted? Barney says Mary was still friendly with some members behind Martin's back, namely Glenn Keary and Seamas Doyle. Sounds like she was cheating on him with his enemies, stupid woman. Seems like it must be personal.
Must rethink this.
Update: Martin's been keeping information about his family from me. That won't do. I called him today and some new information surfaced.
Martin and Mary have two girls, Dearbhla and Deirdre. The younger daughter, Dearbhla, was born full term on August 5th eighteen years ago, which would make her conceived around December the year before. Martin was in gaol until the 17th of January that year for arson. If Dearbhla was conceived after January 17th, she would have been born premature. Possible theories presenting themselves.
Update: Have confirmed that Dearbhla was born full term. Questioned Martin, he had no idea. Obviously genuine reaction. Asked him if he knew his wife was also in the IRA. Also says he had no idea. I think I'm losing IQ points by simply talking to this man.
Also—Seamas Doyle has red hair and blue eyes, while Glenn Keary is black haired and brown eyed. Genetics rule: Keary is our man.
Summary: Twenty-seven years ago, Martin O'Shaughnessy marries Mary. While she knows he's in the IRA, she keeps the fact that she is in it to herself. She starts cheating on him almost immediately with Glenn Keary, and while Deirdre is Martin's daughter, Dearbhla is not. Martin decides to sever his ties with the IRA; Mary is in too deep to do the same, and besides, she doesn't want to give up her lover. Twenty years later, Mary feels guilty for the deception and tells her daughters the truth. Girls are horrified, move to America to get away from their admittedly dysfunctional family.
Glenn Keary hears that Mary's told her side of the story. He's worried about Mary implicating him and his friends finding out he had a relationship with Martin's wife, who was blacklisted when she married him. Glenn Keary and Seamas Doyle decide to kill her and her daughters to keep them quiet.
I've emailed Martin this. The case would be closed, but I have two girls to find before Keary and Doyle do.
Update: In Cleveland, Ohio, where both Dearbhla and Deirdre have settled. This town is excrement compared to London. Deirdre O'Shaughnessy proved stupidly easy to find, as she's entered a Miss America pageant. She can lead me to her sister.
Update: At the pageant, in disguise. Can't have too many males from the UK running around Cleveland. Turns out this "Deirdre O'Shaughnessy" has brown hair and brown eyes. Looks like since Dearbhla is six months too young to enter the pageant that she used her sister's ID to enter. Also looks like Glenn Keary and Seamas Doyle know this.
Update: Cornered Doyle in the balcony, setting up his "camera tripod". Hit him on the back of the head with a stiletto. It wasn't mine. He's out cold. Found Keary making a break for it out the back entrance when he realized Doyle had been caught. He was actually stopped by security. The MET may have something to learn from this department about actually catching criminals.
Now waiting for my contact from the FBI to arrive. He owes me a favor, so he'll arrest Doyle and Keary and make sure they're sent back the the UK for trial.
Case closed. I think I'll charge Mr. O'Shaughnessy double for every hour spent in our horrible ex-colony.
Interlude
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 27, 8:25 pm
John,
Why is everything never enough if you're not here? What am I now, if not nothing? My mind won't rest (this case should have been over three days ago and i'm so exhausted)
Saved as draft, March 24, 8:32 am
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 29, 11:45 am
John,
Is there no release from you? Even drugs don't have the appeal they once did, and my violin is no escape from this (if i wasn't still so weak from the incident i'd find someone to shoot me; there's no shortage of offers, as you well know)
[DELETEDELETEDELETEDELETE]
Scene Three: Sherlock's website
The Science of Deduction
Latest forum posts:
G Lestrade: Sherlock, answer your phone. Got one you'll like.
(reply)SH: The assassination of Mary O'Shaughnessy, I presume?
(reply reply)G Lestrade: If you know so much, THEN COME!
Sally Donovan: Where's your friend, freak?
(reply)SH: Elsewhere.
(reply reply)MET Chief Crime Scene Analyst: You know we'll find the body, psycho.
(reply reply reply)SH: Anderson, if you're the best "crime scene analyst" the MET could find I've got nothing to worry about.
