And again many thanks to the wonderful yalublyutebya .
Today's my birthday (September 1st), so I'd like to give you something nice, enjoy yourself. :)
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Chapter 3
Mycroft brought them home to Baker Street. "I'm coming over tomorrow, and then we'll talk," he said to John when he got out of the car. John nodded briefly with clenched teeth. He wasn't sure, but it sounded like a threat to him.
In the hallway they were met by Mrs. Hudson. At first she was just looking at John, silently, her hands over her mouth. John hugged her gently, which was not that easy, because Sherlock didn't want to release his hand voluntarily. "Oh, John! It's so wonderful that you're back." She wiped a tear from her eye. "We've missed you so."
"Don't cry, Mrs. H., you know that doesn't help." John tried a smile, but he failed thoroughly. At least he had made Mrs. Hudson smile though. "Oh boys, you're so..." She didn't get any further because Sherlock was glaring at her, clearly losing his patience. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but we will not disturb you any longer." She opened her mouth to answer him, but when she saw his eyes, her mouth fell shut immediately. She could talk to them tomorrow or in a few days. "Ok boys, good night then." Before she turned she took John's hand again. "I'm so glad, John. It's so good to have you back here." With that she went back into her flat.
They made their way upstairs and then stood awkwardly in the living room for a moment. Sherlock stood behind John, still holding his hand, as John silently scanned the flat, taking everything in. Then he whispered softly, so that Sherlock could barely hear it: "You haven't changed anything."
Sherlock couldn't speak; he couldn't trust his voice, so he just nodded slightly. When John turned to him, he looked at Sherlock with wide, surprised eyes. Those eyes ... Sherlock was lost in those blue eyes. He grabbed John's shoulder with his free hand to take a hold and steady himself. He'd thought he would never see those eyes again, so blue, so … alive.
John raised one hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek. "And you've tidied. You never tidy." Sherlock blushed and his eyes dropped. Of course he heard the unspoken question lingering in the air, the 'Why?'. A nervous gaze flashed to the bedroom. What would John think when he saw the documents on the dresser? The letters! He had to make them disappear, they needed to be destroyed! And the gun! Where had he put the gun when Mycroft rang the bell? He started to panic and he looked around frantically. John was not allowed to see, was not allowed to know about that.
John frowned at him. "Sherlock, what is it?" Their eyes met but John couldn't read Sherlock's expression; he seemed to be very nervous, almost anxious. John was confused. If anyone should be nervous, it should be him. After all, he was the one who had been away for eight months without doing anything in order to be found. For whatever reasons - he didn't know, didn't understand it himself, and he was not very proud of what he had done. He thought he should say something, but what?
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I ... I ...," he closed his eyes desperately and swallowed hard. He had no idea what to say. When he forced his eyes open again, he looked straight into Sherlock's gray eyes, staring at him intently, still not believing what they saw.
Sherlock had started to tremble, his whole body was shaking, and when John took him in his arms, his self-control crumbled. This day had been too much, and his knees buckled beneath him. John held him tight, sliding down with him slowly, until both of them knelt, tightly entwined, on the carpet, their coats still on. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck and let his tears run free for the first time since he was eight years old. He was shaken by heavy sobs, while John caressed his back soothingly. Eventually John realised that his face was also wet and he was shaking, too.
Both of them were completely exhausted, and when John calmed down a little and Sherlock's breath had evened out, he fetched some tissues. Then he helped Sherlock to stand up, took off their coats and led him to the bedroom. He undressed them both down to their underwear and brought Sherlock to bed, and then he lay down and embraced him. Sherlock immediately clung to him like a drowning man and John stroked his hair, hoping to soothe him.
Although he had only two minutes ago wanted nothing more than to get some sleep, John couldn't get any rest now. He'd never seen Sherlock like this; this was not the Sherlock he knew; Sherlock was neither so clingy, nor so ... desperate. What had he done to him? His only hope was that Sherlock would forgive him when he came to his senses tomorrow. He didn't know how to explain the last eight month, not only to Sherlock, but also to Mycroft. And he wasn't sure who was more difficult to handle.
Sherlock had fallen asleep, breathing quietly on John's chest, but John's mind was spinning around. He was still confused that his memories had come back so suddenly. However, he was still missing the last few hours before the accident. One of Mycroft's men had explained to him what had happened when he was brought to Heathrow, but he still couldn't remember. There were some indistinct memories about a boat, but John wasn't even sure if they were his own or just something he had heard about. Apart from that he was missing the whole day, but he was told that was rather normal.
