Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Sherlock
His mouth is dry, lips cracked, tubes running uncomfortably through his nasal cavity and into his stomach. Thick, down his throat. Sick?
A hand comes to rest on his forehead. He stills.
John.
He knows by the weight distribution of the slightly square, callused fingertips, the scent of John's soap.
"He's awake," John says, cadence so familiar it aches.
"He may be a little disoriented," warns a nurse.
"Can he talk to us?" Mary. He thought he'd nearly deleted her voice. Shame.
"Yes, he should be. Sherlock?"
"Mm." He feigns grogginess, if only to dissuade them from interrogation.
"Sherlock." John's hand does not move from his brow. It feels good, soft and deliciously soothing.
"John." It's barely more than a whisper.
"Mary, can you... can you leave us for a moment?"
She concedes too easily. Does she know something? Can't tell. Chest sore.
"Sherlock," says John, and his voice is quivering. "I... I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" Sherlock murmurs.
"Not coming. Not finding you."
"Shouldn't have expected you to. Went off on my own." He doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't think he can handle seeing John's face flooded with concern.
"Yes, but I – I find you. That's what I do. That's my job."
Sherlock silently finds John's hand, holds it against his lips, an echo of a kiss. "Not anymore," he says sadly. "Mary's waiting. Mary's your job."
"I'm not... with her."
Sherlock's sharp intake of breath sends pain through his chest. "What?"
"I'm going to end it."
Panic. This isn't how it's supposed to go. "No. I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't. I want to. It's my own decision."
"You chose her," Sherlock says, a painful reminder.
"I know. And it was the stupidest thing I've done."
"Debatable. You've done some fairly moronic things in the past. The thing with the –"
"Stop. No. We are not going to discuss that." John chuckles, brushes his pinky over the curve of Sherlock's bottom lip.
"John. Please don't break her heart."
"I'll try not to."
It is imperative that he understand. Sherlock grasps blindly for words. "If what she feels for you is a fraction of what I feel for you... I rarely admit to having a conscience, as it has always been, in my mind, a burden and inconvenience – but now I understand. I understand how she feels, and I've felt the pain of your rejection. I do not wish to live life with the knowledge that I ruined a marriage, caused someone the agony that I have the misfortune to feel so acutely."
"You matter more to me. You've always mattered more than anyone."
Sherlock sighs. "I doubt that very much."
"Are you mental?" John sounds genuinely shocked. Is Sherlock missing something? "I've – isn't it perfectly obvious?"
"If you truly meant that, you would not have married Mary. I am not denying the fact that you care for me; I trust you enough to believe that this much is true. But if you wanted to be with me... you would. It is only natural."
John is tensing up. "I didn't know I had a chance with you."
Neither did I. "That is a fair point. However, nothing was stopping you from inquiring as to the manner of our relationship."
Anger creeps into his voice. "And you would've told me, would you?"
Sherlock tries to visualize such a conversation. "Fifty-fifty."
Scoff, an emphatic tchah. "So what good would it have done?"
Sherlock is tired. Emotionally, physically, mentally. His mind palace is in a state of disarray. "No use dwelling on the past."
"The past is all I have with you. I don't have you, now."
"Nobody 'has' anybody. People are not property."
"That's beside the point." John's hands have curled into fists, shoulder muscles tightening. "I'm saying... how am I supposed to not dwell on the past, when that's all I have left of you, of us? Memories, Sherlock. Memories that consume me and take over my entire sodding brain, every second of every day. I don't want memories. I'm sick of the past. I want you, I want the future."
Sherlock feels tears coming. Tears: inappropriate. John must leave. "Leave."
"Sherlock –"
"John. Leave." His voice shakes imperceptibly, but he knows John can hear it. John can always hear it.
"I – can you promise me something?"
"Perhaps." Of course.
"That somehow, one way or another, I'll have you in the future."
"There is no such thing as 'having' someone." John begins to say something angrily. "But," Sherlock continues, "yes. There is a future, and I intend to be present for it."
"Good," John says, and shuts the door.
—
Friday, February 21, 2014
John
John stays at a hotel tonight, ignoring phone calls and avoiding reality. He doesn't drink, just sits and nurses a glass of tepid water at a table by himself until the staff shoo him away apologetically. Then he goes for a walk.