G Lestrade: Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in Ireland? You know I don't have jurisdiction there!
(reply)SH: No, but I do.
(reply reply reply)G Lestrade: NO you don't! Where's John? I could use him to keep you in line.
(reply reply reply reply)SH: He won't be around any more.
(reply reply reply reply reply)G Lestrade: What did you do?
(reply reply reply reply reply)Sally Donovan: I told you he'd snap one day. Freak's probably hiding the body now.
(reply reply reply reply reply)G Lestrade: Get off the internet and back to work, Donovan.
(reply reply reply reply reply)Sally Donovan: Like you are, sir?
(reply reply reply reply reply)G Lestrade: NOW.
Molly Hooper: Hi Sherlock. You know how you said to keep you informed if I learned anything about #45827? Well, the hairs I found in that necklace weren't hers. Do you want to come by and check it out? XX
(reply)SH: I already told you that necklace was a keepsake and the hair is probably her daughter's.
(reply reply)Molly Hooper: Oh, well, if it's her daughter, the DNA doesn't match Martin O'Shaughnessy.
(reply reply reply)SH: What? Are you sure?
(reply reply reply reply)Molly Hooper: I've ran the test again with the same results. Do you want to come and check it out?
(reply reply reply reply reply)SH: No. I've got all the information I need now.
(reply reply reply reply reply)Molly Hooper: Oh okay. Good luck Sherlock. XX
SH: SHE CHEATED! How could I miss that! The daughter even has dark brown hair, not light like her parents! Oh, stupid, stupid...
(reply)G Lestrade: Sherlock, what the hell is going on? It's my case, you need to keep me informed! That bloody post of yours doesn't make any sense! No wonder John always writes up your cases, no one can understand you!
(reply reply)G Lestrade: Speaking of John, where is he?
SH: Case solved.
(reply)MO: Have you found my daughters yet, Mr. Holmes?
(reply reply)SH: Details.
(reply reply reply)MO: There's a killer out there looking for them!
(reply reply reply reply)SH: Contact someone in America to find them. You'll find that the detectives in America are much closer to Ohio than I am.
(reply reply reply reply reply)MO: Mr. Holmes, that's the only family I have left!
(reply reply reply reply reply)SH: And they won't even pick up the phone when you call. My condolences.
(reply reply reply reply reply)MO: Please Mr. Holmes! I'll pay your way!
(reply reply reply reply reply)SH: I'll send you the bill.
John's Susan: Sherlock, those were my favorite beige Jimmy Choo stilettos and I expect them to be returned! They were over 1000 quid!
(reply)Sally Donovan: Give it up. Freak stole my Prada handbag two months ago and hasn't even mentioned it.
Molly Hooper: Sherlock, I did the paternity test with the hair like you asked, and Glenn Keary is the father.
(reply)MO: What? What hair? Dearbhla's? What's going on? Mr. Holmes, answer your phone!
(reply reply)Molly Hooper: I'm sure he'll get back to you as soon as he can. Your daughter has a pretty name, by the way :)
(reply reply reply)MO: Er, yeah, thanks. This is bloody insane.
(reply reply reply reply)SH: Molly, it's "Der-vla", not "Dear-bluh".
(reply reply reply reply reply)Molly Hooper: How did you know I was saying it wrong?
(reply reply reply reply reply)SH: It's you. Obvious.
Interlude
To: johnwatson
From: sh
March 31, 6: 37 pm
John,
I understand that you feel I have overstepped your boundaries. I accept your stance on the matter. I only ask you do not make the true events of that night public. I'm sure you understand the adverse effect it would undoubtedly have upon my professional work. I will be absent from Baker Street several days following April 3rd. Do pick up the rest of your belongings during that time, as I doubt you'd want to see me.
SH
Scene Four: With or Without You
When John reads the email, he thinks a hammer has just hit him in the chest. He can't breathe for staring at the pixels on the screen in shock, or maybe he's just numb, or maybe he doesn't even know what this is because this is not supposed to happen and Sherlock must have misunderstood something vastly important this time. He doesn't even register grabbing his jacket and hotel key and jamming his shoes on his feet until he's out the door and running to the tube.