Mycroft had arranged some thorough examinations at the hospital in the next few days, although John thought it was utter nonsense; after all, the accident had been a few months ago. Eight months. Eight months, while Sherlock had thought he was dead. He tried to imagine how he would've felt and shuddered. No, he couldn't really imagine, and he didn't want to.
He held Sherlock even tighter and pressed his lips onto the dark curls. "My Sherlock", he whispered. He wondered what had happened, why his subconscious had not wanted him to go home. But this here, this was his life. He owed Sherlock so much; he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. Back when they'd first met, after he'd been released from the Army, Sherlock had come along just in time to get him out of his depression, had saved his life with his sheer existence. His life was so much more exciting, more dangerous, more thrilling since he'd known Sherlock, it was exactly what he had needed. Of course, sometimes it was exhausting and frustrating when Sherlock was miles ahead with his mind, but over the many years they'd been together now, they had always managed to find one another again. Sherlock had learned to wait for him, sometimes; and John had learned to let Sherlock run ahead. He loved him just the way he was; otherwise it wouldn't be Sherlock.
Why was he thinking about these things now? John wasn't sure; there was something, something important, but he couldn't figure it out. Finally, he fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of hunting through London, wild shootouts and digging in a garden full of vegetables.
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Water. He's surrounded by water, he floats in water, weightless. But he can't breathe, he can't breathe. Where's the surface? Why can't he rise? He needs air!
Eyes. Dead eyes. John's dead eyes.
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A strangled cry woke John. Sherlock lay on his back, eyes wide, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he was panting.
"Sherlock ... Sherlock, I'm here, Sherlock, it's all right." John gently touched his arm, but Sherlock jerked back, startled.
"I'm here; it's all right, love. I'm here," he whispered softly into Sherlock's ear without touching him this time, he didn't want to scare him any more.
Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply a few times before he opened them again and looked at John, who drew himself up onto his elbow. Sherlock's hand touched John's face, his thumb sliding slowly over his lips which opened of their own accord. "John."
He had had the same dream, again. The same dream he had had for eight months now; the same dream, which he had tried to escape yesterday. But John wasn't dead, his eyes were not dead, he was here, with him. Why was he still having that dream?
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They were arguing, again. It was about the boat ride. Sherlock simply didn't understand why John really wanted to take a tour on this fishing boat, mainly because bad weather was forecast and Sherlock was worried. He had not told John about his worries. Why should he have done? It was obvious! After so many years he surely didn't have to explain every trifle. Pouting, he had withdrawn into the kitchen, sitting at the microscope. Only when John drew his coat on and turned around in the doorway, did Sherlock stop and lift his head.
Very calm and with a voice so quiet, almost casually, so that Sherlock looked up alerted, John finally spoke to him. "I will go on this goddamn fishing boat now, and when I come back we will talk about where we go from here. I can't stand it this way any longer."
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked with a frown.
"I mean exactly what I've said." John sighed. "I can not and I will not go on like this, Sherlock." He shook his head slightly. "Sometimes I wonder how you can bear to be with such a silly, simple, boring man like me. And then I wonder whether I can demand this of you any longer." His face was gray and he looked at Sherlock with a strange expression, before turning and walking down the stairs.
Sherlock jumped to his feet. "John ... John?" What was that all of a sudden? What kind of nonsense was John talking about? And why had he looked at him like this? Had he missed something? Sherlock knew that this happened to him again and again in interpersonal relationships. John's eyes - there had been no anger or suppressed rage in his eyes, just ... nothing. As if John had given up. Had he? Had he given up on him? Would John abandon him? "JOHN!" But he only heard the front door slamming.
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Yes, he knew why the dream hadn't stopped yet. Because his fear was still there, his fear of losing John. Did John know what had happened that day? Did he remember their fight? He had to try to keep John; after all, he had come back to him.
"Sherlock!"
He flinched and looked startled at John, who called his name for the umpteenth time.
"Sherlock, stop! Whatever you're thinking, just stop it!" John had watched the change in Sherlock's face during the last seconds, as he stared into the void. He didn't know what Sherlock had seen, but he had recognized the rising panic in his eyes. It was about time to talk, John decided, even if it was only just 5:30 in the morning.
"Wait here, don't move." John stood up and went to the loo, then he put the kettle on and searched for something to eat. When he came back to the bedroom, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate with toast, Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in the sheets and watching him with a neutral expression on his face. John put the tray down on the bedside table and made himself comfortable. Then he handed Sherlock one of the mugs, took his own and put the tray with the loaded plate between them on the bed. He observed Sherlock with a thoughtful look..
