Magnolia and Tears
Sherlock had been in a pissy mood for the past week.
It was more than his usual impatient, cutting, because-he's-Sherlock-and-probably-ranks-high-on-the-Autism-spectrum- mood. This was spectacularly pissy. And by Saturday morning, as Sherlock grumped about the state of his morning tea, the "odd" way the pots and pans were sitting in the cupboard, and the way John was breathing, his flatmate hit his limit.
"What do you need?" John said out of sheer impatience. "You've had several nice, juicy murders the last few weeks, your brother hasn't been bothering you, and your violin even has new strings. What more can you possibly ask out of life?"
"I can't think," Sherlock ground out.
Immediately, John was in full doctor mode as his mind snapped to "brain aneurism" or "undiagnosed tumor." He was about to reach for his penlight and check Sherlock's pupils for abnormalities, when Sherlock announced, "I need the complex secretomotor phenomenon characterized by the shedding of tears from the lacrimal apparatus, without any irritation of the ocular structures."
"Say that again?" John frowned.
"I need to cry," Sherlock said.
"You cry all the time," John said. "Remember the widow? And your brief stint as an injured priest?"
"Not that," Sherlock said impatiently. "Real tears. Real emotions." He spoke the last word with disdain.
John was confused. "Why do you need to do this?"
"My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton," Sherlock grumbled. "The only way I can clear it is to remove some of the chemicals my body has created during times of high stress. There's only one way to release them."
"By crying."
"Yes!"
"This has happened to you before?"
Sherlock nodded impatiently. "Have you not been listening?"
"Of course I've been listening. What did you do the last time this happened?"
"I watched Mrs. Hudson's soap operas with her. Fifteen minutes into it, and we were both weeping openly."
"Of course. Well…" John shrugged. "Some doctors believe that a good cry can rid your body of toxins and emotional build-up. Your theory might not be entirely insane."
"I need suggestions," his flatmate said. "How can I make myself cry?"
"Well, I don't know. Why don't you go read some Sylvia Plath?"
"Boring."
"You could visit a crime scene with Greg," John suggested.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That won't work."
"No, certainly not. Human suffering wouldn't possibly be enough."
Sherlock leaned closer. "You have to help me," he said. "You have to make me cry."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"I don't know! Hit me!"
John rolled his eyes. "Tempting. But, no. Besides, that will cause you pain but not necessarily make you cry."
"Fine!" Sherlock threw his arms up. "What makes you cry?"
"I don't cry very much," John said. "I never have, it's just not something I do."
Sherlock stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. "Well, that's the strangest thing I've ever heard."
"Me? I'm the strange one?"
Sherlock huffed and flung himself into his chair, glaring at the world around him. John knew he was in for a doozy of a weekend if this continued.
Out of necessity, he came up with an idea. "How about watching a sad movie?" he suggested. "That might make you cry." He pulled out his cellular phone and sent a text to Greg.
This may sound a bit odd, but what are the saddest movies you can think of?
He received a response almost immediately.
Why are you asking me this?
Sherlock needs to watch sad movies.
Why?
He wants to make himself cry.
Is this for a case?
No. He's just insane.
So you're going to spend your Saturday making Sherlock cry.
As I said before: he's insane.
Well, have fun with that.
And Lestrade listed a half-dozen movie titles.
That very morning, John set out to rent the films and returned with a slim stack of DVDs, a box of microwave popcorn and a six-pack of beer.
The beer was for him. Somehow he thought he might need it.
Sherlock inspected the movies with suspicion. "You're sure these are all sad?"
"Absolute tear-jerkers." John cracked open his first can of beer.
"All right." Sherlock put a disc in the player and sat back on the couch, picking up the remote control.
"Make sure not to stop yourself if you feel like you're going to cry," John said. "Don't fight it."
He didn't need to worry.
Sherlock fell asleep during "Schindler's List," watched "The Green Mile" with utter passivity and openly mocked "E.T."
It was "Steel Magnolias" that finally broke him.
Sherlock had almost made it through the entire film without showing a hint of emotion.
"Well, this isn't so bad," he said. "I don't know why everyone carries on about how sad this film is. It's life. People are born. People die. It's what they do."