He spends the tube ride impatient, aware that the other passengers are staring at him as he paces and mutters for the train to go faster, but as the stops tick by his pulse slows and his nerves calm. Sherlock is nothing if not dramatic, and this could just be the dying end of a series of attention-grabbing events. He surely doesn't think John's leaving him for good. Surely not.
But even so, when he approaches Baker Street he can feel his breath quicken and his fists clench. It's worry, not anger. Not any more. Two weeks have passed, and John's thought about Sherlock every single day.
The next moment he's at 221b, dropping his keys and unlocking the door with fumbling fingers, stumbling up the stairs. He's dimly aware he's yelling Sherlock's name the same way he did when he'd thought the flat had exploded at the beginning of Moriarty's game. Panicked, like he'd never see the man again.
But then John takes a look around the flat. For midday, it's dark, very dark—the curtains aren't drawn, and in the darkness the furniture looks like mountains. Sherlock obviously isn't here right now. He moves to the windows and the flat is flooded with light. The flat has obviously been lived in; the scattered books have been kicked into a corner and there's congealing cups of tea lying about. Of course Sherlock hasn't cleaned the floor or his chair, the lazy—but no, he did nearly die. He was probably too weak to handle the scrubbing it would taken to get bloodstains out of a solid wood floor.
On autopilot he moves to the kitchen to get the few cleaning products he's kept beneath the sink, and the smell of the kitchen nearly makes him gag. The chemicals that had been covering the kitchen table haven't been cleaned either, and the stench of them makes his head swim. He covers his mouth and nose with his sleeve and throws the windows open to let the odor out. He'd better check on Mrs. Hudson later and make sure that nothing had seeped down into her flat; for all John knows, Sherlock could have been using poisons again.
John looks around, cleaning spray and scrubber in hand. Sick and weak or not, even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't leave the flat this chaotic. He can feel his jaw clench and pushes down the queasiness of foreboding. John's been stupid. He should have checked at least once that Sherlock was coping on his own.
The backbreaking labour of scrubbing bloodstains out of wood occupies John's mind for the next hour. The rug and Sherlock's chair can't be salvaged; he decides he'll carry them to the alley before starting on the kitchen.
The kitchen. John doesn't want to go back in that room. That room had always been solidly Sherlock's—he'd tried to contain his experiments, but of course they had spread like a mould to occupy every available surface. But now, instead of being filled with the manic energy of Sherlock's research, the room is filled with the aura of life that's been slashed open and desecrated.
He doesn't look at the bloodstain on the wall. Thank God it's tile and will come off fairly easily. He carefully pours the liquid chemicals into the sink, keeping the water on to hopefully dilute the acid Sherlock was using. He takes the red-stained scrub brush and begins attacking the table and floor, finding Sherlock's bloody shirt tangled up in a corner; that goes strait into the rubbish bin.
It should be cathartic, ridding the flat of the remnants of that night, but it's not. It brings the somewhat dulled memories to the forefront of John's memory and now with each breath John can see Sherlock's crumpled body swim before his eyes as he scrapes the dried blood off of the walls. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, ignore the lingering panic and fear and anger, but it pounds in his ears and pulses in his fingertips and greys his vision. Finally he drops the brush, leans on the newly-cleaned table, and digs the palms of his hands into his eyes, but there's no escape from the haunting sight of Sherlock's cold body. This is a nightmare John knows he'll have forever.
His fingers are shaking like rattling bones, but John ignores them as he tries to hold together the pieces of himself that are flying apart. His best friend nearly died and all he wanted was to see John, and what did John do? Started an argument about the very emotions and reasonings he knew confused Sherlock and then walked out on him as soon as he got out of the A&E.
Sherlock nearly died, nearly died, and John left him because he'd cooked up the plan himself. It shouldn't have mattered to John if Sherlock had gotten stabbed chasing down a criminal or if he'd been hit in a freak accident with a drunk driver or if he'd put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. He'd been seriously hurt and John wasn't there, had actually said he wasn't going to be there for Sherlock any longer. That went far beyond simple overreaction; what he'd said and done was unforgivable.