The sky casts purple streaks across the horizon. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strolls along the nearly vacant avenue, passing park benches, frosted over in hoary snow crystals, and thinking about Sherlock.
He can't really be surprised when Mycroft shows up.
"Hello," he says wearily.
"Pleasant evening." Mycroft appears to entertain the possibility of smiling before rejecting the notion and tapping the spot next to him. "Sit."
John obliges.
"You have visited Sherlock."
"I have. He was... he wasn't exactly promising."
"You cannot expect him to be exceptionally animated. He is recovering from a situation in which you put him," Mycroft says sternly.
"How is it my fault?" Everything's his fault, it seems. And if – when – he breaks things off with Mary, well, that's going to be his bloody fault as well. As was Sherlock's descent into cutting, as was their fall-out, as was this whole goddamn mess.
"Cause and effect, John. Cause and effect. Care to smoke?"
John stares flatly at the cigarette. "I don't smoke."
Mycroft gestures languidly. "Good choice. Smoking is abominable." He blows a ring into the frigid air.
"What do you mean, cause and effect?"
"When I was younger, I quite enjoyed blaming people for things. At one point, I was busy blaming Sherlock for some trivial matter involving forgery and blackmail – standard, particularly during his stint in primary school – when it occurred to me to trace the blame back to his teacher for allowing him to leave the room, and consequently the principal for hiring the teacher, and the administration for hiring the principal, and eventually the blame ended up on his great-great-grandmother, as she was responsible for his existence. By stating that you were the cause of his accident, I am merely tracing back a handful of layers."
"Meaning?"
"Sherlock was in danger because you were not with him. You were not with him because you were with Mary. You were with Mary because he, in your mind, rejected you. He did so because you rejected him. Your compliance with distancing yourself was because you desired his recovery from self harm. Recovery was necessary because of the emotional damage he experienced at your hands. You inflicted said damage because he was unclear about his feelings. He –"
"And that's just a 'handful,' is it? Sounds like a shitload of blame to me." John is getting angry. Deep breaths.
"Mm." Mycroft scrutinizes him. "At any rate. I am glad that you've seen him."
"But what?"
Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "There is no but."
"Oh. No caveat? Hard to believe."
Mycroft exhales a cloud of smoke thoughtfully. "How are things with Mary?"
"There it is." John rubs a hand over his face. "I... haven't spoken with her."
"I know. I repeat: how are things with Mary?"
"Er..."
"Does she suspect?"
"I dunno. She knows something is up, I think. I mean, look at me. I'm not cozying up with her in bed right now, am I?"
"She has understood your unique bond with Sherlock from the start. I am not entirely convinced that she will have noticed anything different."
"Mary's smart."
"Yet she loves you."
"Is that an insult?"
"An observation." How very like Sherlock. Sodding Holmes brothers. "My point being, Mary is smart, yes. At the same time, she loves you, and love can be blinding. Still, it is possible that she has noticed tension between you two, and tried to resolve it with internal acceptance. She does not resent you and Sherlock for being whatever you are, so long as you remain faithful to her. He is no threat if she has you."
"But doesn't she realize that he poses a massive emotional threat?"
"Mary doesn't think like that. She is alarmingly similar to Sherlock in that way. Black and white. What's hers is hers, unconditionally."
"Selfish, is she?"
"No," Mycroft says patiently, "she is a woman who has been emotionally damaged and held hostage in the past and knows of no other way to manage relationships. She holds onto things until they are blatantly gone."
"And I need to be blatantly gone."
"Precisely. While she may pick up on subtext, hints, subliminal messages, you remain married to her. Until you outwardly apply for divorce, making it clear that you harbor no more attachment to her, she will assume things stand where they always do."
"So I have to talk to her."
Mycroft fixes him with a very judgmental, somewhat pitying stare. "I don't need the money, but if I got a penny for every time you repeated my excessively clear statements in question form, I would be a rich man. Richer," he corrects, and stamps out his cigarette. "Do not sugarcoat things, John. Be blunt. And," he says, standing up and tapping the tip of his umbrella on John's knee, "time is of the essence."
"That's what you want to hear," John mutters.
Later, as he drifts off into a fitful sleep, he thinks of the past, and the present, and the future, and Mary, and, above all, Sherlock.