"Right. I give up. " John wiped his teary eyes and got to his feet to fetch more tissues; when he realize he'd gone through all the tissues they had, he plucked a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom closet and headed back into the living room.
In the moment he'd been gone, Sherlock had completely lost it.
Onscreen, Sally Field was wailing over the loss of her daughter. "I want to know why Shelby's life is over," she screamed. "I want to know why, whyyyy?"
But John wasn't looking at the television; he was watching Sherlock. Sherlock, who was crying hard, his eyes illuminated with tears. When the movie offered a moment of blessed comic relief- Olympia Dukakis offering Shirley MacLaine as a human punching bag- Sherlock didn't smile. He picked up the nearby throw pillow and buried his face into it. John could still hear him sobbing through the pillow and he realized that he hadn't discussed a plan to soothe Sherlock once the tears had begun.
Should he offer comfort? How long was Sherlock supposed to weep before his mind was cleared?
A moment later, Sherlock made the decision for John by struggling to his feet and crossing to his bedroom. He closed the door and John heard the creak of his body weight on the mattress and then the sobbing resumed. He couldn't get the image out of his mind of Sherlock huddled on his bed, crying alone in the dark. Sherlock had said this was exactly what he needed but John didn't know how much longer he could handle it.
For the longest five minutes of his life, John sat on the couch, listening to Sherlock sniffling and weeping brokenly in the next room. He couldn't stand it a moment longer; he stopped in the kitchen long enough to draw a glass of water for Sherlock and carried the glass and the toilet paper to Sherlock's room. He knocked on the door. "Sherlock? Has it been long enough?"
Sherlock said his name in a broken, choked voice and John opened the door. His heart cracked a little at the sight of Sherlock lying on his back, red-faced and tears still trickling steadily wetting his cheeks and melting into his hairline. Sherlock threw his arm over his eyes, shielding them from the light of the living room, but his mouth was still open and downturned, little huffs still escaping. "Her daughter died," he whispered. "And there was a young child. Without his… his.. m-mother."
"Yeah," John agreed.
"And all those things she didn't get to do. We always think we have so much time, John, but we don't know if we do or not."
Sherlock began to choke then, gagging on all the fluid his body was conjuring, and John helped him to sit up. "That's enough now. You're going to be vomiting soon if you don't settle down."
He sank down on the mattress and handed the water to Sherlock, who sipped it, still shuddering. When Sherlock had drank enough, John took the glass and set it down, then offered the roll of toilet paper. Sherlock tore off a long strip and blew his nose loudly. He handed the soggy wad to John, who stuffed it into his pocket without a word.
"Well, that was awful," John said. "I hope your mind is cleared up now."
Sherlock sighed and leaned against John's shoulder. "Tired," he murmured.
"No wonder." John lay his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, holding him tighter than was probably necessary.
He buried his nose in Sherlock's hair, enjoying the moment, waiting with trepidation for Sherlock to lift his head and move away. After a bit he realized Sherlock's breathing had slowed, save for the occasional shuddering hiccup of someone who had cried for too long.
"Sherlock," he whispered. "Have you fallen asleep?"
A congested snore was his only answer as Sherlock's head tilted further against John's chest.
John's heart constricted hopefully as he realized he might actually be able to hold Sherlock in his arms for the entire night if he was very, very careful. Moving as slowly as possible, John scooted himself into a lying position, carrying Sherlock with him. As he was adjusting a pillow, Sherlock raised his head. He was disoriented, and his flushed cheek was streaked with imprints of John's t-shirt.
"Are you leaving?" Sherlock mumbled.
"Just getting comfortable," John said. "Do you want to go back to sleep?"
Wearily, Sherlock nodded before nuzzling back against John's shoulder. Instantly, the consulting detective was limp in his arms, his breath deepening.
It wasn't very comfortable, of that John was certain. The pillow beneath John's head was still soggy from Sherlock's tears, and the man had shed a few stray tears on John's shoulder, leaving his shirt sticky and damp. Sherlock himself was a bit overheated from his emotional upheaval and the congestion in his sinuses was making him snore.
And John Watson had never felt happier.