"Don't," he said softly, and Sherlock's eyebrows rose quizzically. "Locking yourself away from me. We need to be honest with each other." Sherlock nodded, and his expression softened as he relaxed a bit. Sipping his tea, John's gaze shifted to the window, then he stopped short. On the dresser had been stacks of neatly assorted papers before he'd left a few minutes ago, and a gun. He looked questioningly at Sherlock, who had followed his gaze and was staring intently into his cup now.
"Sherlock, the documents and papers on the dresser."
"Yes?"
"What are they about? And where have they gone?"
"Oh, it's nothing. I just sorted out old files and papers. Can burn them later in the fireplace," Sherlock
mumbled vaguely into his cup.
John knew he was lying. And Sherlock knew that John knew. But John let it go this time. Nonetheless, they needed to talk. He tried again.
"What about that gun? How long have you had it?"
"Mycroft has confiscated yours."
John was watching him closely now. "And therefore you got a new weapon? You hadn't had one before. I assume Mycroft didn't know about this one?"
Sherlock still seemed to be fascinated by the tea in his cup and shrugged his shoulders.
"Sherlock, I think we need to talk, don't you?" John insisted.
For a moment nothing happened, then Sherlock's shoulders tightened and he looked challengingly at John. "Well, then let's talk. Why don't you tell me what really happened, why you hid from me for eight months." His voice was low and cold, his eyes piercing. Abruptly he stood, his whole body tense, pacing in the small space between the window and the door. Four steps back and forth, again and again. There was nothing left of the vulnerable and desperate Sherlock from last night. Now he was merely angry and cold. John had rarely seen him like this in all the years they had been together.
Obviously Sherlock thought that offence was the best defence, and John was startled at the sudden cold and aggression that hit him. He searched for words to explain that he hadn't hidden from Sherlock, when he went on. "I thought you were dead. I've been searching for you everywhere, Mycroft and his minions have been searching for you. For weeks. Then we were told that there was no way you could still be alive, so Mycroft stopped the investigations. I didn't. I didn't want to believe that ..." His voice broke, his anger had subsided. He had stopped in front of the window; now he turned around and stared at John with that desperate look that almost broke John's heart.
With a few steps, John was beside him. He cupped Sherlock's face and stroked his thumbs over his cheekbones. Sherlock had closed his eyes, but he didn't move. "Sherlock, please look at me. Please!" John's voice was very small and very quiet. He was anxious, didn't know if Sherlock would understand him, if he would forgive him. But he wanted to try, wanted to try to explain to him what had happened, at least as far as he himself understood it.
Sherlock opened his eyes; he had regained his composure when John started to talk. "Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you and I never wanted to hide from you. Let me try ... I want to ... come, sit." With a sigh he ran his hands slowly down Sherlock's shoulders and arms, then he grabbed his hands and pulled him by his wrists to the bed, where he released him and they both sat down. John bent one leg to face Sherlock.
He longed to hold Sherlock's hand, but didn't dare, so he stared at his own entangled hands in his lap. And then John began to tell him; from his first awakening on the beach, how Mike had found him, of his amnesia, his life on the Island, his doubts how he'd forgotten everything except the present, how he'd suppressed any thought of his unknown previous life. When he spoke of the latter, he flung apologetic and uncertain glances at Sherlock.
"I'm really sorry, Sherlock. I know if I had gone to the police immediately they certainly would have brought me back within a very short time. I don't know why I had acted that way. I can't explain it; at that time it just seemed to be the only way. I had lost everything, and this feeling was all I had left. I had to try ... to trust myself, my gut instinct, when I had no memory of who I was. I don't know how to explain it better." While John spoke, Sherlock had taken his left hand and drew almost absently with his thumb small circles on the back of the hand, staring into space.
"For a short while I thought I might be a smuggler, or perhaps a criminal, but Mike said that he couldn't believe that. Well, if he had considered me a criminal, he would hardly have let me live in his house," he added after a pause with an uncertain smile.
Sherlock had become very quiet. He squeezed John's hand a little tighter. "I think I can help you with this point," he interjected quietly. John looked up at him in surprise. "How so?"
"That day, when you had left to go on this fishing boat, we had a fight. Yeah, I know, we often argue, but this time it was different. You were different. And I wasn't sure if you would come back home after that tour." Sherlock's voice was only a whisper. "It's not your fault. Although you had lost your memory, your feelings were still the same, and your feelings told you that it didn't matter who you were or where you were... The main thing for you was that you were not where you had come from. The main thing to you was that you were not with me." The realisation made Sherlock swallow hard, he was still holding John's hand in his own and now he stared at their clasped hands.