And what if Sherlock hadn't been eating? What if he'd tried to go out and wrestle a few thugs right after John had left? It was John's responsibility to make sure Sherlock was recovering, and he'd walked out on it. Well, better late than never, John tells himself, getting off of the table. He washes his hands carefully and decides to just throw away the rags and brush he'd used to clean all the blood, feeling absurd to be worrying about biohazards in a flat like theirs.
The refrigerator door opens, and John's already sensitive stomach rebels. He makes it to the bathroom just in time and it's only after his stomach has emptied its contents that he realizes something is wrong. He'd reached for his toothbrush and his fingers had grasped only air. That's odd; had Sherlock moved his toothbrush? So John opens all the cabinets and searches the under the sink and finds that none of his toiletries are in the bathroom. Not his shampoo. Not his spare razor. Not even the shaving cream that Sherlock habitually stole.
But he doesn't have time to worry about that now with the refrigerator as it is. John heads back to the kitchen and opens the door cautiously, holding his breath.
The sight of it astounds him. It looks as if Sherlock had opened every single container, placed it on the counter, and allowed its contents to spoil before returning it to the refrigerator. White and green mould is peeking out of the openings of nearly every container and bottle; the milk is yellow and thick with bacteria; that sandwich John hadn't eaten for lunch two days before the incident is actually liquefied. The stench makes John's chest shake with dry heaves.
He decides to throw away absolutely everything in the refrigerator and then sterilize the inside with the strongest cleaner they own, because right now he'd rather lick a plateful of Sherlock's dried blood than reuse even one container in that fridge.
The work is easy, if disgusting, and John finds himself done far quicker than he'd thought. His feet naturally gravitate to Sherlock's room, the only room he hasn't checked save his own. He opens the door with trepidation, prepared to see something as sick and disturbing as the blood all over the living room or the refrigerator full of rotted food, but what he sees is at once far less disgusting and far more disturbing then either sight had been.
It looks like Sherlock had destroyed nearly everything he owns. His bedcovers have been thrown off the bed and are half buried with ripped-out sheets and shattered paperweights and shredded books. His clothes lie in heaps on the floor and a large map of Ireland is pinned carelessly to one wall; the marking pins have ripped viscously through the thin paper and have gouged the wallpaper behind them. Various locations have been circled with a red marker and then crossed out or written over or torn out of the map; at the top of the map he'd written 'WHAT DOES IT EVEN MATTER' in large block letters.
John steps back in shock and feels something crunch under his foot; he looks down and finds Sherlock's framed Diploma of Graduate in Biochemistry at Cambridge University has been hurled against the wall to lie shattered where his foot now rests.
A horrible suspicion begins forming in John's mind and it flutters in his gut like a twisted version of a butterfly. Let's consider this, John, he tells himself viscously, furious at his stubborn selfishness that night. Two weeks ago, Sherlock tries to manipulate you home and nearly dies whilst doing so; you blame him, yell at him, and then leave, despite the fact that he's still very weak and obviously unhealthy. He utterly destroys his room, lets all the food spoil, and leaves the blood and chemicals all over the flat. He blames himself for making you leave, and he's letting it destroy him.
I never should have left.
It's never taken John longer to climb the stairs to his room, but he's never dreaded seeing it more.
His room—unlike the rest of the flat, unlike how John himself usually keeps it—is spotless. Pristine. It's never looked better. The dressers are perfectly dusted; the bed is perfectly made; his clothes are expertly folded, and his spare pyjamas have been arranged carefully on the bed along with one of his thick jumpers. His laptop is shut off and carefully tucked into a corner, and the little book John uses to keep notes in during cases has been left in the exact centre of the desk. Leaning against the wall behind it is a photograph, a photograph Sherlock has always carried in his jacket pocket.
John leans in closer. It's a slightly blurry copy of the shot Mrs. Hudson had snapped of them last fall, and seeing it makes John's chest burn. They're standing quite close together, and Sherlock is looking at him and grinning as John smiles contentedly at the camera. He remembers that night. It had been before he'd gotten involved with Susan.
They look so happy, and John realizes that he may have misunderstood far more that night than Sherlock did.