John scowled. Of course Sherlock had driven him often to the brink of despair over the past ten years, but he couldn't imagine a scenario where he would really leave this idiot. It was more likely that Sherlock had misinterpreted his behaviour. Angry - yes. Pissed off - yes. Mad as hell - oh yes, often enough. Resigned - sometimes, even if it had become rarer over the years. But leaving Sherlock? - No, never! Yet, he had never said so, and although Sherlock had got better in his observation skills about their relationship, it happened again and again that he interpreted something completely wrong.
The fight, yes, the memories slowly came back to him. The quarrel they had had before he -
It hadn't been just the boat ride, it had been much more. John had felt trapped in their relationship; Sherlock had always mocked his work. Not that that had been something new. He had also never understood why John spent precious hours with boring sick people rather than with him. And even though they had been together for more than a decade, and John should have grown accustomed to the snappy remarks, it still did hurt. Sherlock had another side to him, of course; he could be loving and affectionate, sure. But Sherlock's habit to mock the hospital, John's colleagues and friends, his manuscript, simply everything that was important to John; and his way of taking John, and all he did for Sherlock, for granted; suddenly this had crossed a line John hadn't even known had been there.
But obviously it had been there. John closed his eyes, he remembered everything now. He had stood in the doorway and gathered his wits briefly. This has to stop! Then he had told Sherlock, very calmly, that they would talk later and that something would have to change. Of course he knew that Sherlock hated these conversations like the plague, and Sherlock's uncomprehending gaze and the way he had questioned what John was talking about, hadn't really helped. "I mean exactly what I've said. I can not and I will not go on like this, Sherlock. Sometimes I wonder how you can bear to be with such a silly, simple, boring man like me. And then I wonder whether I can demand this of you any longer." He heard his own words echoing in his head. Oh God, had he really said that?
He had felt miserable, empty and burnt out. Sherlock had made that morning more than a few inappropriate remarks about silly childhood memories and something similar, before he had dissected John's manuscript for his new book. Eventually even John's patience was at an end. He had wondered why he'd been such a fool to believe that Sherlock would need him. After all these years together he had doubted. Not his love for Sherlock, he knew that it would never change, that was part of his problem. But he'd doubted his ability to endure and compensate Sherlock's moods. Maybe he was just too old. He had felt old that day in the door to the hallway. Too old for Sherlock and his whims.
That could be an explanation, possibly; but who could ever tell. And it didn't matter anymore, not to him. He was home and he definitely knew that he didn't want to be anywhere else.
"I ... I remember now, and I'm sorry for what I said. Back then, in that moment, it was all too much. But, Sherlock, I also remember our years together, our life together. Whatever the problem was, I'm sure we'll solve it, together, as we've always done. Maybe I needed this break, maybe you're right and my subconscious didn't want to come home; but I'm here now, and there's no place on earth I would rather be. I've learned a lot during this time, about myself and about people."
As the silence continued and Sherlock made no move to say anything, John was getting nervous.
"Sherlock." John's finger brushed Sherlock's jaw line and lifted his chin slightly until Sherlock was looking at him. "Do you want me back then?" he asked quietly.
"Of course I do!" John could almost hear the 'idiot' and a grin flashed over his face. So he was finally back, the impatient, eyes-rolling Sherlock.
John waited, but nothing happened. Sherlock looked at him uncertainly and John sighed heavily. Really, did he have to do everything himself? He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him close. "Idiot," he muttered fondly, and then he kissed him tenderly. Sherlock's lips curled into a smile before he let go and fell completely into the kiss.
John cupped Sherlock's face with his hands and pushed him back a little so that he could look into his eyes. "I love you, Sherlock," he whispered. "You are my life, my world." For a while there was silence and none of them moved. Then Sherlock replied, just as softly. "As you are my life, John. I realised that in the last few months." Sherlock broke off abruptly and lowered his gaze, as if he had said too much, and John hesitated for a moment. There was something else, something Sherlock was hiding from him.
Sherlock kissed him and slid his hands under John's t-shirt. "I want to rediscover you, John, every inch of your body," he whispered in his ear and traced John's neckline with his lips. With a soft sigh, John tilted his head to the side to give Sherlock better access to his throat, then he lost himself entirely in the sensations that Sherlock's hands, lips and teeth left on his skin until his whole mind was filled with 'Sherlock'.